There are three particular stories I
want to tell. At present the time is not for telling. Difficult to
explain why. Not everything can be explained, or needs to be
explained.
One of
the waiting pieces describes a rather classic family dinner set in
Georgetown, Penang, with a sting in the tail of course. In the case
of this particular piece, at the same time that it has called out for
telling and the impulse remained strong over a number of weeks, there
has also been an avoidance involved in this case that is somewhat
larger than in the case of the other two waiting pieces. All tales
and stories are more or less difficult to tell and can only be told,
however well or successfully, when there is sufficient reason. This
particular tale of the dinner has the sizable reason of anger and
fury propelling the desire to tell. An incident had been witnessed at
Georgetown; something was recalled by it, a feeling or a particular
time. Despite this current inability, this current lethargy, or what
you will, the impetus to tell the tale has not gone cold. Often this
can happen: the initial sufficient reason and force can quickly be
lost, sometimes overnight. Added to the usual difficulty in the case
of this particular tale is the fact that it is a well-known tale; a
familiar set of circumstances and behaviours. The order of difficulty
delivering it, therefore, rises all the more substantially. There
must be found an adequate and fitting means, often an entry and
certain line of pursuit. Nevertheless, for all the repetition
unavoidably involved, and the dangers therein, this is a tale that
needs to be told. It will be told. It does not go away with
time.
Another, second tale, essentially derives from the luck of an interesting encounter; coming upon a forceful and captivating story-teller. All the vital force and energy of the man, sitting up in his seat, lunging forward to impress his points, his passion and insistence, forces itself upon the mind. The tale of injustice, of political fixing and skullduggery involved, gives the matter a weight and heft that it might not ordinarily carry. That is important. Vivid colour and shine, a bit of verve and élan, are often not enough. The energy must be directed at some particular matter; something must hang by the dramatics involved. In the case of this particular Turk the supposition is that the man's bursting intensity, the fullness of his bold spirit, embodies a good deal of the best of one's own tribe; more than likely many of those who were witnessed at large before they could be understood and duly appreciated spoke with an eruptive force and power like this Turk. Is it a trick of the mind this commonly recurring sense of vestigial presences peopling earliest consciousness and indeed accompanying the present moment? Is it possible? Memory and anecdote have become inextricably bound together now after a long period of searching and enquiry. The Turko, worst traditional enemy of the Montenegrin—the man seemed to know it too; a student of theology and history was unlikely to have that pass him by—added some pique.
Lastly comes a tale of a simple gesture observed on the dirty Chow Kit street here in the back-end of Kuala Lumpur, caught from the corner of the eye more or less. A beggar sitting on the tiles in front of an ATM outlet received a particular kind of regard from a benefactor. In Malaysia often a favourite stake-out not merely for begging but also for camping out is the front of an ATM. The security under the lights one factor. However one suspects violent attacks on beggars and the homeless might be quite rare in this kind of community here. Indeed one would bet it may even be non-existent, even in the largest urban centres. Might this well-lit ATM stake-out be rather a tenacious clinging to one's fellows, one's community and group? Otherwise couldn't the beggar take himself off to a far, distant and safe corner to bed himself down? There beside Restoran Mehran a coin or note had a moment before passed to the beggar down on the tiles. What followed was even more precious than alms one wagers, even for a beggar. It is impossible to shake some impressions, some acts of witness.
Instead of writing the last three weeks here in KL there has been the usual aimless wandering, mainly in the immediate neighbourhood. Only on a few occasions has the rail system been used. This morning, late in the morning, there was to be a venture out to the Borders store at Bukit Bintang, four of five stops from Chow Kit. The preference, Kinokuniya, was out at KLCC, within the Petronas Towers—a high-end consumer mall with all the familiar attractions of such places. In the end in fact it was the big mall it had to be—the Borders outlet, here as elsewhere in the last couple of years, had closed up shop. The Body Shop, British India, LV, Prada and all the other usual suspects; and on the fourth floor, Kinokuniya Books. An energetic office-worker who studied calligraphy and Chinese painting after-hours, walked an hour daily and devoted another hour to an exercise bicycle, escorted the foreigner the better part of the way, a short stroll when the disorienting tunnels and walkways were known.
The time for this particular book in mind had arrived. There may have been an old copy on the shelf back home inherited from a friend. Nevertheless, the time was now for this reading; none better time and perhaps never again. Idries Shah's The Sufis was the purchase. There had been plenty of references to the Sufis and Sufism over the years. After meeting a confirmed adherent, if not a master himself, Zainuddin Ismail Mohammed, one felt a little and usefully prepared. In earlier years Din had had a master over in Batu Pahat who had clearly made a large impression on him. The tradition of direct teaching and example in the East had always been one of the strong draws to that tradition. Book learning was very much the lesser part of this Sufism. However, a famous book like Idries Shah's proclaimed by Graves, Lessing and others might be investigated as a little starter. At RM64 it did not come cheap. Thank god for the coal, copper and bauxite reserves in the Australian backyard: almost precisely $Aust20.
The magazine section aside, Kinokuniya was more than tolerable that afternoon. There seemed to be a distinct lack of the usual high colour glitter loading up the tables and shelves. Murakami rows did not threaten decapitation. And that in a Japanese chain! Fifty Shades might not have sold more than a thousand volumes in the whole of Malaysia. Again, no-where to be spied. Where was Crime and True Crime at Kinokuniya KL? Even "Islam" itself was no more than five of six metres of shelf in total. It is a small store here in KL, much smaller than either Sydney or Singapore. The new Murray Bail was listed but unavailable. (On the shelf there was only Eucalyptus. Former wife Helen Garner probably does not translate in another culture, not an older one. Nothing.) Art and Design, with Architecture, was in this store consigned to the back corner upstairs. Even without Islam that was on the cards here in a developing industrial nation. The aisles in this particular Kinokuniya store produced almost no queasiness whatever. More than likely the gowns, scarves and caps were a part of the effect too. This was a consumer of an alien nature, the behaviour and deportment from a distant time.
....Coming soon, the features promised. After the return to Singapura and some indeterminate period of catching breath, renewing earlier acquaintances, taking stock and re-girding the loins.
Another, second tale, essentially derives from the luck of an interesting encounter; coming upon a forceful and captivating story-teller. All the vital force and energy of the man, sitting up in his seat, lunging forward to impress his points, his passion and insistence, forces itself upon the mind. The tale of injustice, of political fixing and skullduggery involved, gives the matter a weight and heft that it might not ordinarily carry. That is important. Vivid colour and shine, a bit of verve and élan, are often not enough. The energy must be directed at some particular matter; something must hang by the dramatics involved. In the case of this particular Turk the supposition is that the man's bursting intensity, the fullness of his bold spirit, embodies a good deal of the best of one's own tribe; more than likely many of those who were witnessed at large before they could be understood and duly appreciated spoke with an eruptive force and power like this Turk. Is it a trick of the mind this commonly recurring sense of vestigial presences peopling earliest consciousness and indeed accompanying the present moment? Is it possible? Memory and anecdote have become inextricably bound together now after a long period of searching and enquiry. The Turko, worst traditional enemy of the Montenegrin—the man seemed to know it too; a student of theology and history was unlikely to have that pass him by—added some pique.
Lastly comes a tale of a simple gesture observed on the dirty Chow Kit street here in the back-end of Kuala Lumpur, caught from the corner of the eye more or less. A beggar sitting on the tiles in front of an ATM outlet received a particular kind of regard from a benefactor. In Malaysia often a favourite stake-out not merely for begging but also for camping out is the front of an ATM. The security under the lights one factor. However one suspects violent attacks on beggars and the homeless might be quite rare in this kind of community here. Indeed one would bet it may even be non-existent, even in the largest urban centres. Might this well-lit ATM stake-out be rather a tenacious clinging to one's fellows, one's community and group? Otherwise couldn't the beggar take himself off to a far, distant and safe corner to bed himself down? There beside Restoran Mehran a coin or note had a moment before passed to the beggar down on the tiles. What followed was even more precious than alms one wagers, even for a beggar. It is impossible to shake some impressions, some acts of witness.
Instead of writing the last three weeks here in KL there has been the usual aimless wandering, mainly in the immediate neighbourhood. Only on a few occasions has the rail system been used. This morning, late in the morning, there was to be a venture out to the Borders store at Bukit Bintang, four of five stops from Chow Kit. The preference, Kinokuniya, was out at KLCC, within the Petronas Towers—a high-end consumer mall with all the familiar attractions of such places. In the end in fact it was the big mall it had to be—the Borders outlet, here as elsewhere in the last couple of years, had closed up shop. The Body Shop, British India, LV, Prada and all the other usual suspects; and on the fourth floor, Kinokuniya Books. An energetic office-worker who studied calligraphy and Chinese painting after-hours, walked an hour daily and devoted another hour to an exercise bicycle, escorted the foreigner the better part of the way, a short stroll when the disorienting tunnels and walkways were known.
The time for this particular book in mind had arrived. There may have been an old copy on the shelf back home inherited from a friend. Nevertheless, the time was now for this reading; none better time and perhaps never again. Idries Shah's The Sufis was the purchase. There had been plenty of references to the Sufis and Sufism over the years. After meeting a confirmed adherent, if not a master himself, Zainuddin Ismail Mohammed, one felt a little and usefully prepared. In earlier years Din had had a master over in Batu Pahat who had clearly made a large impression on him. The tradition of direct teaching and example in the East had always been one of the strong draws to that tradition. Book learning was very much the lesser part of this Sufism. However, a famous book like Idries Shah's proclaimed by Graves, Lessing and others might be investigated as a little starter. At RM64 it did not come cheap. Thank god for the coal, copper and bauxite reserves in the Australian backyard: almost precisely $Aust20.
The magazine section aside, Kinokuniya was more than tolerable that afternoon. There seemed to be a distinct lack of the usual high colour glitter loading up the tables and shelves. Murakami rows did not threaten decapitation. And that in a Japanese chain! Fifty Shades might not have sold more than a thousand volumes in the whole of Malaysia. Again, no-where to be spied. Where was Crime and True Crime at Kinokuniya KL? Even "Islam" itself was no more than five of six metres of shelf in total. It is a small store here in KL, much smaller than either Sydney or Singapore. The new Murray Bail was listed but unavailable. (On the shelf there was only Eucalyptus. Former wife Helen Garner probably does not translate in another culture, not an older one. Nothing.) Art and Design, with Architecture, was in this store consigned to the back corner upstairs. Even without Islam that was on the cards here in a developing industrial nation. The aisles in this particular Kinokuniya store produced almost no queasiness whatever. More than likely the gowns, scarves and caps were a part of the effect too. This was a consumer of an alien nature, the behaviour and deportment from a distant time.
....Coming soon, the features promised. After the return to Singapura and some indeterminate period of catching breath, renewing earlier acquaintances, taking stock and re-girding the loins.
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