Brasso invective, Elgar reprise

You just can't keep a good man down.

The bane of my blogging life, Mr Anonymous, is back, with another nasty remark on the meaning of life as he reckons it should be lived. His latest comment was left in response to yesterday's post about how a young man should respond when his parents won't accept he is gay.

Well, okay, I didn't cover that ground exactly - I talked about symphony orchestras instead. But the blog post which motivated it, by Malaysian blogger Robbie, who is having problems with his Dad, does look at this sensitive matter (link harvested - it died).

I thought Robbie's post about his Dad's anti-gay stance was sympathetic and reasonable, even if I didn't agree with all of it. 

Here is Mr Anon's devastating response:

'It is our parents' responsibility to know us and accept us. If you can't be honest with your own family about who you are, it probably means you have a number of identity issues.'

His scathing remark about identity issues is probably aimed at me, rather than poor Robbie.

Back in another life, when I lived with a woman, we used to visit junk and curio shops, which in the olde worlde English-style city where we lived (Christchurch, New Zealand, since you ask), could be found around almost every corner.

Once I bought a bracelet in copper or gold brass for her, with someone else's name on it. In times past, a man had bought it for his girl, and dedicated it to her. She had an old name like Flo or Betty; the owner of the shop reckoned the piece was about 50 years old.

When we took it home, we polished it with Brasso, to brighten it up.

When I read Mr Anon's acidic comments, I am reminded of that can of Brasso. His comments are so caustic, they could clean metal.

If I could put his spittle in a can, I would market him as Gay Brasso. If I had a gay chandelier, you could clean it for me, love.

Because we enjoy a bit of drama, I have decided to remove the moderating bar on reader comments, at least for a while, to see what he comes up with next. So, fire away, Mr Anon.

-

Elgar and a young Yehudi Menuhin

In yesterday's piece about symphony orchestras, I mentioned English composer Elgar. Hours after I wrote it, by strange coincidence, I came upon another reference to Elgar, in a short story called Elgar and the Watch My Father Gave Me.

The author is a Singapore-born Australian citizen, Kim Cheng Boey, who teaches creative writing at Newcastle University.

Kim Cheng Boey says that at 16, his Dad bought him a watch - and a vinyl recording of Elgar's Violin Concerto.

Here he is, describing a visit with his Dad to a Singapore market, on the day his oft-absent Pa bought him those gifts:

'At the next stall, a long-haired man with tattoos creeping out of his singlet served up brimming glasses of sugar cane juice with great gusto, grinding the cane and milking the crush for the last drop. The late afternoon light was aligned with the river's flow, a distilled light without glare. I think that was the last happy day I had with my father.'

A week later, gambler Dad, forever in financial trouble, turned up at the house to ask for the watch back, so he could pawn it. Thankfully, his son was much closer to his Elgar recording than he was the watch, for he was never to see it again:

'The watch my father gave me and then took back, ticks only in my memory, where my father also lives. Elgar's timeless piece goes on, retracing, measuring, anticipating our steps, resonant of lost years and vanishing places. Menuhin [who played on the recording] seems to be deferring to the last note; but there is no going back, the music says. I am in a new country, a lifetime away from my lost country, my lost father.'

I suppose Boey grew up with the English language all his life; otherwise, it would be unfair. Many native speakers of English can't write this well. They are unable to use their own language as expressively as Boey does; nor do they have his mastery of story-telling technique.

I found Kim Cheng Boey's story about his Dad, Elgar and the timepiece in a literary journal, Asia Literary Review. The journal describes itself tersely on the back cover as 'new fiction/reportage/travel/memoir'.

Asia Literary Review is sold in the US, UK, Australia, and many places in Asia, including Thailand, where it goes for B395.

PS: Thank you to the friend who sent me two copies. I have a list of shops in Bangkok where you can buy it, for those interested.

PS 2: The story includes a picture of composer Edward Elgar and violin prodigy Yehudi Menuhin, then 16, outside Abbey Rd studios (see above).

'Menuhin is cooperating with the camera, while Elgar's pose betrays an air of unease...perhaps he is impatient to go the races,' Boey writes.