On The Inside

Got talking to Hamzah last night about the work he does in prisons. His company provide the software that helps integrate some of the security features in one or two jails over here and I gather he's hoping to expand this provision in the future having established a good track record over the last few years in projects in which his firm has led the way. Since this work involves him actually going into the various premises to install and service the hardware he's accumulated quite a range of experience of life on the inside and it's striking just how positive his impression of the prison system is as a whole.

Since the nation might reasonably classified as still very much developing, this isn't something that you can take for granted. Let's face it, it's not difficult to think of prisons in the UK and the US (especially!) where no one would want to be banged up. But I got the sense that the prospect of doing time in the average Malaysian prison isn't necessarily a frightening one and that the authorities have a genuine desire to rehabilitate rather than simply punish.

It was, however, disheartening to learn of just how many are put inside for drug-related offences. You'd think that the draconian laws in place might help prevent damage on the scale we see in the UK and the US (to name but two) but it looks like it makes little difference.

Making An Effort

Biggest effort of the day so far, cleaning a few of the many downstairs windows which allow us so much light on the world.

Next biggest effort, except no real effort was involved, finishing Orhan Pamuk's Istanbul: Memories and the City, which I foolishly mistitled simply Istanbul in an earlier post. This is one of those rare cases in which only the full title does justice to the text which is as much about the working of memory as it is about the city.

Next effort, getting ready to drive over to Hamzah & Sharifah's place with a cake for Aziqah's birthday. Noi tells me she's twenty-nine which can't be right because she was just nine years old the other day and excitedly reading Harry Potter.

Getting Going

The temptation to do absolutely, gloriously, nothing is always a strong one here at Maison KL. At least, it is for me. Noi invariably gets stuck into the household tasks on a grand scale, the reason above all reasons why the house is so comfortable.

This time round I've successfully managed to put temptation almost completely to one side and actually got things done. I've dealt with all the bookshelves and cleaned the fans and, on the virtual front, cleared a very messy desktop and deleted numerous highly deletable documents and files which should have seen the inside of a recycle bin a long time ago.

Partly this mighty effort has been inspired by how much I enjoyed clearing my place at work early this month when the powers-that-be decided our staffroom needed to be shut down to be remodelled. It struck me as a great opportunity to cast off a lot of accumulated gunk and cast it off I did with some exuberance. There are those who cling to the past; I'm not one of them, I'm happy to say. Or, at least, I'm trying not to be.

High Energy

Continuing to make cosily unhurried progress on Pamuk's memoir of growing up in Istanbul. In contrast found myself rushing through Elif Shafak's The Bastard of Istanbul at a gallop, finishing it today. I think I understand Jamilah's enthusiasm for the novelist. She writes with verve, imagination, wit and heart, and does so in quite unpredictable ways. I really had little to no idea where she was leading me, but was happy to go there.

Given the humour of the opening segments of the novel and its almost relentlessly breezy tone the later head-on treatment of the sufferings of the Armenians in 1915 was sort of unexpected, yet seemed to work, as did the unveiling of the dark family secrets and their repercussions in the final stretch of the novel. It's as if Ms Shafak felt the need to ram these disparate worlds together as they present themselves in lived experience. But I must say that I suspect a close analysis of the novel, free of its narrative grip, might point to quite a few loose threads.

My guess is that this is the kind of writer whose fans will forgive almost everything. And, I suspect, rightly so.

Monkeying Around

Highlight of the day: over a late breakfast we caught sight of a couple of monkeys in the distance, walking along the top of the newish fence on the hillside going down to KL. They pursued their monkey business up to the gazebo near the house, then the bigger of the two sauntered over to our garden fence, the outer one, just in time for the Missus to notice and announce, loudly, his approach. Then, as I scooted over to the French windows to shut them, he lifted himself up onto the top of the inner fence, and then onto our roof. I went upstairs to check if he'd got onto one of the balconies, but there was no sign of the intruder.

About ten minutes later he came down from the roof at the same spot and was out of the garden in a few seconds. He'd obviously had lots of practice.

It was striking just how utterly self-contained the fellow was. Despite the fact we were just a few feet from one another he showed no awareness of my presence at all. Ironic, isn't it? The actual householder being held in complete contempt by our simian chum. I can never figure out why people consider monkeys 'cute' in any sense. I stand in awe of their complete and wonderful arrogance.

Sheer Laziness

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A day of sterling non-achievement. A day of several snoozes. A day of melancholy rain, amplified by the self-indulgent sadness of Orhan Pamuk mixed in with Mozart's D Minor Fantasia for piano. A very fine day indeed, in other words.

The Road About To Be Taken

10.04
Now contemplating, with a reasonable degree of equanimity, the road ahead to the Malaysian capital, to be taken once I get back from Friday Prayers. Whether that equanimity remains in place once we're actually on that road remains to be seen.

22.52
Main highlight of the journey was a gorgeous rainbow which manifested itself in spectacular fashion after some rain around the Pagoh area. Unfortunately the rainbow appeared in the south and we were driving north, but I got a decent enough view from my side mirrors to feel reasonably elevated. Second place highlight was the tea and toasted bread at the ARAB Café at Ayer Keroh.

There were several lowlights, but since these were eminently forgettable, generally involving slow-moving traffic, of which there is a plenitude in Malaysia, I have forgotten them

A La Turka

Making excellently slow progress on Orhan Pamuk's Istanbul. Since his memoir sees the Nobel Laureate at his most melancholic and Proustian, then slow reading is the only way to go. In contrast I fairly shot through Stephen Kinzer's Crescent & Star: Turkey Between Two Worlds which Jamilah very kindly leant to me, expressing much enthusiasm for the text. I could see why. It's very informative indeed on Turkish history and culture in general, especially the Ataturk era and its legacy. Kinzer has very clear views on where Turkey needs to go in future - towards the EU and democracy - and is a tad patronising and simplistic at times, but his heart is in the right place and he clearly knows a lot about Turkey, which he conveys in a thoroughly engaging manner.

Jamilah also passed me a novel by Elif Shafak, about whom she was even more enthusiastic than she was about Mr Kinzer. So at the moment there's no escape from Turkey for me, a very welcome state indeed.

The Place Of Magic

Initially I was a wee bit disappointed by Collected Grimm Tales. Since it's advertised as containing the dramatisation for the stage by Tim Supple and the Young Vic Company I thought I'd be reading some fairly detailed scripts, but this was not the case. It's very difficult indeed to figure out how exactly the Tales worked on stage, as the script given is pretty much the translations/adaptations from the Brothers Grimm by Carol Ann Duffy divided up for voices with very little in the way of explanations of how the words were 'played' on stage. However, I soon got over whatever disappointment I felt in the simple pleasure of reading the texts.

The poet's rendering of the stories is stark and to the point, exactly what's needed to bring them to rumbustious life. I was struck by the sheer simple energy of the tales, how pure they are in terms of reducing everything to bare story, yet how genuinely magical they are in their pragmatic acceptance of the unlikeliness of the events involved. No worries here about characterisation. The characters just are: they do what they need to do and leave the listener to catch up with them.

I was particularly struck by just how dark the tales could be, especially in terms of the vicious relish with which the fates of the 'villains' was rendered. I don't think I'd ever encountered the notion of the step-mother of Snow White being forced to wear red hot shoes and dance to her death at her step-daughter's marriage feast, but it's an image that will stay with me.

My favourite of all the stories was Rumpelstiltskin, a tale I loved as a child and which I don't think I'd read since. Carol Ann Duffy's retelling seemed exactly the same as what I'd heard as a nipper. The titular character's rage at the end, tearing himself in two, seemed just as impressive to me as an old geezer as it did all those years ago. Not sure how you'd put that on stage!

To Some Effect

It takes about a minute of my being on the elliptical trainer to realise just how much I don't enjoy the experience. This is so different from the days I used to go running when I'd enjoy almost every moment of the exercise. Wherein lies the difference? Well in the old days I was running somewhere and the rewarding sense of being out in the rich and varied world was  integral to the experience. On the trainer I go nowhere fast - or, rather, quite slowly, since I set the resistance to make it an uphill task. In the old days I took some pride in never breathing too heavily and trying to look reasonably comfortable as I ran. Now I find myself blowing like a beached whale and contorting my face in a version of something close to agony.

It isn't that I'm terribly unfit now - at least, I don't think this is the case. Rather, I think I'm pushing myself to the limit since there's really not much else to do when I'm on the machine and staring at the numbers. But there's a positive side to all this. Strangely I don't find myself in any way reluctant to get to the gym - far from it, in fact. And when I come away it feels just as good as it always did.

And slowly but surely, over time, I've definitely got fitter, which was something I doubted would happen a couple of years back when I discovered the joys of my machine of choice. Last Tuesday I posted my best ever numbers, and felt strong doing so. Of course, I'd still much rather be running out on the streets and sometimes fantasise about doing so, but I'll happily settle for the next-best thing if it means I can exercise reasonably regularly and escape injury in doing so.

Full

The season of semi-formal dinners is at an end, with the final one being negotiated this evening. I suppose at one time the thought of filling my face held a primitive appeal. Now I find the amount I'm expected to scoff over-whelming. Fortunately I've managed to get to the gym fairly regularly over the last month or so, and kept myself moving at work, so I remain close to my fighting weight.

Fortunately I generally feel very uncomfortable carrying any excess weight at all, so the idea of cutting down on my intake is, if anything, a restful one. But it's a horrible irony that I sometimes find myself avoiding food in a world in which others are literally dying for it.

Something Positive

Attended the wake for Daryl's dad this evening. Deeply sad, but also inspiring in terms of the sense of a life extraordinarily well lived, with remarkable courage over its final stretch.

More Than Enough

We took Ann to the Gardens on the Bay yesterday afternoon, after picking her up at Serangoon Road. She didn't quite realise what she was in for, thinking we were simply going to a fairly ordinary park. It was nice to see her delight at the visual riches provided there, which reinforced our sense of how extraordinary the gardens are. A single flower is a treat for the eye; the mighty proliferation at the Bay goes beyond a feast.

I've rarely seen so much photography, from so many different angles, going on in a single location. Something strikingly beautiful everywhere you looked. I resisted the temptation, knowing I'll have opportunities for taking pictures in the future and feeling that just looking was more than enough.

Transformed

Came home quite late just now and for reasons I don't quite understand found myself watching part of one of the Transformers movies. Had no idea what was actually happening on screen, but there was a lot going on. It was very noisy, very destructive and, for this viewer, very boring. But visually incredibly rich, to the point of being impossible to process. Tried to imagine someone watching this for enjoyment. Still trying. Tried to imagine someone making this. Couldn't.

Outcomes

We've been catching up with Ann, who's passing through on her way back to York from the land of Oz, regarding what's been going on with various acquaintances in the UK, sometimes getting more detail of stories with which we're familiar to some degree. At times I'm troubled by a sense of intruding in some way into the affairs of others, but I'm also aware of feeling a genuine concern. The problem is that several of the stories are essentially sad. It's easier in so many ways to hear tales of success, but this is a salutary reminder that the ultimate end of every individual story is inevitably sad. The best we can hope for is a life well lived. But what a cause for celebration that is!

Remembering Solidariy

On the way to the airport just now to pick up a friend arriving from Australia I found myself listening to a fascinating programme on the BBC World Service covering the turbulent history of the Polish trade union - though that description fails to do justice to the organisation - Solidarity. It featured quite a number of those directly associated with the movement, several of whom had spent periods in prison on account of their brave attempts to foster democracy in Poland in the early eighties.

In retrospect the fall of the totalitarian regimes behind the Iron Curtain seems inevitable. At the time it seemed anything but, at least to the younger version of myself who assumed that little would change, despite the obvious courage of Lech Walesa and the like. How wonderfully wrong I was. And how wonderful it's been to witness so many unexpected developments in the world in my lifetime.

You may think things are standing still. They never are. Which is both exciting and deeply disturbing at one and same time. I'd be tempted to say that the story of Solidarity had a sort of happy outcome, except it didn't as we never get to see a final outcome for anything.

The Magic Of Place

We're planning a trip to Istanbul in late December as part of our attempt to broaden our geographical horizons whilst we're still able to get around without assistance. (A slightly gloomy thought, I know, but realistic when you get to a certain age.) So my current reading list is dominated by material related to the city. Not a bad thing at all when that means something from Orhan Pamuk features - in this case his sort of memoir of growing up in Istanbul, pithily entitled Istanbul. The first chapters are typically magical, and I'd rather get on with reading the rest than writing this. So over and out.

A Great Finish

I'll miss the excitement of discovery I felt in reading Ian Bostridge's splendid Schubert's Winter Journey - Anatomy of an Obsession. Every chapter has fresh illuminations to offer, and not just on the song cycle itself, though the commentary on the individual songs brings each to life. I know I've become a better listener with the writer's help.

The last chapter is particularly special, dealing as it does with the most extraordinary song in the cycle, the one about the hurdy-gurdy man, Der Leiermann. It offers a plethora of insights but, more than that, conveys the weird power of the song quite brilliantly. It's fascinating for this Dylan fan-boy that Mr Bostridge makes admiring reference to the great man in relation to the song - actually trying to imagine what it would sound like with Dylan singing. I've thought for many years that Dylan is a great singer, but often seemed to be in a minority of one with regard to this claim, so it's oddly validating to have a great singer in the lieder tradition think the same way.

By the way, my assurance that the writer himself is a great singer comes not just via hearsay but from the fact that I downloaded a version of Winterreise featuring his singing, to supplement the version I was listening to previously done by Fischer-Dieskau. It compares favourably, which is really saying something.

Fragments

Yesterday's trip to Marine Parade was made in order to see Sanctuary, a piece performed by The Necessary Stage in collaboration with a group from Tokyo, Hanchu-Yuei, co-written by Haresh Sharma & Suguru Yamamoto, the latter being the director of the Tokyo group. According to the publicity blurb it investigates the fragility of the human condition, at a time when technology is eroding our humanity. We are the data, but the data is never ours. So all very hip and featuring impressive production values despite its small scale nature (being performed in the Black Box at Marine Parade Library.)

I was glad we took our drama guys along as it was such a good example of directors, writers and performers trying to do something brave and edgy, and sometimes succeeding. Good questions were asked regarding the threats posed by technology and if were younger I might have felt inclined to try to answer them. As it was I felt a wee bit detached from proceedings, reflective of the distance I keep between myself and the cyber-world. But I imagine the subject matter would have been desperately relevant to those younger and hipper than I. The very notion of a kind of fragmentary theatre, made up of ideas from all involved is exciting, but the danger is that the result might not transcend the process, and I thought this was a bit of a problem with Sanctuary. For all of its promise it ended up as a fascinating puzzle rather than a fully achieved, coherent piece.

Perhaps this all relates to the challenge of the fragmented times in which we live?

On The Buses

Since the car is with the Missus in Melaka for the weekend, I've been doing my Man of the People thing and using public transport. Since the bus and MRT systems in this Far Place are very good - comparable to the excellent public transport system that used to exist in the democratic socialist republic of Sheffield in the far-off seventies - this has been a generally pleasurable experience. I've journeyed to Serangoon Road and Marine Parade over the last two days and thoroughly enjoyed gazing out on various parts of the city and its suburbs in an unhurried, distinctly contemplative manner. (I decided not to take any books with me so I could focus entirely on the visuals.)

Mind you, I wouldn't go so far as to claim the experience wasn't without disturbance. It was slightly unnerving to realise I could no longer recognise areas with which I was once familiar, due to all the new building and changes of businesses. And the sheer size and forbidding anonymity of some of the grander structures was mildly intimidating if you allowed yourself to look long enough. Fortunately it was easy to look away and there was still enough to observe on a human scale to suggest the city has not yet turned itself into a set for the kind of dystopian movie Hollywood makes to convince itself it has some kind of conscience.

As a rule of thumb, the smaller and shabbier the structure, the more it appealed. I suppose this has something to do with scale. As RT observed in one of his greatest songs, A Heart Needs a Home - but not necessarily a big one.

All's Well

It rained today, rained ferociously, just as we started the Zuhor Prayer in the mosque. I must admit to being slightly distracted from the prayer as I contemplated how thoroughly wet I was likely to get after my last ten minutes inside, trying to cross the car park to drive away. I had an umbrella, true, but only a rather small and fragile one that Noi had passed to me before I set off to Prayers. It was not likely to be much help considering the power of the storm raging.

To my surprise and delight I managed to get to the car without getting thoroughly soaked and though the day continued wet I remained relatively dry for its duration. So all has been well on that front; and I've just heard from Noi who drove safely up to Melaka in the later part of the day through the same rain, which is cause for celebration in this little corner of a world that can be unforgiving, but today chose not to be, at least in our gratefully fortunate cases.

The Asocial Animal

It's the season for dinners in my line of work and I'll be attending one this evening. I'm okay with the idea, but given a choice I'd rather be home with the Missus. Not sure at what point in my life I started to actively not enjoy the company of lots of other folk, but I suppose I'm essentially made that way despite being something of a party animal in my years at university. (But then who wasn't?)

I always feel a very deep sympathy for those in the kind of public life in which making nice at formal dinners is obligatory. Must be miserable to be the Queen. Hah!

Some Good

I suppose it started with the Weinstein scandal, the veritable tsunami of news concerning the sexual harassment, and worse, of women (and sometimes men), especially by men in positions of power. I've seen it suggested that this might mark a tipping point and that such behaviour will become a thing of the past. I hope so, but, frankly, doubt so, at one and the same time.

It seems oddly naïve to suggest that we've suddenly discovered such behaviour is morally repugnant and, therefore, our collective disapproval will lead to its sudden demise. The suggestion that somehow the social mores of the 1970s and 1980s were lax enough to render such behaviour acceptable is nonsense. I remember those times well enough to know that what Weinstein got up would have been seen by the general populace at that time as being just as disgusting as it appears to right-minded people today. Similarly the argument that it was somehow more acceptable then for older men to prey on youngsters and sexually exploit them doesn't fit at all with the world I remember.

It seems to me that the difference between the eras lies in the fact that it so much easier now than it used to be to make such behaviour public, and thus bring down upon it the necessary condemnation. And there's obvious good in that.  But there's an equally obvious downside. Trial by Internet outrage is not likely to provide anything in the way of genuine justice. Some things do not change. Just as the capacity of our species, especially the male versions of it, to perpetrate horrendous levels of abuse on those seen as weaker is not likely to diminish any time soon, the need to achieve a version of justice through treating each case carefully on its merits and restraining any rush to judgment is crucial to any sense of achieving what is for the good.

Last Things

Alamak! I want to know what happens, cried the Missus just now, at the end of the latest episode of 6 X 7, a Malay drama on the Suria channel. The show has an unlikely premise: a youngish, upwardly mobile engineer loses his prestigious job and finds work as a cleanser of the dead in a funeral company. (6 X 7 is a reference to the size of a grave.) His fiancée deeply disapproves of his new work, due to its lack of prestige, but he finds meaning in it, creating major problems for their relationship.

This really shouldn't work, but it does. The scenes dealing with death are played with great tact and sensitivity, but have an inherent truthfulness which lends a curious gravitas to the generally comedic tone of the rest of the proceedings. The series has heart and charm, not a bad combination.

I also want to know what happens. But I'll need to wait to next Tuesday to find out.

Further Sloganising

Read this happily resonant slogan on a young chap's t-shirt today: Wonder is the beginning of wisdom. Struck me that it's possibly the end of wisdom also. Might look good on the back of the t-shirt?

Feeling Good

One of the happy discoveries I made about myself in my twenties (I suppose, rough guess) was that far from being someone of great depth, prone to a profundity of thought that resulted in an inevitable melancholia, I was remarkably superficial and capable of being cheered up to a point of straightforward cheerfulness by the entirely unremarkable. Thus, getting reasonable amounts of exercise and keeping reasonably fit turned out to be a sure-fire recipe for feeling good. Similarly, keeping things reasonably tidy and under control in my immediate environment pretty much ensured a sunny outlook on the world and its attendant madness.

Evidence of the fact that nothing much has changed for me in this regard is the fact that I find myself a distinctly thoughtlessly happy soldier today for having (a) cleared up most of the heavy stuff at my place in work this morning, in preparation for the big shift on the way, and (b) felt on top form in my statutory workout at the gym this evening.

There's a lot of talk in schools about developing character. But sometimes not having too much of it works wonders.

A Journey Worth Making

Ian Bostridge's Schubert's Winter Journey - Anatomy of an Obsession is perfect reading for preparing to listen to Schubert's masterpiece. I know this because prior to reading the book I had no idea of what Schubert was up to, beyond creating something that sounded pretty good. I'm now up to the fourteenth chapter, and the fourteenth song of the cycle, and I've finally got a fairly reasonable idea of what's going on, and, more importantly, I find myself loving every note. Not to mention the fact that I've learnt a whole lot I needed to know about German Romanticism - which has deepened enormously my grasp of the British version.

One other small point: it's a beautifully produced paperback in every way. A physical pleasure in itself. No wonder I've never bothered to get a Kindle.

Paperwork

I'm contemplating the intimidating prospect of having to pack all the stuff at my desk in the next week or so since our staffroom will be undergoing severe renovations over the next couple of months. (Hope they finish in time for the beginning of the new school year in January.) Now considering throwing out as much as possible of what has accumulated over the last eleven years. The funny thing is that I'm oddly reluctant to part with stuff in case it proves to be useful in future, and this despite the fact it wasn't particularly useful in the past.

I suppose there's part of me that would like to think there was some point to all the pointless paperwork even when I am very sure there wasn't.

I got to thinking earlier of Dickens's brilliant evocation of the endless heaps of legal documents associated with Chancery in Bleak House. I suspect the Great Inimitable was more than a little in love with the mania of it all as much as he despised the madness. I wonder if he was a hoarder himself?

With Friends Like These

Just finished A Moveable Feast. I'd forgotten the degree to which Hemingway did the dirty on Fitzgerald. The first time I read those chapters I suppose I fell for the poor doomed Scott & Zelda malarkey. Now the depth of Hem's treachery is painful to behold and difficult to assimilate.

I suppose there's a certain dark irony in the fact that it's so obvious he's projecting his own problems onto Fitzgerald. Strange he didn't see this himself. (Perhaps he did? The suicide wasn't so far off.) The sexual hang-ups are almost funny, but the inability of Hemingway to acknowledge his own alcoholism is just depressing. Just trying to calculate how much the two writers drank on the trip they made together that's the centrepiece of the first Fitzgerald segment gave me a headache.

Trust

I frequently warn classes never to trust what writers of imaginative literature tell us about themselves and their intentions. After all, making things up is what they do. Having said that, some are more obviously worthy of some degree of trust than others. It would be interesting to draw up a sort of league table.

At the bottom I would not hesitate to put Ernest Hemingway, and rereading A Moveable Feast, his sort of memoir of his time in Paris in the 1920s, is reminding me why. There's not a line in the book that doesn't sound suspiciously attitudinising. And it's all brilliant. The best thing by far Hem did in his considerable dotage, and I don't believe a word.