The Test Of Time

Recently I've found myself listening to various bands doing covers of Genesis, Pink Floyd and the like - and very good they are too. I suppose it must be reasonably lucrative to do shows recreating the glory days of the 70s & 80s. At least I hope it is; talented musicians deserve all they can get.

Today I found myself very much enjoying The Steely Damned 2, who obviously specialise in reproducing the sounds of the mighty Dan. They make it sound easy on their rocking, swinging version of My Old School, which since it isn't easy at all takes some doing. I'd definitely pay to see these guys live (assuming they come to this Far Place, which they won't.)

But quite apart from enjoying the nostalgia quotient of this particular school of popular music (if that's what it is) it does make me wonder what will survive of the music of my misspent youth. It was obvious to me at the time of its release that much of what I listened to deserved to survive the test and vicissitudes of time. And now it seems that might be happening, but not quite as I might have expected.

More Than A Bit Ridiculous

The good people at the Giant Supermarket chain have earned the ire of The Missus by playing Hari Raya songs before the fasting month has even started. (Next Monday, if you're wondering.) I've always thought the celebration was reasonably well-protected from over-commercialisation being predicated upon a season of deprivation. Looks like I was wrong. Nothing is safe from the gods of Capitalism.

A Question Of Attention

Went to Holland Village this afternoon for my Birthday Cup of Tea and managed to pick up a copy of the very handsome Mekong Review at the magazine shop on the corner. This is the May - July edition, which means I missed the previous edition early in the year, but no matter. It's been a long, long time since I've felt obliged to read any publication on a regular basis and that isn't about to change.

But something has definitely changed in my life over the last two years in relation to my reading habits. I realised with quite a jolt the other day that I've still not finished reading the first NYRB I bought in 2019. Yes, I'm still only about halfway through the January edition. When I bought it I thought I'd have it read in a couple of weeks, not least because I immediately zoomed through five articles that caught my eye. So what happened? As far as I can tell it's my smart phone that's pulling me away from my usual reading, not into the world of social media, a world in which I have zero interest, (I'd hardly describe this poor blog as 'social' in any real sense, by the way, in case you were wondering) but into the world of the sort of thing I usually read except I'm not reading it in the usual way.

Whatever I read on the phone, or my laptop, doesn't seem to entirely engage me somehow. I find myself skimming most articles and rarely reread anything. A kind of depth is missing. I'm treading the shallows. That which deserves attention, sometimes demands it, isn't getting it from me, I'm afraid.

Knocking On

 

 

 

 

 

Celebrated the crossing of yet another bar in time-honoured fashion today with the ritual opening of cards & presents, a visit from Fuad & Rozita and tiny friend (above) and a delicious bit of cake. Enough to make any day complete, especially this one.

At Ease

Around 5.00 pm I realised suddenly just how tired I felt, which was very tired indeed. Couldn't quite figure out if the tiredness was the satisfying sort that brings with it a sense of fulfilment, or the unsettling sort that speaks of unresolved frayed edges. A bit of both, I suspect.

Fortunately I've enjoyed the privilege of an evening of rest, so I really shouldn't complain. Even though I am doing.

A Little Bit Lost

Never quite got the hang of today. The day never went entirely out of tune, but there were odd discords here and there and a few wrong notes. Never fully harmonised.
 But had a nice cup of tea and some kaya toast with Noi in the afternoon and got to the gym in the evening. So all was not lost, even if nothing was really found.

Wise Words

I have a few regular ports of call on the great sea of the WWW, and On An Overgrown Path is prominent among them. The well-chosen words therein shed some light on a dark Easter Sunday.

Meaning It

Got back home to find Noi was not around and thought it might be a good idea to give Fripp & Eno's The Equatorial Stars a spin in her absence. And it was a very good idea indeed.

How is it that music so essentially improvisatory in its origins can sound so entirely inevitable, so completely meant?

True Grit

Our month of fasting begins two weeks from today. I'm thinking of the challenge to come with the usual mixture of anticipation and trepidation. Lots of the latter this year since the month neatly coincides with the busiest time of my working year.

It was particularly hot last Friday. Walking to the Sungai Petai Mosque, exposed to the sun, was a reminder of how important the climate can be to one's experience of fasting. But I'm incredibly lucky to be able to take shelter from the elements, even at my busiest. Chatting with Fuad about the upcoming Ramadhan we both noted that if it proves as hot as it was in Alor Gajah over the weekend we'd probably struggle. Then my brother-in-law reminded me of the workers he encounters on building sites he's monitoring and how they sustain the fast no matter what, in the most extreme conditions, at the limit of endurance.

These are not guys you hear of getting picked out for their strength of character. But, my goodness, they should be.

A Lonely Place

It's a cliché to talk of how comfortable Ms Christie's murders are. Even when the envelope is being pushed a little, as with Hastings absolutely being prepared to do away with someone in cold blood (to protect his daughter, of course) the reader doesn't have any sense of the solid ground of good old social reality trembling over much. (After all, the blighter in question would have deserved it had it taken place which it assuredly didn't.)

We need that sort of comfort in our reading occasionally - at least I do. But even as I'm being comforted by things nicely as they are, or should be, I detect a faint longing to be reminded of things disturbingly as they could be, and perhaps are, when the blinkers are off.

That's what Sylvia Plath has to offer, and in her final poems (end of 1962, beginning of 1963), which I'm currently staggering through, I find myself with some reluctance joining her, at moments, in that place in which the very act of existence is one of extreme discomfort. Is this how things really are? Not for me, I'm thankful to say, but for SP the reader recognises a breakthrough into chilling, uncompromising, absolute truth.

The Queen Of Crime

As a little lad I always thought that Agatha Christie must be up there in the very top rank of writers. My mother and sister read her with a passion and I can remember reading a battered paperback of Lord Edgware Dies that had seemed to hang around the house for ages (and very unusually so since we just didn't have books, other than those from the library, in the house) feeling very grown up to do so. And very frustrated that I couldn't work out whodunnit, not quite realising that that was the whole point of the exercise.

Over the years I came to read a few of her books, but my main exposure to the oeuvre has been through movies and tv series, which seems to me to be appropriate in this case. It's been a long time since I read an actual novel and I was thinking I'd correct the omission, and perhaps reassess her qualities as a writer when I came across a cheapo cheapo second hand copy of Curtain: Poirot's Last Case the other day at Bras Basah. Today was a golden opportunity to read what seems to me a thoroughly entertaining, professional performance, with more wit than I expected or remembered - but little else. Very theatrical - most appropriately so, given the title. It's easy to see why she translates so well to the stage and screen.

So not there in the top rank by a long, long way. But distinctly in a league of her own. Not a bad place to be.

Assessing The Damage

I've come to realise the extent to which the performance of the solat, the five-times-a-day ritual Islamic prayer, quite apart from anything else acts as a sort of barometer of physical well-being. It is in part a physical act, and a mildly demanding one, and being able to pray without undue creaking is a reassuring indication that's one's body is maintaining some degree of flexibility and strength. And since I've found myself, in recent years, having to compromise by sometimes using a chair to do the necessary, it's particularly heartening to go for a stretch of time without undue discomfort being involved.

Yesterday, when we were stuck in a jam heading towards Tuas, I did wonder whether I'd be capable of doing the dawn prayer in normal fashion, or even the Friday congregational prayer at the mosque. The problem was that for a good hour or so the jam became chaotic with cars cutting across each other and a high degree of concentration and, I'm sorry to say, aggression was involved in order to make progress. I remain capable of both even in my dotage (quite a lot, actually) but I could feel the physical toll being taken. My right leg and especially the knee were aching spectacularly by the time we got through and I still had a good three hours of motoring to do. Do it I did, but had to tenderly ease myself into the coffee shop where we had a quick bite at upon completing our journey. I seriously wondered what state I would wake in, I can tell you.

To my relief I woke up aware of a degree of strain remaining, but nothing serious enough to stand in the way of business as usual. And now, after getting back from the little mosque at Sungai Petai just down the road from Mak's house, whence I enjoyed a good walk, I'd say I'm fully recovered from the travails of yesterday evening, with just a little tenderness in my nether regions as a reminder of the inevitable depredations of age.

In contrast I'm sad to report that Fuad arrived here for the family weekend in the early hours of the morning with serious damage to his car. He was about to go through the Malaysian customs around 3.30 am, having elected to travel once the serious jams had cleared, when another car rammed into him at some speed. It seems the driver of the offending vehicle had dropped his handphone and decided it would be a good idea to bend down and pick it up without actually stopping. Good grief!

A painful reminder that as long as you get there in the end without undue incident or damage, it doesn't much matter how difficult the journey is.

Breathing Space

Now planning for the long weekend ahead. It's nice to keep reasonably busy. But when you're unreasonably busy it's even better to stop. For a day or two, at least.

Worth Preserving

On the whole I prefer conservation to destruction, but frankly I can easily think of a number of buildings that the world would be better without. The ones that most readily spring to mind have appeared in the last thirty years or so.

So it's particularly ironic that last night we came close to losing a building we cannot easily do without in its embodiment of that which we most deeply aspire to. But it wasn't lost and chances are it will rise again. Good.

Unfortunately it's dreadfully easy to think of so much else we are in severe danger of losing that is beyond restoration.

New Words For Old

Stumbled upon the word caliginous over the weekend, in some work I was marking. I couldn't recall coming across it before, but it looked sort of meaningful in context and seemed used with assurance - as opposed to being something misheard, or a more common term being mangled. I looked it up and it turned out to mean something along the lines of dark or dim or misty. It has a respectable Latin origin and at least one on-line source marks it as archaic, but the Ngram Viewer indicates quite a steep increase in use since 2000, with the lowest usage belonging to the 1940s. Must ask the student where they got it from.
 
I think this is the first time I've ever failed to recognise a word used in work I've been marking, apart from ridiculous academic jargon, that is. It was a salutary experience. I suppose people with quite narrow vocabularies experience what I felt all the time: a sort of mild irritation at being excluded from the discourse, and a deeper sense of inadequacy at being not quite good enough to grasp what was in front of me.

I'm not too sure I want to commit the word to memory, or active use though. It seems too arcane. Mind you, it features in The Wizard of Oz, it seems, used of the Tin Man. I did wonder if Milton had jammed it somewhere into his great epic, but Johnson's Dictionary doesn't attribute it to our Puritan poet, so I figure not. 

Shrinkage

Just got back from living the high life at the McDonald's at West Coast Park. The McWraps, our default choice at the Golden Arches, are definitely shrinking. We may desert them. But actually the smaller size didn't bother me at all. In fact I felt somewhat more righteous than usual since I'd hit the gym earlier and eating a fairly small portion seemed to add to my general sense of robust health.

I'm pretty sure that a few years back I would have been intensely irritated at not being able to feed my face sufficiently. But one of the great advantages of aging is the way that it comes with a distinct shrinkage of appetite. It certainly makes life that bit simpler.

Mind you, I do rather fancy a curry puff at this very moment, and I'm just off to satisfy the craving. Bye, bye.

Something Sad

Saddened by footballer Danny Rose's recent comments on how he's looking forward to getting out of the beautiful game in four years or so, as a result of all the racism he's subjected to from certain 'fans'. The fact that the treatment he receives is so hurtful, even after all his years in the game, is a reminder of just how vile such racism is. I naively thought that the problem had been solved, at least in the EPL, but unless you're at the real cutting edge and facing the nastiness you just can't know.

Deeply impressive to consider how so many of those at the cutting edge succeed despite all this. Wonderful to see Raheem Sterling, particularly, being prepared to shine a light on the situation and demand change, especially after the obnoxious treatment he's been subjected to in the press.

A Mystery

I guessed it would be a day of challenges when my phone decided to ring someone of its own accord (yes, really) early this morning. And so it proved. Fortunately none of the problems proved insurmountable, though I still have no idea why a switched-off phone, safely in my pocket, felt it would be a good idea to attempt to initiate a conversation.

Really Big News

Sometimes you get a news story that's so big it makes you feel very, very small indeed. The one this morning on the astonishing picture of the black hole was something close to as big as it gets. Never thought I'd live to see such a picture. Puts it all in perspective, eh?

Impeccable

I was telling a class the other day about my impeccable taste in music and explaining that this went back to my teenage years. Then just today I confirmed the truth of my claim, to myself at least, when I chanced upon a surpassingly excellent version of The Musical Box from the brilliant Steve Hackett and his Genesis Revisited project. (Would love to see these guys live, by the by.) I was reminded of what a timelessly great piece of music this is, and then realised the first time I heard it, and instantly recognised its greatness, was when I was just a lad, a mere 16-year-old.

Yes, I saw the classic Genesis line-up, their guitar maestro included, as the support act on the 6 bob Chrysalis tour (featuring VdGG and Lindisfarne) and knew instantly that I was witnessing genius at work. I rushed out a few days later to purchase Nursery Cryme and never looked back. Except I'm now looking back in some appreciation at my younger self doing something right for once.

Back To Back

Went to the gym this evening, having visited yesterday also. Somewhat foolhardy, given the fact I wasn't at all sure my body had completed recovering from its exertions of Monday, but a way of trying to ensure some continuity of exercise at a busy time. If I remember rightly, the last time I went running on consecutive days was when preparing for the Singapore Marathon, some time in the last century. I'm not sure I've still got the powers of recovery of my younger self - in fact, I'm certain I haven't - but with luck I'll still be mobile tomorrow. At my age you take what you can get.

Chiming

It's the anniversary of Mum's death today, so, as is my wont, I've been thinking of her & Dad & my dead in general - thoughts of one lead to thoughts of all inevitably, naturally. Realised with some surprise that it's now a whole 7 years since she left us to be gathered into eternity. She'd have been 100 if she'd have lived until today.

Also realised, again with real surprise, that when I considered the extensive list of my dead that I couldn't think of anyone on it that I disliked in any obvious way. Another example of the luck I've enjoyed in the course of my life. If we see ourselves as being surrounded by ghosts as we grow old then mine are all of the beneficent variety. Not a monster in sight.

In relation to all this, I thought a bit today about some shtick I listened to from a recording of Springsteen's Broadway shows - think I heard it on the flight from Bangkok. It's towards the end of the show and The Boss is ruminating on meeting with his dead - Danny, Clarence & other New Jersey luminaries - and communing with them. I liked the idea, I must say. A lovely metaphor and literal enough to be a little bit crazy, as we all need to be.

I know what I'd be saying to Mum - the routine update on my life, carefully framed to make sure all sounded well. And then strangely I got to thinking about a photograph from my university days I was recently sent. It features 3 scruffy sods, of which I am one, and the others are long gone (too soon, too soon.) I wondered what I'd say to David (Hay) and Tony if they were to visit and knew that I'd comment on how often we'd been privileged to hear the chimes at midnight. Judging from the expressions in the picture in question I'd guess that was taken on an occasion when the chimes weren't too far off.

In The Busy-ness

It was just the right time for me to enjoy an entirely free, relaxed weekend, but that didn't happen. Saturday was a day of drama, following on from a Friday afternoon spent monitoring the work of our drama guys as they prepared for performance. And Sunday will conclude with another event, in which I am, thankfully, not unduly involved, but do need to be in attendance. Adding to these demands, the need to mark a set of essays on quite a challenging poem has knitted the days together and last night was marked by a heavy meal and the company of Yati, Nahar, Boon, Mei & Steve at an eatery at Arab Street.

As I said, I'd rather have been relaxing doing nothing (though I'll make an exception for the meal which was hardly a heavy-duty occasion) yet I can't honestly complain about how I've had to spend my time. Indeed, I've sort of enjoyed the whole thing in a tired-out manner. Any drama of an Independent nature is good drama in my experience, and watching young performers negotiate the hazards of going alfresco was particularly engaging, aside from the typical energy and commitment brought to bear on these occasions.

Even the marking had its moments. It's fascinating to witness intelligent students dealing intelligently with material that doesn't easily yield its secrets, yet remaining reluctant (at least from the scripts I've dealt with so far) to state the obvious: some poems are designed to be ambiguous and attempting to remove the ambiguities, the possibilities of many-sidedness of interpretation, reduces their power. From a pedagogical perspective, recognising the falling short is salutary; figuring out how to help readers move to the next level is where the action lies.

Anyway, I'm off soon for my Sunday evening entertainment. Not exactly how I'd have chosen to spend the evening, as I said earlier, but not a bad way to earn a living either.

Just Floating

Listening to Oh Mercy in the car I was struck by what a staggeringly great album it is (as I always am when I give it a spin) and how many solid Dylan classics there are on it, as well as zero filler besides. One such classic is The Man in the Long Black Coat, and in the 4 lines that constitute its sort of middle-eight section Dylan goes into the territory of genius that it seems to me only he inhabits in the world of song:

     'There are no mistakes in life some people say
     It is true sometimes you can see it that way
      But people don't live or die people just float
     She went with the man in the long black coat'

The first two lines may look unexceptionable, but in the context of the song they're extraordinary. It's as if the voice established in the verses, that of the dark, knowing narrator of a darkly Biblical fable, is replaced by someone more immediately addressing the listener; a sort of friendly, worldly-wise version of Dylan. In fact, in the second line he's amiably taking you into his confidence - except that he sounds less than confident regarding his conjecture. As is so often the case you need to hear the words, the way they are sung, to begin to grasp their full power.

Then comes the stunning third line, with the eerie perfection of float - and what a perfect rhyme it makes. When Dylan comes back to the final line, the key line of the song, repeated as the conclusion (a conclusion in the most real sense, you realise) the puzzle lies in the connection of the last two lines, but you know there is a connection, and one observation somehow leads to the other.

I was trying, and failing, to remember the third line in a lesson today, but I did remember, of course, the word float. It suddenly came to me as the perfect word to describe what Meursault does with his life in Camus's classic L'Etranger.

Much The Same, But Different

Happened to look back just now at a post from this date, 10 years ago. It served as enough of a reminder of the brilliance of Procol Harum for me to bang on Broken Barricades, the CD which I was thinking of purchasing back then, according to my final paragraph. Glad I did buy it. It's lost none of the magic it possessed for me as a (very) callow teenager.

The somewhat older version of me from a decade ago says some reasonably wise things about the Procol Harum - Live At The Union Chapel, DVD that happened to be on my mind and in my ears in April 2009. But I was taken aback at my glib put-down (I think that's what it is) regarding the esteemed Robin Trower towards the end. I appear to have developed better ears since then to now recognise the surpassing excellence of one of the great rock guitarists.

Listening to the first track from Broken Barricades, the rocking Simple Sister (a seemingly distinctive Trower tune if ever there was one, that's actually from Gary Booker) I'm reminded of listening to this blasted out live whilst standing in the foyer of the Free Trade Hall Manchester, as an encore, I think. This must have been the time I first saw Procol live and I assume I'd been told I had to catch the last bus home or get into trouble, so I'd needed to leave early and missed the end. I must have been all of 15.

Wonder if I'll be listening to this another decade or so on? Hope so.

Something Difficult

I find thinking, genuine hard thinking, extremely taxing. How I envy those to whom new ideas come easily, though I'm not at all sure I actually know too many for whom this is true. There's a heady kind of freedom in working through a new idea and making it cohere. But it comes at a cost.

Somewhere Else

Read two extraordinarily powerful poems by Sylvia Plath earlier this evening. Written in just two days, at the end of September 1962 and the beginning of October, they clearly come from a place of despair and anger. Of the two I think I found The Detective the more disturbing - I literally shivered at the end - but A Birthday Present runs it close in terms of making the reader feel guilty at seeming to intrude on such private yet universal pain.
 
I was sitting in the Ya Kun outlet at Clementi Mall whilst reading, enjoying a cuppa and kaya toast with the Missus. A happy place for us, always. So strange. Being in two such different places at the same time.

Follies

Hope you enjoyed an appropriately Great Day of Folly. I certainly did. There's really no escaping it, is there? Stupidity, I mean. Although I've just been watching a documentary on BBC Earth about a trek through the desert that struck me as deeply sane and not really in keeping with the day at all. But now there's another on about sleep deprivation which began by pointing out how we've created a world in which people are generally not getting enough sleep. The folly of it!