Idling

A little more than a week ago, back in our hotel room in Istanbul, I found myself reading an article in some on-line publication about the finales of various series on tv and how satisfying, or otherwise, these had been in the estimation of the author. The article was followed by a considerable number of comments and it was when I was some halfway through these that I found myself wondering exactly why I had embarked on reading them, or indeed the article, considering the fact I had watched none of the series under discussion. Not any of them. Not even a single episode - though I had caught odd moments of Game of Thrones.

I suppose reading the comments was a way of passing the time, and it was vaguely interesting to register the genuine enthusiasm of other readers for quite a number of these programmes. But I'm pretty sure I won't be seeking to find time to actually watch any the series in question since I know I have what I consider better things to do with my time.

But there's the rub. Why on earth did one of those better things consist of reading this article? Perhaps this points to the need to adopt a resolution for the year ahead regarding the need to spend limited time effectively? The thing is though that it's daunting to think of trying to maintain some kind of purposeful focus of attention all of the time. The need to goof-off seems deeply written into my DNA.

Way To Go

13.05
We're off to Melaka later today to see how Mak is. There's little in the way of standing still for us, that's for sure!

23.16
The way north was generally clear, making for a relaxed drive - so relaxed that I found myself almost dozing at the wheel by the time we reached Machap. Fortunately Noi was awake enough to take on driving duties from that point onwards, and I then slept nearly all through the rest of the journey. It's nice to catch up on sleep but I have a feeling I'm over-doing it!

Familiar Feelings

A day of meetings - either the final meetings of the year that's almost gone by, or the first meetings of the year ahead, depending on which way you look at it. Lots of the usual, which is comforting in its way, though daunting in its implications.

Managed to listen all the way through, despite feeling mildly jet-lagged. Though I must confess, I wasn't on top form in terms of alertness at Friday Prayers. Somewhat surprised I'm still functioning this late in the evening - but will undoubtedly happily crash in the next 30 minutes.

Not So Welcome

Now back in the warmth of our usual Far Place after a couple of smooth flights. Ironically our final morning in Istanbul saw the weather there at its finest for our visit. It certainly brought out the crowds around the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofya.

As is usually the case, the bracing cold weather we generally experienced on our jaunt has resulted in my skin drying out which, in its turn, means that biometric devices designed to identify my thumbprints and other digital insignia, no longer work. I am no longer who I was according to the biometric system at the Airport Immigration desks and the system in Hall which allows me access to my place of residence. This is funny and irritating, as is so much of modern life, I suppose.

They say that travel broadens the mind, but one rarely hears it claimed that it can change one's identity.

Lost And Found

For some twenty minutes yesterday I was racking my brains to think of where I might have seen a shoe shop around the Misir Carsisi, (also known as the Spice Bazaar, or Egyptian Market.) I couldn't think of any off-hand, and faced the prospect of wandering shoeless for an hour or two, haplessly treading freezing pavements. My temporary lack of footwear resulted from my popping into the Yeni Cami - the New Mosque, which is only 400 years old - for the Zuhor Prayer. I'd prayed there a couple of days earlier without any problem and took it for granted that my shoes would be waiting for me on the rack at the back as previously. They weren't.

After searching in vain for a good fifteen minutes I walked shoeless to where Rozanah & Fafa were waiting for us in the outside courtyard and reported my shoes as stolen. Actually that was a bit over-the-top as it was more likely someone had taken them by mistake. Since Noi was still in the mosque praying, the women's section being very crowded, I went back to see if she could help me find the missing footwear. She was coming down the steps as I went back, so in we went together and, with almost disorienting speed, we found the shoes. They'd been moved a considerable difference and the bag I'd left them in had been securely tied by someone. I know this because I'd not bothered to tie the plastic bag when I placed my shoes on the rack. In fact, when I initially picked up the bag I assumed the shoes couldn't be mine precisely since they were tied-up so well. Far from my footwear being half-inched, someone had gone to some trouble to make sure the shoes wouldn't be separated. I spent the rest of the afternoon feeling deeply grateful to be able to walk in my own shoes, enjoying the sunny-cold day.

In the evening we prayed in Sultan Ahmet Camii, the Blue Mosque, and I was oddly content to leave my shoes at the back.

Reading Time

Our days in Turkey have been uniformly packed, so I haven't got much reading done at all. Not that I expected to. I only brought two books along, one of these being Philosophy of Mind, which I thought I might just dip into, with a view to confirming my understanding of what I'd already covered rather than making any progress in. In the event I've only gone back to a couple of Prof Feser's explications of ideas related to the identity of the mind and brain and those were quite enough for an overseas getaway, thank you.

The other book is Volume 1 in the Penguin edition of Malory's Le Morte D'Arthur. I've encountered so much enthusiasm in odd places for Malory's work over the years that I thought I really should fill in my knowledge of this branch of Eng Lit. Wishing I hadn't now. Have decided some way into Book 4 of TM's recounting of all things Arthurian that this really isn't for me - but I've started, so I'll finish. More of this, unfortunately, later.

Happier reading by far has been the NYRB from early December which I've read cover to cover. Fruitfully depressing articles on a wide range of troubling political developments ranging from Putin's homophobic Russia to the rise of the alt-right in the US of A and Germany. Funnily enough the most hopeful piece was on Somalia, specifically improvements in the capital, Mogadishu.

By the way, I need to correct a reference to a post from a few days back when I talked of Istanbul having only a few bookshops. I now realise that there's quite a healthy number, especially in the backstreets of Beyoglu. I've even seen someone reading a book on one of the trams.

Blowing Hot And Cold

From our hotel in Istanbul we get an excellent view of the Bosphorus when we're in the top floor dining room, tucking into breakfast. Yesterday morning, for the first time on our trip, the sun was shining brightly, indeed blindingly, across the water, suggesting a warm day was in store. After the biting cold we've experienced so far in Turkey this would have been a welcome change. But, alas, it was not to be.

As Fafa pithily explained as we approached the Hippodrome, My body is confused. It looks like it should be warm, but it's really, really cold. Yes, exactly that. If you managed to stand in a patch of sunshine for a while you could detect some warmth, but otherwise the cold was unrelenting - definitely cold enough to snow, I reckon.

But since this is Christmas I suppose we can consider our not entirely unpleasant ordeal satisfyingly seasonal - so Merry Christmas to all who keep the season. Hope you're all warmer than we are.

Postscript: Later in the day we found our White Christmas in sunny but chilly Bursa, on the slopes of Uludag. Evidence below. Brrrrrrrrr.

 

 

A Place Of Wonder

Yesterday afternoon we found ourselves in Masumiyet Muzesi, The Museum of Innocence, based on Orhan Pamuk's great novel. But 'based on' is surely the wrong term. I'm still trying to process the relationship between the novel and the actual place. They seem to be symbiotic extensions of each other in an extraordinarily beguiling manner.

Everything about the experience was thought-provokingly magical. I need  to come back to this when I've had time to think - and isn't it wonderful in itself that a museum can do that to you?

Safe And Sound

When the owner of the hotel at Goreme told us on Thursday evening that we'd be quite safe walking into the town to view the sunset, I was slightly taken aback as it had never occurred to me for a moment that we would not be safe. Curiously, later that same evening a couple of young ladies appeared at the hotel reception whilst we were waiting for transport to take us to our 'Turkish Evening' asking with some real concern as to whether they'd be safe to walk down to the near-by restaurants (though, obviously, ladies' concerns about safety can be much more real than those of gentlemen.) Again, I was a wee bit disconcerted about the idea that it was wise to be extra wary in this region of Turkey - or, possibly, Turkey in general.

In fact, when we walked into the town very early on Friday morning, before sunrise, we were happily surprised to see that most of the vendors had left their goods out quite openly. It seems they had no fear at all of things being stolen. Difficult to imagine doing this in London, or Manchester, or Singapore for that matter. This would seem to be a sign of an essentially safe place.

I have been more than usually cautious about the location of my wallet whilst in Istanbul, especially at the Grand Bazaar, however. There are so many warnings about the threat of pick-pockets that this is obviously sensible. But here's the odd thing. When we were queuing for tickets into the Topkapi Palace a few days ago I idiotically managed to leave my credit card in the machine that dispensed the tickets. We'd walked a good way from the machine when a guy who'd been hanging around the machines helping people- (to be honest I'd wondered if he was some sort of tout, but he wasn't) came running up to return the card. I can tell you, my relief - and gratitude - was considerable.

I'm not naïve about very real concerns about safety when visiting foreign climes, or even when happily at home, but it's useful to be aware of how often the better angels of our nature rear their heads and help protect us against our folly.

At The Moment

Now in Cappadocia. Staying in a cave hotel and savouring a new environment. Less humanly monumental than the big stuff in Istanbul, but redolent with nature's power.

We're doing the tourism thing here, with the guide and everything. Yesterday's dinner featured local dancers and musicians. Tailored to the tourist audience, but colourful and fun and exuberant. A different kind of beauty. It began, all too briefly, with four whirling dervishes doing their sufi stuff. Just a thinned-out taste of the real thing but still hypnotic and jarringly serious in an interesting way. Mak Ndak told Fafa to take pictures but she rightly replied she was content to be in the moment.

Mixed Feelings

There are lots of police/soldiers around, some of them very obviously armed. This manages to be both reassuring and intimidating at one and the same time.

Pleased to see that Joyce's Ulysses was one of the books in English available at one of the few bookstores I've seen in Istanbul. Puzzled, though, that it was placed next to two copies of Fifty Shades of Grey.

Enjoying wandering around monumental spots like the Topkapi Palace. Wondering about the human cost of the beauty the Ottomans managed to create.

Different Places

Walking down the main street off Taksim Square last night felt uncannily like walking in central Manchester. The same dreary drizzle, the same sneakingly insidious cold. Even the buildings looked the same. Different kind of music from the buskers, though. Their stirring performances garnered more audience participation. Prefer the music - and food - here.

One significant difference between the cities, though. We haven't seen any rough sleepers over here and there seem to be hardly any beggars. Hope this is because the less fortunate are genuinely taken of and not because the authorities find ways to hide them.

Three Impressions

If the Turkish government has been running any anti-smoking campaigns then they have been spectacularly unsuccessful. All the men in Istanbul smoke, or seem to, and, to our naïve surprise, quite a number of the women. It's unusual to see women serving in the shops here, by the way, smoking or otherwise, though the ladies seem possessed of a generally forceful mien.

There are more cats than dogs around, a lot more. The cats are uniformly well fed and look like they could handle themselves in a scrap.

It's useful to know which side of a tram the doors will open as it reaches your station as you are by no means guaranteed being able to alight against the surge of those coming aboard. Especially the elderly ladies, whose fierce determination to go in their determined directions brooks no opposition.

In-flight Entertainment

It's often the case that the only films I watch from start to finish are those I encounter when flying to foreign climes. I can't remember having watched a full movie this year so far, so it could be that my viewing of It yesterday comprises my complete experience of fully viewed films for 2017. If so, it was an entirely happy one.

It's been quite a few years now since I read Stephen King's novel. I thought of it as very,very good King, though a bit too formulaic to be put into the absolute top draw with The Shining. I also thought of it as essentially unfilmable due to its length and sheer complexity. I suppose this is why I never bothered to watch the original film some years back. Since I've managed to forget most of the details of the book I'm now quite open to a take on it which plays fast and loose with even key details. I suspect that's what I saw yesterday. For example, the 'lair' of the monstrous clown in the film is a very obviously run-down Kingian house, the archetypal bad place. I don't recall such a location in the novel. I seem to recall the climactic scenes taking place in some kind of big drain. And, thankfully, there's no attempt in the movie to show what actually happens between Beverly and the boys in the novel that cements the bonding of the group. Also the movie as it stands focuses solely on the story of Bill and his gang as children with no attempt to suggest their adult selves, except the brief reference to the film being just Chapter 1 at the very end.

This way of telling the story worked extremely well. The film certainly captures the atmosphere of the novel and is skilfully paced - possibly the reason why I was able to watch it without feeling inclined to switch off and catch up with the full story later. Also I must say how good the performances of the kids were, and what a relief it was to watch something where there wasn't the distraction of star performers (well, not anyone I could recognise, that is.) Not sure if Chapter 2 comes out that it will recapture the charm of this version of the tale.

Struggling

We’re happily ensconced in our hotel in Istanbul, but I’ve been dealing with significant issues regarding getting on-line. In the light of this I'm not sure that I’ll be recording too many of our adventures in this fabled city, but I’ll certainly be enjoying said adventures, even if none too thoroughly setting them down. 

It’s wet here at the moment in the kind of melancholic manner of which I’m sure the city’s greatest chronicler, Mr Pamuk, would approve. And it’s still Sunday in this new far place, despite suggestions to the contrary in the dateline above.

Keeping Moving

Forgot to mention yesterday in my splendid moan about credit cards and customer service (a sort of extended oxymoron, I suppose) that I was attempting to ensure that our credit cards will do what they are supposed to do whilst we are in Istanbul, whence we are off for the next twelve days or so. We're setting off in the very early hours of tomorrow morning, which means we've got most of today for packing and final preparations (of which there are, inevitably, many.) The next part of our mission involves a trip to the money-changer to get hold of some Turkish lira, a currency with which I am entirely unfamiliar.

I'm hoping I'll be able to make time for a trip to the gym this afternoon on top of everything else. I'm ambitious that way. I want to be fit enough to sail the streets of Byzantium with reasonable ease.

The Good Fight

Once upon a time I could travel overseas using credit cards to pay for the necessary, and often the unnecessary, with ease. Nowadays I need to 'enable' the cards so that they will work for the period I am abroad. I'm told this is to 'protect' me, though I'd never had any problem in the past I needed protecting from. The company who issue my cards (I haven't many, and there's just one company) tell me it's easy to 'enable' my cards just by sending a message. It isn't. I followed the difficult-to-find instructions on what to put in the message with absolute exactitude and, as far as I could tell, the odd replies I received suggested the cards were not 'enabled'. 

As a result I had to spend a good thirty minutes trying to beat the customer service system, which is designed to unload masses of information and instructions irrelevant to one's needs, and find a way of actually talking to a human being to help me sort things out. The actual human being to whom I talked was very helpful and got the system to work, finally, but could give no explanation of why the easy-to-use system failed - and failed miserably.

Despite wasting a good hour of my life I feel oddly triumphant, which strongly suggests that I'm just as mad as the world of customer service.

Out Loud

My main reading of the moment is Derek Walcott's Collected Poems 1948 - 1984. It's a volume I know well, having acquired it a few years ago, but I've never read it cover to cover. When I put his epic Omeros to one side a few weeks ago I had it in mind to drown in the bigger sea of his work, and that's what I'm doing.
 
I've just finished the very substantial (some 4000 lines) autobiographical poem Another Life, from 1973 which comes mid-way in the tome. This is a sort of precursor in its way to the highly personal Omeros and I thought it would be quite a straightforward read. It turned out to be very difficult for me to really make a start on it. In fact, my reading stalled for a couple of weeks. The solution came from sitting down at the table and actually reading it out loud, almost as if to a class. In that way I was forced to barge my way through the bits I didn't really get, picking up enough along the way to still enjoy the poem. It struck me that the pace at which I read aloud - quite measured, as if in public performance - is the right pace for me to mentally assimilate what I need to in order to feel I've actually read the poem - if you see what I mean. I seem to analyse as I go along, but not to the extent of getting bogged down. I suspect that if I were to backtrack and start again, a second reading would be far more fruitful (which is what happened to me with Omeros) but the first reading proved fruitful enough for me to feel I had done some justice to Walcott's work.

I'm thinking of applying the notion of the cover to cover reading to a number of my 'Collecteds', and possibly in the out loud mode (assuming the Missus can stand it, or I can find somewhere private enough for it to work.) So far the poetry I've read in this fashion has tended to be in shorter books or quite brief collections, but the idea has worked well with the Walcott. I feel I've picked up a stronger sense of his development as a writer through doing things this way - which is only logical, when you think about it.

The Christmas Spirit, Again

It was round about this time last year that I discovered the joys of Dylan's Christmas album, the wonderfully accurately titled Christmas in the Heart. I'd heard about the release of the album, back in 2009, and wondered about getting hold of it then, but the generally poor reviews put me off. Silly me! I played it twice last year, the first time on the way down to Honey Street in Devon, and then in Kate and Rob's old house itself, in the kitchen, before the rest of the household awoke. As I reported then, it seemed to me the perfect Christmas album, strangely bringing back for me a visceral sense of Christmas Past and its particular joys.

I gave it another spin today and was swept away. I never thought I would ache with such nostalgia for the season, but the memories came flooding back from the first strains of Here Comes Santa Claus. And, funnily enough, nostalgia for our Devon sojourn was in the mix somewhere.

This is all deeply strange. Although I know most of the songs on the album, the carols most obviously, Dylan's Christmas is an entirely American one, it seems to me, situated some time in the late 1940s. I can't quite work out how this becomes a Manchester Christmas of the 1960s, though I suppose America is what we got on the telly. (For some reason I keep thinking of Andy Williams.) Indeed, the songs that now are regarded as Christmas songs in the UK, generally having their origins in the 1970s, uniformly depress me.

One aspect of the magic is Dylan's voice. It's almost completely raddled and works in complete contrast to the breezily cute, very white harmonies of the backing singers, the painfully lovely strings, (not credited for some reason) and the lush yet spare precision of the band. But he really means what he's singing in an entirely, goofily manner. You sort of want to laugh, and frequently smile, but the tenderness sucks you in. How sad it must be not to enjoy this.

Dampened Enthusiasm

Found myself at Holland Village this afternoon, supping a leisurely chai latte and not doing much of anything, and doing it very well I might add. The Missus has popped over to Melaka for a few days to help look after Mak but I've got some duties to attend to over here so we were unable to pop together. Sad, but it allows me time to play what Noi terms 'loud music' (not really sure what she means by this) and to have a walk to HV and back, which she's understandably reluctant to do whilst wearing the hijab.

Today's walk to the village was easily accomplished given the coolish weather. It had rained earlier in the afternoon and the world felt suitably washed and in order. However, whilst I was sitting with my drink in splendid idleness the rain resumed in a distinctly established manner, much to my chagrin. I really, really wanted to walk back and shake out the accumulated knottiness of recent days and here was the universe denying me. Having released my inner infant in a bout of petulant longing I realised that endeavouring to make the return journey on foot was a possibility. It was raining but not pouring and only the other evening I'd been chatting with Fuad about just how much ground you can cover under cover (as it were) in the city and environs now there are so many pedestrian walkways.

So I decided to endeavour and stepped out accordingly. Let me tell you, Gentle Reader, it is quite amazing just how much of the walk from Holland Village to Dover Road can be accomplished with excellent protection from the rain. Unfortunately, for the final stretch of the journey, after Rochester Mall, around Anglo-Chinese Junior College, the cover effectively disappears, apart from a few benign trees. Ironically this is probably the prettiest part of the way back. On a wet afternoon, however, it is wet in the wettest sense of the word.

In summary, I arrived home happily exercised and somewhat unhappily wet, having learnt that when the universe wants its own way there's precious little you can do about it. I was able to cheer myself up though remembering just how thoroughly miserably cold and wet we managed to get in Edinburgh this time last year. In comparison this Far Place offers a distinctly comfortably warm version of wetness, a sort of easy dampness.

Easy Listening

How much live Crimson is enough? I've successfully resisted buying the mega-box sets. So far. But listening to the magnificent King Crimson: Live In Chicago I'm beginning to wonder whether there isn't a case to be made for getting everything possible. It's the way the repertoire is constantly being rethought, clearly in the excitement of actual performance, that makes Crimson essentially a live unit, whatever the particular formation being listened to. So for anyone, like myself, reasonably familiar with the repertoire the live stuff is constantly surprising, revelatory, rewarding.

Now listening to the reworking of Indiscipline, with Jakko outrageously singing the spoken segment, wonderfully not knowing what's coming next on a piece that's always been a fave. I do think it's good!

Listening Hard

I recently acquired a 10 CD set of the Beethoven piano sonatas as performed by Daniel Barenboim. I did wonder about the degree of foolhardiness involved in acquiring so much at one go, but since I've found myself listening very regularly to the 5 CD set of the Mozart piano sonatas I got hold of some two years ago, I thought it made sense to go in this expansive direction in broadening my musical education.

I've heard the most famous of the Beethoven sonatas before, having owned a few on cheap cassette tapes, so the material isn't exactly new to me. But having played the first half of the set I've found myself slightly shocked at just how demanding old Ludwig is in comparison to Wolfgang Amadeus. It's possible to bang on the Mozart and just enjoy the sound for the sound, if you know what I mean. It's basically beautiful in what seems an uncomplicated kind of way (though 'seems' is the operative word here.) With the Beethoven you're left in no doubt that whilst enjoyment is one of the responses available to the listener there are numerous others, and the composer is going to rip those responses out of you, come what may, assuming you're prepared to listen.

So I'm afraid I'd better get prepared to listen to get my money's worth. (Isn't it extraordinary, by the way, just how much the highest of high culture is available to us for so little?)

Thinking Hard

Avoiding any kind of really difficult thinking is, as we all know, very easy in the times in which we live. So much of what the world offers seems designed to prevent any kind of deeply considered thought that there's a distinct whiff of the conspiratorial about it. But, to balance that rather paranoid notion there are also paths to follow which allow engagement with the kind of thought that requires muscular flexing of the grey matter. (Ridiculous image, but how does one convey what it's like to struggle with ideas in a strenuous fashion?)

I've deliberately been trying to expose myself to this kind of thinking in recent years, to supplement the generally enjoyably self-indulgent way I foster the life of the mind. In the last few weeks such exposure has involved rereading Prof Feser's Philosophy of Mind: A Short Introduction in an attempt to grasp with reasonable clarity the totality of the field. I've now covered the first four chapters, generally grasping the ideas, though I'll need to go over Chapter 4, on Qualia, at least once more to ensure I've finally understood the point of the philosophical zombies argument. 

An odd but useful coincidence has been the fact that the issue of Philosophy Now I'm reading, the one for August/September - which has taken me ages to get round to - has several articles related to questions of consciousness. The ones dealing with panpsychism I found particularly interesting. I can see the appeal of the concept, goofy as it initially sounds, but am also keenly aware of the need to give it a good deal more thought, hard thought, than I have at present.

The one article in the issue that proved beyond me was the one dealing with quantum theory: Does Consciousness Cause Quantum Collapse? I followed the first three-quarters but the last few paragraphs proved too knotty. I suppose that given my commitment to the notion of thinking hard I should persist in trying to crack the piece, but sometimes the lurking suspicion that the knottiness might be the result of muddled thinking at the writer's end undercuts even the most determined frame of mind.

On Their Way, Again

We were back at Changi Airport this afternoon, this time at the highly impressive Terminal 3 which found itself filled with groups - I counted at least four separate ones - setting off for the Umrah. Today we were there to see off Osman and Rohana.

Osman continues his fight against cancer, and we're all hoping, and praying, that the restoring power of the pilgrimage will help in the battle. He looked typically cheerful, so the send-off was a positive one. Just hoping that he's able to keep clear of any infection from the crowds he'll encounter in Madinah & Makkah.

They've just heard that MUIS have confirmed that they'll be able to complete the Hajj in 2018, so more positive news there.

On Their Way

Went to Changi Airport early in the morning to wish Yati & Nahar well as they set off for the Umrah. Tried to tell them something useful from our experience to help them on their way, but realised how difficult it is to communicate anything of the lived reality without resorting to clichés. No doubt they'll be finding out what they need to know for themselves even as I write.

How strange any pilgrimage is. Intensely private yet entirely communal.

A Lack Of Balance

Found myself thinking about food today - not so much in terms of obsessing about what I wanted to eat, but with regard to our collective relationship with the stuff. My thoughts were partly prompted by having read somewhere that the rate of obesity in the US is now around 40% for the adult population. This struck me as both horrifying yet entirely plausible at one and the same time. I'm not even sure that this is the highest rate among nations at this time, though I'm assuming it must be in the top three. I'm also assuming that where the US leads the rest of the world is likely to follow. Hope I'm wrong about this.

Then as we began to eat dinner just now, Sky News ran an item on food wastage in the UK. I can't remember the numbers, I just know that the wastage per household was staggering. This was partly related to the labelling of food and the misunderstanding of 'best-eaten by' dates so there was some kind of logic involved, but I strongly suspected that attributing the problem to that single cause was misguided. Noi and I watched in fascination the other day as a pair of well-healed ladies in Malaysia left behind almost the entirety of two dishes they'd ordered in a restaurant. It was painful to see the perfectly good food being thrown into the waste as the table was cleared. This little anecdote doesn't in any way explain the wastage on a national scale but it says something about perfectly ordinary behaviour I think most of us are very familiar with.

We make the oddest assumptions about being balanced as individuals but the crazy imbalances in the way our species deals with food should help us see a deep truth about ourselves. We are fundamentally distorted in the fundamentals of our being in any number of ways. Balance is something to seek, and seek desperately.

Some Comfort

Now back in our usual Far Place. Went to my back doctor this afternoon, not because of the aches and pains of the last two days, but for a purely routine appointment. To my surprise he gave the workings of my spine and lower back a completely clean bill of health, saying the movement was free and flexible. The odd thing was that I felt myself recovering from the aches and pains of the weekend even before the drive back here, and the drive itself proved almost entirely comfortable.

I decided, perhaps in somewhat foolhardy fashion, to get myself back to the gym this evening and, as far as I can tell, the workout has furthered the process of recovery - though I'll know more about this tomorrow. It's oddly fascinating to have to deal with an intimate part of the self that one hardly knows in any real sense at all.

Not So Comfortable

I've been following my usual routine in Melaka, not doing much of anything at all. This has been made even easier to follow by the fact that my back is aching with a small but righteous fury. Not sure why. I suppose I put it down to changing beds, the one here being comfortable but a bit too soft to provide real support. We'll be on the road later, which is a bit challenging given the circumstances, but I've felt a lot worse in the past and managed to cope.

Actually coping with the ordinary business of life becomes an interesting challenge when your body is distinctly less than interested in helping you do so.

Much The Same

Now in Melaka with time on my hands. For reasons I'm not sure of I've wasting some of that valuable commodity by idling browsing stuff that's in the news. In the old days reading the newspaper generally like a fruitful activity but jumping capriciously from headline to headline, as I seem to do when reading stuff on-line, often feels unsatisfying, as it did today.

Or is that I've read so much news over a lifetime that none of it seems new anymore?

One thing I find utterly baffling: why do so many people want to waste so much energy getting embroiled in the commentary that follows some stories?

Happy Days

 

 

 

 

Our time here in Maison KL is up, for this year at least. Happily all seems to be in order as we prepare to move south.

And to add to the general store of happiness we got to celebrate another milestone (with a nifty bit of recycling from 2007.) Hoping for the great good fortune of plenty more happy milestones to pass, insya'allah.

Down In The Valley Below

 

 

 

 

 

 

Richly sunny day here. A good time to enjoy the view.