Lowestoft Chronicle, Leisure, and Light

I have the rare boon of a quiet weekend, with no immediately looming deadlines and no events. This came bundled with an honor and thrill: Lowestoft Chronicle not only published my story “Volta” yesterday in its Issue 56 (December 2023), but has also included the story in its Best American Short Stories 2024 nominations. I first learned about this online magazine—in existence since 2010—through my friend David Havird, four of whose wonderful poems have appeared in it. Although the magazine gives preference to “humorous submissions with an emphasis on travel,” I thought my piece (partly humorous, but not directly travel-related) would nonetheless suit its spirit, and the editor’s kind reply confirmed my hunch.

This morning, wrapped in a quiet stretch of time, I read the entire issue over coffee. What fun! My favorite pieces include “The National Road” by Tim Morris (a magnificent piece), “High Relief” by David Havird (full of wonderful twists), “The Fires” by George Moore, “The Bear’s Bear” by Brian Sacca, and “Paris Is Still Burning” by Daniel Robinson. Something about Lowestoft Chronicle makes me savor the reading throughout. There’s a feel of curling up with a book, or a pile of books, and traveling along. Maybe it’s the travel and humor theme that generates this momentum: the mind follows the pieces’ travels and wants to keep on going (and laughing). Travel, even related humorously, has something profound to it too: you can’t talk about travel without somehow contending with who you are, who others are, and what it means to cross paths or not. Solitude comes up frequently in these pieces.

But yes, leisure. Some consider it a luxury, others a necessity. I think of it as both. It is extraordinary that ancient Judaism recognized it and built it into the week—one entire day out of seven, in addition to any leisure that people might enjoy on weekdays. I have struggled with the restrictions of Shabbat, all those things you’re not supposed to do, such as writing, taking pictures, playing music, riding a bike. Today I don’t care what others think or what the rules supposedly are. This was a leisurely morning for me, even though I was reading online and am writing now.

The concept of Shabbat is profound, layered, and fundamental, but there’s no reason why people have to interpret it in exactly the same way—or even adhere to it all the time. To me, religion makes sense only within liberty; the two exist for each other, though in tension with each other. I sometimes think of abandoning organized religion entirely—for good—but then realize that I can have my own relationship with it, which isn’t the same as anyone else’s. Many others, ironically, do the same. (My synagogue, Szim Salom, accepts different approaches to observance.) Individuality of a certain kind—not the “me, me” kind, but a thinking, searching kind—holds us together.

Another piece I read this morning was James Baldwin’s essay “Nothing Personal,” which my friend Hannah Marcus had quoted, having read the quote on Maria Popova’s site. This is the quote:

It has always been much easier (because it has always seemed much safer) to give a name to the evil without than to locate the terror within. And yet, the terror within is far truer and far more powerful than any of our labels: the labels change, the terror is constant. And this terror has something to do with that irreducible gap between the self one invents — the self one takes oneself as being, which is, however, and by definition, a provisional self — and the undiscoverable self which always has the power to blow the provisional self to bits.

I understand that terror well. I have had so many “selves” in my life, but they’re all part of one, or rather, they’re all secondary to that “undiscoverable” self that keeps surging up. There is no label, no identity—none—that tells more than a fraction of the truth about who I am. This, I believe, is true of others too. That’s not to dismiss identity entirely. Our various definitions say something, and they are not entirely of our own making or within our own control. Baldwin knew this well. But they do not solve us.

This leads to the topic of light. Baldwin’s essay speaks of the loneliness, cruelty, falsehood of American life: the hollow pretense of happiness and success, the aggressive meanness just below the surface, the “ugliness and hostility” of the cities, the unwillingness to listen and speak directly to another, the ignorance of what is happening around us. But he does not stop there. He moves from that very despair into the hope that “one day, perhaps, unimaginable generations hence, we will evolve into the knowledge that human beings are more important than real estate and will permit this knowledge to become the ruling principle of our lives. For I do not for an instant doubt, and will go to my grave believing, that we can build Jerusalem, if we will.”

What follows is not to be quoted here—a quote would not do it justice—but it has to do with seeing light in the eyes, “which is the only light there is in the world” (yes, a brief quote, but there’s much more). This light is nothing glib—you have to face the despair to see it—and nothing to take for granted. But the essay closes with it (although in a tone of warning).

This is what I love about Hanukkah—not a major holiday, perhaps elevated over time to offer a Jewish alternative to Christmas (a holiday I also love). The story behind Hanukkah, the miracle of the oil, holds less meaning for me than the very celebration of light, the lighting of the candles, which is irresistibly beautiful. I will light the first candle on Thursday night, along with everyone else in the world who does so, and will lead part of a Hanukkah/Shabbat service on Friday evening.

The terms “light” and “dark” are fraught but inextirpable: the light will always allow us to see the way (at least somewhat), whereas the dark will prevent us from doing so. The concepts are also complex: the dark has its hidden light, in that it forces us to use our other senses and to look within ourselves. Today many shy away from these words because of their possible racist overtones, but Baldwin knew that they (as words and concepts) have truth independent of race. “Sonny’s Blues” (one of my favorite stories, which I included in my materials when teaching English in Kyrgyzstan in the summer of 1993) abounds with light and dark and could not exist without them.

I love and need the dark of certain kinds, or at least the recognition of it; the music that I listen to, the literature I read (including humorous literature) has at least some darkness, and often quite a bit. But light and dark go together in more ways than we know; they can only be known through each other.

In that light, here is one of my favorite songs from the past year: “When We’re Flying Home” by Art of Flying. “Tomorrow bends tomorrow breaks / Happiness will Come / Tomorrow gathers our Mistakes / When we’re Flying Home.”

And another is “Dirty Old Town,” written in 1949 by Ewan MacColl and performed/covered by the Dubliners, the Pogues (R.I.P. Shane MacGowan, who died on Thursday), and many others, including John Francis Flynn, whose brilliant/dark album Look Over the Wall, See the Sky came out last month (many thanks to Cz.K. Sebő for recommending it to me). Here is the Pogues’ version:

And here is Flynn’s:

And speaking of Cz.K. Sebő, on December 9 I will post something in honor of the second anniversary of his first LP, How could I show you the beauty of a life in vain? In the meantime (and to end this post), here’s one of my favorite songs from the album, “Pure Sense,” a song that, for all its simple joy, knows various kinds of darkness well. The song makes me smile, which brings this post around full circle, or at least into a curl.

Posted by Diana Senechal on December 2, 2023

https://dianasenechal.wordpress.com/2023/12/02/lowestoft-chronicle-leisure-and-light/