Transported

Spent a good 50 minutes or so earlier this evening in the USA, in Michigan, the Great Lake State, to be specific. Was taken there by Sufjan Stevens's wonderful album Greetings From Michigan, The Great Lake State. From the mordant opening piano chords of Flint (For the Unemployed and Underpaid) I was happily lost, taken out of myself, transported. And what a good thing that was, the Toad, work, having rendered me cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in to saucy to-do lists and all that stuff all of the live-long day. It's been a long time since I played these songs and I really don't know why that is.

The lovely cover for the CD helped me on my journey, by the way - lovingly naïve art work (originally hand-painted it says, and it looks it) from one Laura Normandin. Don't know who she is, but she's good.

Heating Up

It was a hot day here in Melaka yesterday. Fortunately the enervating heat didn't deter Noi and her many accomplices from ensuring the kenduri went well, with everyone more than amply provided for.

Having surfeited during the day, Hamzah and I took ourselves off in the late evening for a quiet cup of coffee at the White Coffee place near Cheng, where we found ourselves contemplating the futures of our different nations through, I think it would be fair to say, fairly jaundiced eyes. To be specific, Hamzah believes, as do a lot of folk in these parts, that Malaysia faces something of a watershed moment in the election due on 9 May. I suspect he doesn't really believe the nation will choose the path he thinks is best come the event, engendering a mild despair: We old men can just go fishing and drink teh tarik together, being the best he could think of as a remedy.

The most visible sign of election fever here manifests itself in the form of flags representing the various parties involved which have sprung up everywhere. These, by the way, are likely to be left behind as litter when it's all over, adding to the nation's ills. At least, that's Noi's prediction.

On my side, I think my recounting of the events that led to Brexit served to make Hamzah a little more cheerful about the likely election result. To realise that the March of Folly extends beyond one's own nation is oddly comforting. But contemplating the real possibility of something beyond temporary decline that stretches into outright catastrophe is unsettling, even over a friendly coffee. 

Family Time

Now happily, tiredly, in Melaka, in Rachid's apartment at Cheng Heights, to be precise. We're here for a family kenduri ahead of the fast-approaching fasting month (pun intended.) We arrived in the very early hours this morning, with the Missus heroically performing driving duties, having survived an epic jam at Tuas, and coped with a Friday of non-stop action on and off the road.

The best part of yesterday was the bit after waking up, captured below by the Missus, heroically performing camera duties:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beyond Tired

The year before I went to university there was a brief period when I was working seven days a week. I had a Monday to Friday job labouring in a factory, and I was still working the weekend job as an industrial cleaner that I'd been doing for a couple of years whilst doing 'A' levels. I think my seven day weeks lasted for a month and a half, and then I knew I had to stop. Even for a relatively fit teenager it was too much, a kind of tiredness you couldn't recover from.

I'm feeling a bit that way now, but nothing close to that extreme. There's an element of physical tiredness involved, but the mental variety I'm suffering from now doesn't have the devastating quality of true physical exhaustion.

Which leads me to wonder how those guys who work two jobs, the minimum wage crowd, often with families they're looking after, get through it all. Painfully I should think. Certainly with a deep, crowded, unforgiving weariness.

A Bright Spot

Outrageously busy day - which is still not over for me - with some consolatory bright spots. Difficult to select the best, but a photograph that arrived in the evening of my beautiful grand niece, Imogen, probably edged it.

Distractions

When I got to the gym earlier this evening there were two guys already there, using the treadmills adjacent to the trainer I use. Normally the place is deserted when I go there - a fact I tend to take for granted, but which is a reminder of how privileged I am to have the whole place to myself so often. Anyway, I duly got on with doing my thing just now, trying to find my usual rhythm despite the distraction of having other folk training quite close to me for once.

I realised quite quickly that the guys were doing some kind of interval training, and it was obviously serious stuff for them. They varied the speed of the treadmills, going from quite a gentle pace to a really high speed, and then coming back down again. Then they went and did some quite intense stuff with weights, involving real huffing and puffing, only to come back to the treadmills. Initially I found their stint on the treadmills a wee bit off-putting. Their variation of pace made it a bit difficult to get a firm fix on my own. But it wasn't that much of a problem and, somewhat to my surprise, I found myself a decent rhythm with some ease. I might add that all this was accompanied by the music they'd put on, which itself kept switching between various tempi.

They left the gym about five minutes before I finished my stint, and I found the silence refreshing - but I can't honestly say their presence there had bothered me. In a curious way it had helped me focus in the mild challenge it posed. In fact, I spent quite a few minutes as I exercised meditating on the value of distractions as offering the possibility of developing a conscious discipline related to focus. I don't exactly welcome obstacles, but they can be surprisingly useful.

Fame

Apropos yesterday's all too brief thoughts on not being desirous of a substantial readership, today I spent a couple of minutes contemplating the strange idea of fame and people's seeming desire for it. How strange! The thought of one's folly being apparent to one and all!

Messers Bowie & Lennon put it nicely: Fame, puts you there where things are hollow. And, of course, they knew more than a thing or two of what they were talking about.

A Certain Reluctance

We enjoyed a good old, wide-ranging confab with Duncan last night, before he boarded his flight back to blighty. His work involves a fair amount of on-line activity, and social media of one sort or another occupied some of our attention. Interestingly Duncan objects quite forcibly to pictures of himself or his family being posted on-line so none of the snaps of our encounter will feature here. I can see where he's coming from on this issue despite not sharing his reservations.

Similarly he showed an intuitive understanding of my reluctance to increase the readership of my on-line efforts (i.e., this blog.) It seems his wife, Jane, is writing a blog relating to educational issues and is understandably seeking to increase her readership and thinking of eventually publishing a book derived from her work. Confessing to being a blogger myself, I felt it was better to make clear that the notion of increasing my readership filled me with something beyond reluctance - more akin to a mild panic.

Funnily enough, I can't really explain this reluctance, but that doesn't make it any less real.

Catching Up

We're off to the airport soon to see off Duncan who's been over here for a week. Sadly we haven't been able to catch up with him until today. I've not been checking on my non-work email recently, as dealing with my work email is a full-time occupation, so I missed the one he sent just before he set out to let us know he was over again. And when we did get in touch it was very tricky finding any time at all to get together. So I'm grateful we've been able to manage this evening, late in the day, or the week, rather, as it is.

I suppose I'm moaning again about being busy, but it's just a dreary fact of life that underpins everything at this time of year.

Staying Alive

Managed to get out this evening for some live music - as performed by some of the young people I teach. More than worth the effort. Thought I might nod off, since I felt so tired, but came alive, brought round by the life in the music.

In A Crisis

The Missus had a bit of a problem today with a punctured tyre, but coped admirably. That was a good thing since when she rang me about it I was too busy to even answer the call. Of course, that's the way of things in the world of work as we've constructed it.

The worrying thing is, though, that it's easy to imagine facing a problem and not being able to cope since the world of work is so unforgiving. How did we manage to make it that way?

(I think I know the answer to that question. But I'm too tired to bother to explain it.)

More

Wouldn't it be great to have an extra two to three hours a day to get through an impossible workload? But how would I ever be able to overcome my weariness and not fall asleep in those extra hours, if the days were magically extended?

Pushing It

I was quite pleased with myself on Sunday afternoon after doing pretty well at the gym, getting back to my peak November numbers on the elliptical trainer. I had it in mind to get myself back there this evening, but by Sunday night I was aware of a distinct sense of tenderness in my lower back, enough to qualify as something close to pain. And on Monday morning it was obvious I'd suffered a bit of a strained muscle.

Time was I would have forced myself back into action as planned, since today the strain has eased. And time was, this would have been, most likely, perfectly okay. But now is the time to accept the fact that pushing it is no longer even close to wise.

Funnily enough, I'm quite pleased with myself for wisely doing nothing.

Speaking To Myself

Over the weekend Noi got understandably irate, as did a fair number of folk on this island, about a story that strongly suggested an attendant at a patrol station had been scammed in a particularly egregious manner by a customer driving quite a flash vehicle. She also showed me a story that had been run earlier on the Channel News Asia website concerning the trials of an elderly gentleman who needed to make a desperately small living doing the same job. At one time he'd had to pay the S$87 shortfall resulting from a customer saying he'd put the wrong grade of petrol in her vehicle.

It's difficult to comprehend that customers would treat obviously vulnerable attendants in this way, but the sad fact is that some do. I'm not sure there's much we can do to alter what seems to be something close to the innate cruelty of these people, but there's an extremely useful lesson in this for anyone who aspires to civilised, compassionate values, one that my wife taught me some years ago. When you feel stressed enough to get irritated at the security guard who's behaving very obtusely, or the attendant who's managing to get in your way rather than actually attend to you, take a deep breath, remember the details from the CNA story (and so many others like it) count your blessings (in the entirely clichéd, yet deeply appropriate manner you've been told so many times to adopt), and behave not just well, but with unusual kindness.

And if the above sounds untypically preachy for this Far Place, please note I'm talking primarily, if not exclusively, to myself.

Invigorated

Just got back from judging some of the abundant talent we have where I work. What is it about seeing others do something well, and so often extremely well, that is so life-enhancing? Definitely one of the perks of the job.

Falling Short

A few days ago I was bemoaning my lack of real progress in reading Leviathan. I perhaps should have mentioned then that the same complaint applied to my glacial progress through James Merrill's Collected Poems. I'm approaching the end of his 1966 collection Nights And Days and I'm not finding things are getting easier. Each poem is a challenge, one that usually renders some kind of satisfaction, minimally in terms of a number of striking phrases, but often rather more than that in grasping a reasonable sense of the intent of the whole. But I haven't yet read a single poem of which I've felt something absolutely fully achieved in my reading. After 206 pages that's a bit disappointing.

But there're another 662 pages to go, so chances are something will turn up.

Relieved

When I first started attending the mosque for Friday Prayers I saw having to do so as something of a burden, to be completely honest. I wasn't supposed to feel that way, but I did. Just getting away from work in the middle of the day, usually a busy one, was in itself a challenge, as was finding a place to park, making sure I behaved in the approved fashion upon arrival, and following the sequence of the prayers. It's embarrassing to confess it, but getting it all over with was accompanied by a very distinct sense of relief.

All that changed, in some ways quite rapidly. It didn't take long to find myself feeling a lot more relaxed inside whichever mosque I found myself attending. But I did continue to feel that the need to go for prayers was a sort of imposition. I suppose it took a year or two, possibly more, to completely shake off that feeling, but it eventually dissipated.

What I don't think I ever quite expected was the sense of relief I now experience at being able to attend Friday Prayers (and to pray in the masjid at other times.) I now find myself rather reluctant to leave, and distinctly irritated if I find I have to rush away to get back to urgent work stuff and thus miss the post-prayer sequence (which is not compulsory, in case you were wondering.) The feeling of somehow being, for once, in the right place at the right time, which becomes time out of time, is in some ways strange, in some ways deeply familiar.

Something To Look Forward To?

The Missus announced her intention to scrub my feet later tonight with some considerable relish just a couple of hours ago. I'm not sure of all the implications of this, but I think an uneasy mixture of pleasure and pain, or, at the least, comfort and discomfort, are likely to be involved. Not exactly sure I'm looking forward to this.

It's striking just how much emphasis a certain someone can put into her enunciation of the word scrub, by the by.

Not So Lazy

I suppose if one were looking for a model of creative productivity, the complete opposite of my own desultory laziness as a reader (and as a sort of very, very, very minor writer) one wouldn't need to look much further than the extraordinary Stephen King. It goes without saying that his literary output has been astonishing in its sustained excellence over so many years - or possibly it does need saying given his many detractors. Yes, much of his fiction is formulaic, but what a formula. And how rarely does it become tiresomely formulaic.

But he's also a prolific reader, as was made clear as early as Dance Macabre, his hugely enjoyable foray into writing about horror fiction as opposed to simply just writing it. I was reminded of this today when I came across an intriguing list of his ten favourite novels at the ever-excellent Open Culture. To my surprise not only had I not read, I'd not even heard of three of the books on the list. Which means my must-read-at-some-point-in-the-near-future list has just been extended to accommodate these since the horror-meister is rarely mistaken in his choices. (By the way, I have no intention of telling which three of the ten I'm referring to, Gentle Reader. I leave that for you to guess.)

Sheer Laziness

To say that I've been making little progress in my reading of late would be an understatement. It's take me a long time to finish Part 1 of Thomas Hobbes's Leviathan, yet that's not much more than a hundred or so pages. I suppose my being unforgivingly busy for most of this term is partly to blame, but the majority of blame should fall on the shoulders of this reader himself. It's not that I can't get going on the text; in many ways I find it fascinating. But Hobbes demands intelligent attention as he builds his argument, and I generally can only sustain those most necessary qualities for a couple of paragraphs at a time. The funny thing is that as I'm reading the paragraphs I find myself entirely engrossed, yet as soon as I've got the point in question I'm quite happy to put the book down.

For someone who regards himself as something of a reader I can be astonishingly lazy at times.

Losing Track

Just realised that I've contrived to get the anniversary of Mum's death wrong by a day for a few years now, thinking it was 9 April when it was a day earlier. Not sure how the miscalculation came about, but I don't think she'd mind. I figured out the error when I realised I'd completely lost track of how many years it had been since she left us. To be honest I was shocked to find it's six years. It doesn't feel anything like that long.

But that's true of all memories of the past, I suppose, especially those connected to those we love, or loved. (Both really.)

For a long time I wasn't really all that interested in photographs as a way of preserving the past since I didn't need them as a way of remembering people who'd gone before. Now I see their value, but that's not because I'm in danger of forgetting. Understandably people talk of memories fading - but they don't. If anything, my memories of Gertrude Connor (nee Wardle) have increased in intensity.

You might lose track, but you don't lose sight of the folks on the track.

Two Halves

Last night's Manchester derby was the archetypal game of two halves. At 2 - 0 down, with Sterling through with just the keeper to beat (twice!), I thought the Mighty Reds might be facing the ultimate in humiliation. Fortunately Act 2 saw the right team scoring 3 and all was well: the perfect end to pretty much the perfect day, in fact.

The sad thing is that there are no City fans at all amongst my colleagues to relentlessly taunt tomorrow. But, then, you can't have everything.

Acting Up

What is it about a theatrical experience that can take you to another place? Today my drama guys, and the most recent alumni from the team, put up our annual version of Rough Theatre. I'd watched all the pieces a number of times prior to performance and found them quietly, occasionally noisily, enjoyable. But played in front of a properly appreciative audience each item that comprised the whole suddenly manifested its share of lovely moments; and there were three or four quite unforgettable ones.

It's difficult to think of any drug that can take you higher than a sequence on stage that works to perfection.

 

 

Soggy In The Middle

Soggy in the middle, muttered the Missus early this morning as she trundled around the kitchen. For a moment I thought she might be making a wry, and probably accurate, comment on my poor self. But it turned out she was referring to a banana cake she had baked the night before.

She gave me two pieces to take to work, and I can tell you I was more than a little disappointed to find out that they were not both for myself. Not sure how Peter gets on the list for goodies, but he got one of them, commenting that being soggy in the middle might just be a fine thing when I shared Noi's reservations with him. Must say, I saw his point.

Anyway, my piece of cake was huge, delicious, and not at all soggy in the middle. If not the absolute highlight of the day, munching it with a cup of tea certainly got into the top three.

And isn't soggy a lovely word? - one of those that seems to enact itself even as you say it.

Oh Goodness!

Happened to watch part of a documentary today about a couple in Korea who have taken in a number of abandoned children, for the most part kids with disabilities, and given them a life. What is it about that kind of radical goodness that's so powerful, so disturbing? It sort of re-orders the world, not so much putting things in proportion, as tearing up the map and making you see the territory as it really is, or really can be.

Fully Packed

23.13
The day started for me at 05.55 and since that time I've managed precisely two 15-minute breaks from all out work. And it's not over yet. You can have too much of a bad good thing, you know!

Less Than Impressive

Got myself to the gym this evening, having sort of survived an epically busy day, and was fairly pleased with myself for doing so - up to the point I found myself staring at the elliptical trainer, realising that I had little to no idea how I was going to get through the next forty-five minutes. But get through them I did, though only just, and in deeply unimpressive fashion.

I'm sort of vaguely pleased with myself for making the effort; but I'm keenly aware that that pleasure may well be misplaced.

Some Things Don't Change

So what was the younger version of myself up to, back in 1969? Well, amongst other things, watching the distinctly uncool Top of the Pops on BBC1 and thinking that Peter Green playing Oh Well with Fleetwood Mac was one of the coolest things he'd ever heard or seen.

And almost fifty years later? Much the same. Only the channel has changed.

The March Of Folly

It was just a few days ago, after a workshop I attended on what's known as our Professional Learning Day, that I found myself contemplating Lear's great, sad, mad lines: When we are born we cry, that we are come / To this great stage of fools. Said contemplation followed upon an interesting digression as to whether an optimistic view of life was reasonable and something that should be 'taught' to students. I noted that this would be difficult to ask of any reasonable pessimist, but I don't think my objection was really understood. Meditating on a necessarily tragic view of life I retreated into Lear.

And today, on this Great Day of Folly, I find myself thinking on those lines again after playing Gentle Giant's magnificent live album capturing them at their most brilliant on the European tour in 1976 nicely entitled Playing the Fool. There's a neat irony in the title in that you'd be a fool not to recognise just how great they were, yet within three years they were finished as a musical force, swept away by the folly of changing fashions.