The Curious Case of Dassoukine's Trousers, by Fouad Laroui

Two things lured me to this book: Laila Lalami's name on the cover and the hint of sly humour the title suggests.

Fouad Laroui's work is not widely available in English. He left Morocco as a young man to pursue further studies in France, and now teaches literature in the Netherlands. Lalami helped have this collection translated.

Shot through with sharp yet gentle ribbing, these versatile works contain many references to history and politics. The hilarious title story features a tall Moroccan government economist whose pants are stolen shortly before he is to attend an early-morning meeting in Brussels to buy wheat; he's obliged to show up in charity shop golf pants. The  play "Fifteen Minutes as a Philosopher" delivers drama in a dozen pages. The final short piece is a chilling nightmare.

"Dislocation" employs a bittersweet tone, and "What was not said in Brussels" is also narrated in a serious voice. Like so many writers from his region, Laroui studied abroad and lives away from his original country, and these stories allude to the poignant feelings of dislocation that result. "Why," wonders one Moroccan, now married to a Dutch woman and living in Utrecht, "does man distance himself from home...make himself a foreigner?"

"Bannini's Bodyguard," "The Invention of Dry Swimming" and "Born Nowhere" evoke student days in the Cafe de l'Univers in Casablanca. On a hot and slow-moving afternoon, the table is littered with glasses of coffee, mint tea, and pomegranate juice. While half a dozen young men talk philosophy, make jokes, and tell stories that poke fun at the antics of the government, the reader sits invisibly listening, unnoticed like the cat who sleeps on a nearby chair.

In the course of their conversation, the students look back on the days "when you could drink a beer without triggering a heavy fire of fatwas, without provoking questions from Parliament." Setting the context, one storyteller reminds his audience that in the early seventies, when all matters "related to the Palace made the masses tremble with fear." This was a time when the man who buttoned the shirt cuffs of Hassan II "had more power than a minister," and the king's bootblack commanded generals.

In the context of dry swimming, the youths also wonder why, if everything is divine creation, people "rhapsodize and roar...when faced with a waterfall, a beautiful tree, or a cloud, and say nothing when staring at a pebble or listening to a braying donkey."

Getting back to pants, the writer waxes poetic as he evokes the vicissitudes of history, trade, and social life through a pair of pants worn by a character called Jilali. "Originally corduroy," they've been modified by "rubbing against the back of CTM bus seats...the abrasion suffered from rough chairs" and "entryways waiting for a door to open." The trousers have also spent time sitting on the sidewalk, "waiting for the forces of Law and Order to hand over an identity card," and made contact with "the trees on the boulevard; the stadium bleachers; the deteriorated, discouraged walls" and even "the asphalt, if there was a skirmish."

This veritable poetry of pants is followed by a similar flight of fancy on Cherki's shirt, which begins "in the age of the Hittites, falling cleanly on Assyrian buttocks," and going downhill from there to reach its sadly worn condition of today.

Thanks to my students at SFU for suggesting the idea of a reading list, now under construction. Fouad Laroui will definitely be on it.

Just a glimpse of biased photo editing, in passing

Last week I was walking along Cordova Street. As I passed this sign, what jumped out at me was the apparent phrase "Glassware toques." This created such a strange image in my head that I broke my stride to back up and check what the sign really said. Of course, the shop does not offer "glassware toques" for $14.

This got me thinking about how editing can be used to mislead, and I cropped the picture accordingly. This bit of mischief reminded me again of the need to consider all things in context. (Okay, I admit that's a familiar rant.)

But look at what can be done by cropping a picture with a certain end in mind. By manipulating pictures or words, desired reactions are suggested. Not the case here, but we live with glimpse-and-run images; it's a cautionary tale.

The Seven Whispers by Christina Baldwin

"The purpose of life is not to maintain personal comfort; it's to grow the soul."

I clearly recall the inspiration and encouragement I got from Christina Baldwin's 1990 journaling book, Life's Companion. One idea that stuck was that while other people may come and go, your journal writing practice will never abandon you.

Subtitled "Listening to the voice of spirit," this book (2002) describes seven ways of listening to our wise selves. The first is to maintain peace of mind. I love this idea. From what I know of energy, the best we humans can do is to hold a space of neutrality, resist judgments, choose peace. "Peace of mind is a spiritual state waiting for us to find it."

I love the second whisper, "move at the pace of guidance." We can always access that inner voice, which is only a breath away. What wise advice to use this guidance to decide what to do next and when to do it. When an act arises out of our inner conviction, we carry it out with certainty of purpose. This strengthens our sense of direction in life and helps us follow it.

The next offering is to surrender to surprise; the unexpected is a great gift. "When things happen, our underlying faith or doubt is brought to the surface." Unpleasant surprises are opportunities to heal old wounds and toxic judgments.

Next we are told to ask for what we need and offer what we can. It is sad to reflect on how often we neglect such simple forms of communication and kindness.

The next whisper is the exhortation to love those who are in front of us. We are here to practice love, and rather than restricting it to those we choose, we need to love all who cross our path.

Baldwin's final whisper advises us to return to the world. We live in our bodies and on the earth, so we need to spend time there, increasing our awareness of our physicality and humanity.

"I believe the shift in accountability from outside us to inside us is an evolutionary leap." This line resonates deeply. I have long believed humans are in the process of making such a leap. Indeed, it's a necessity if our species is to continue to occupy our planetary home for much longer.

Seaweed Under Water by Stanley Evans

Image from amazon

Stanley Evans has created a memorable detective in Sergeant Silas Seaweed of the Victoria Police Department. As he works toward solving the crime, readers learn tidbits about the capital's history and glimpse some Coast Salish spiritual beliefs.

This romp of a police procedural employs all the usual suspects along with a few ghosts and spirits. We follow Silas through tough bars and greasy spoons. Aboard a yacht, he meets a scheming siren whose intentions toward him are ambivalent. Local references are amusing and philosophical. The sly wit and clever turns of phrase of narrator Silas surprise and delight. His apt descriptions evoke the sleazy club called Pinky's, with its band that "belonged in a garage," its speakers "the size of coffins" and its classic yet fresh Belfast-born bartender.

On learning that a colleague from the era of "bent witnesses and rubber hoses" is retiring, Silas waxes philosophical. Besides a silver plaque from the Victoria City Council, he muses, Bradley Sunderland will have little "to show for his years on the force" but "citations for assault, drunkenness, dereliction of duty and persistent tardiness." Oh - and "a boiler-plated pension."

The loaner car that is supposed to replace his MG while it's in the shop is "as responsive as a bad date," and Chef Lou does "a very creditable imitation of whirling dervishes around his hotplate." One of the villains shows up with "purple crescents under his eyes." But, thinks Silas, "if he wasn't the best-dressed logger on the coast, Prince Charles doesn't play polo."

Proud of his way with words, the silver-tongued sergeant teases his boss for being "the master of single entendre." When pressed by a lady for a good Chardonnay he doesn't have, he describes the home made plonk in his fridge as redolent of "berries and English crumpets."

Wintry White Rock views of East Beach

 

Where has the Courthouse Fountain gone?

As downtown grows ever more tall anonymous buildings, memories of earlier incarnations of Vancouver continue to be erased. The fountain in front of the Art Gallery was always lovely to pass. Now it's been filled in and bricked over. The VAG's days at this location are numbered. I hope this building, with its incomparable stone, marble, skylights and spiral staircases does not fall to the wrecking ball.

Below are Vancouver Archives pictures of the "Courthouse fountain" in 1967.

 

Inspired by winter sunshine filtering into my office

 
If this doesn't get me back to work on my novel, I don't know what will. Christmas is always a season for family and for putting the brain in neutral gear by doing jigsaws. Now it's time to get back to writing.

Art installation or makeshift shack?

Recently I walked along Georgia Street from Homer to Cardero, the first time I've made that journey on foot for a very long time. Passing this mysterious bit of construction with its partial roof and rough seating, I couldn't decide if it was a shack cobbled together by people desperate for shelter, a place for construction workers on coffee breaks, or an art installation. No sign of habitation when I passed in the early evening.

Extra pieces -- part of our jigsaw mythology now

Here's one end of the completed 1500 piece jigsaw. Those three pieces on the right fit together; they're just not part of this puzzle!
Here's what it looks like complete:

This mismatch mystery started four years ago, with the Sherlock Holmes puzzle. 

And that's all, folks. The puzzle season is over for another year.

Deeply puzzling -- how to explain the anomalous pieces?

Christmas is jigsaw time, and this year has deepened the mystery of missing and extra pieces. This closeup shows a piece of paper we placed beneath one hole in an effort to conceal the gap. Some of the problem puzzles are recycled ones I got from the White Rock Library to feed seasonal jigsaw habit. But some are brand new.

Missing pieces are easily explained. They slip between sofa cushions, or pets chew or move them. It's a bit harder to explain how wrong pieces get in a puzzle box. I imagined a crew of library volunteers around a table, counting pieces to make sure the donated puzzles were complete. The table was crowded and two people sitting side by side couldn't keep their piles separate. Unwittingly, they exchanged a couple of pieces without altering the count.

Three extra pieces in each puzzle above. Both also have gaps, yet none of the spare pieces fit. I guess life is like that, sometimes.

Saying adieu to the Christmas season

It's "old Christmas" today. Time to say farewell to our beloved winter solstice seasonal celebrations. To quote a popular carol, may the new year bring hope, peace, joy and love to all. And satisfactorily completed jigsaw puzzles of course, just to keep busy minds in neutral gear awhile.

Rushing into the future with an eye fixed firmly on the past?

This is a bit late (computer upgrade just completed), but here's my thought for the New Year. In this moment of annual introversion, renewal and reassessment, it's important to remember that where we're going is not we've been. Even when we choose to deny or forget it, we're galloping forward into the unknown.

If keeping full attention on the past is like driving a car with eyes glued to the rearview mirror, peering forward is also problematic. Nobody can suss out what's coming next.

What remains is the present. That's a wonderful gift. So let's keep our attention on the moment. In 2018, may we all find ways to be present to each and every experience that comes along. Happy New Year, everyone!