A New Experience

Kevin Barry's Night Boat to Tangier was one of the novels I picked up in my recent foray to Kinokuniya, and I'm very glad I did. There's not much in the way of plot, though enough fragments of a coherent storyline do come together to satisfy, but there's no shortage of poetry on every page: smouldering, dark, funny, menacing; rhythmically compelling; viscerally evocative.

I have no acquaintance with the world of drug-running and addicted Irish gangsters, I'm happy to say, but Barry enabled me to vicariously experience something of that world in all its rich bleakness, fortunately at a distance, but close enough to feel for its denizens. And enjoy them. And learn from them.

Back In Time

We listened to a fair amount of jazz or jazz-influenced music in my time at university but I remembered today that most of all we listened to the Dave Brubeck Quartet, especially from the Time Out period. I suppose the sheer mellifluousness of it all represented a way in for young guys like us who knew next to nothing about the tradition. But once in we had a foundation to build on and, I'm embarrassed to admit, that some four or five years later I would have regarded Brubeck as just a little passe.

This all came back to me when I chanced on a video of the quartet at the height of their powers and popularity in the mid-sixties, playing the stuff we listened to over and over around a decade later. Listening today I was able to take in just how phenomenally good the DBQ were; I don't think I'd quite registered the drop-dead brilliance of the Morello-Wright rhythm section back then - but, my  goodness, I did today.

I'd suggest that listening to them live is a useful test of one's musical taste: if you aren't in love with the band after seven minutes there's no hope for you, I'm afraid: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QfZruW3NI6c .

Pointless Moaning

I can think of four different subjects I wouldn't mind having a bit of a moan about this evening. In the great scheme of things none of the subjects counts for much at all. I'm not sure they even attain the status of being trivial. So it's odd and disconcerting that I'm so strongly drawn to moaning about them, almost as if I'm trying to mildly inflate them to the point they have some status. I suppose this is a way of avoiding confronting my own lack of substance. Ouch.

(One of the moans involved my thoughts on razor-blades and how I dislike all those now available on the market. Must say, I'm happy to have spared myself the trouble of writing about that.)

The Way It Was

Was talking to Noi just now about queuing to withdraw money from the bank every Friday (I think it was) when I was living at Firth Park in Sheffield. The invention of the ATM changed that particular routine.

I suppose I'm glad to say that, but for some reason the routine never felt all that inconvenient. In fact, I've got a feeling I regarded it as a sensible way to get some money in my pocket. It was just the way things were, and the memories don't feel like at all like unpleasant ones. Quite the opposite.

But it is difficult to connect with that version of my life. Like watching tv programmes from that period. Odd, yet completely familiar.

The Dominant Species

The birds occupying the garden area outside SAC were in good voice this afternoon. Such was their volume, I wondered if some avian dispute was taking place, but saw no signs of aggressive behaviour on the part of our feathered friends. In fact, part of the pleasure of listening to them was linked to the invisibility of the birds, at least in the early stages of tuning-in to their tuneful cacophony. I suppose something territorial was going-on, but they may have just felt like announcing their dominance of our little world.

And I mean dominance. Birdsong in a relatively confined space has a rich thickness about it that leaves no doubt as to who is in charge.

Celebratory

A bit of a burden was lifted from us on Friday when late in the day Noi received an email telling her she could pick up her renewed passport on the coming Monday. I've previously recorded, in early August and September, some of the obstacles we've faced relative to the renewal of said document, and the relief we felt on actually getting confirmation of something close to success was considerable. However, I resisted the temptation to really celebrate until today. Noi braved the queue this morning and is now officially passported - and I don't care that there isn't such a word because there is now.

All we need to do now is to get the pass she needs for her continued stay in this Far Place, and previous experience suggests this will be trouble-free since considerable effort has been put in over the years by the bureaucracy here to ensure this is the case. I can assure you though, we don't take the smooth working of that system for granted. Exposure to other ways of doing things ensures we recognise the privilege of being dealt with efficiently when we're lucky enough to encounter it.

In The Crowd

Went to the big Kinokuniya in town this afternoon and was taken aback at how crowded it was. Perhaps the nation has discovered a passion for books since the lockdown? Must say, I was pleased and relieved that there was nothing of the run-down quality I noted at the smaller branch of the bookstore in Jurong. The shelves looked well-stocked, though they still don't seem to me to match what's on offer at the store in KL. Case in point: I was on the lookout for Graham Swift's Last Orders, but they stocked only the recently published Here We Are (in some abundance, ironically.)

Oh, and there was no sign of anything by CJ Sisson anywhere. Unforgivable, almost.

In The Nature Of The Thing

Highlight of the day: listening to Steve Reich's Tehillim in the morning and getting caught up in the ecstasy of it all. This time I tried to follow the actual words from Psalms, and very beautiful they were. Struck by the thought that the expression of the Divine in music is quite natural when one considers the nature of music itself. Perhaps it's what music is for?

Getting Back To Normal

Managed to get a booking for Friday Prayers at Masjid Darussalam for the second time since mosques started opening up again. The number of worshippers allowed has doubled since last time (if my count is right) with some of us placed on the second level. I attended the third shift with the azan sounding at 2.50 pm, and I think I'm right in saying that the number of shifts has increased since last month. It remains an odd mixture of the novel and the familiar. Waiting to pray a good two hours beyond the normal timing was in itself a bit disconcerting and felt sort of wrong even though it was entirely right.

But it's a very positive kind of experience in every way. Apart from the fact that I could finally pray properly in congregation again, I found myself feeling proud of the way those running the mosque were scrupulously following all the sensible regulations helping all to feel safe. And I think everyone could see a logic in the gradual easing of the rules in a way that feels genuinely progressive as opposed to just abandoning all restraint.

Other parts of the world would do well to take a good hard look at what is being achieved in this Far Place. Of course, there's no guarantee the ride won't get a lot more bumpy, but it's that understanding that seems to be fuelling the good sense of the response.

Necessary Discomfort

Read a couple of Flannery O'Connor's early stories today, the ones she wrote as part of a thesis when she was at university. Beautifully crafted, both had race at the forefront, with black characters playing key roles. Both made for uncomfortable reading. It would be crass to say they reflected overt racism on the part of the writer, but I can't imagine a teacher wanting to take them into the classroom as exemplars of balance and insight, despite their virtues. I suppose it didn't help matters that I happened to read a James Baldwin essay this morning on the subject of the rage he felt as a result of the racism he was on the receiving end of.

Perhaps that's the best way to read white writers in the Southern Gothic tradition: cheek by jowl with those unlikely to have any deep sympathy with them. (Mind you, I'm completely ignorant as to what Baldwin thought of her as a writer, if he bothered at all. Must try and find out.)