Moon Through Trees (After Basho & Bob)

Large group of older Chinese filling an entire row under the awning at Wadi was not common morning, evening, or any other time. Two prominent crosses on chains at one end left little doubt about the gathering—a small flock wandered blindly into the wrong pen. All three tables were tightly bunched with some added chairs squeezed, one old dear sporting an orange TIME BOMB tee two days after Christchurch. All bar the eldest male, a chap in his eighties, were soon to go before the Christian god craggy-faced, but dyed. Big spread before them on a Monday morning; this was no walking group. The guess was that the charter bus would roll up at 10:30, the group go down roadside like a line of ducks beforehand to wait. One expensive salon curl in a tint that took a dark ruby hue, fine silk blouse possibly accompanying. As usual the women had outlined the men, three or four widows likely among their number. Youngest might have been mid-sixties you would have said, until the red/white stripe rose from her chair and turned. Well short of fifty, the granddaughter of the aged by the way she took him under arm; mastering the old man like that before the eyes of the others, certainly not a maid. This woman’s move decided the matter: the party would adjourn for another day; for variety they would gather at a different eatery next time. There was no charter either; nearly a dozen made off, leaving a small group that gathered together at the far end of the row. The perm was by far the wealthiest at table, none of the others showed any sign of serious money lightly carried. That modesty had in fact been their parents’ generation; now even the Muslims were slipping up in that regard. If you got it, flaunt it. You deserve it; you earned it! Well along that road. Yasu the Japanese 1,000% Hindu says you live one hour here the equivalent of ten days in Tokyo, his hometown. Nowhere in Tokyo could one practise one’s religion quietly and undisturbed, says Yasu. The historical quirks in Singapore certainly enable that much; existential threats otherwise. Over dinner last night at the Wadi table Bluesman Yasu sang the lines of the Dylan song about the moon up through the trees, looking above from his chair where the real thing could be spied, bright just then and almost radiant. Well-travelled, spiritual Yas did not know what a problematic orb the old cheese actually made on the equator. The moon everywhere was the same, the man had complacently thought. More attention needed Yasu my man, you haven’t been looking properly enough on the terrestrial level.

NB. It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes A Train To Cry, Bob Dylan.