Still Unresolved, Again

Checking my journal for 31 December, 2002 - gosh, twenty years ago - I came across this passage: 

I forgot to mention before that I finished Nickleby in KL. The most substantial bit of reading I managed in the rush of making the house livable. The last few chapters flagged a little though not as much as I feared they might. There was real power in the melodramatic sections and bursts of comedy everywhere. An amazingly energetic novel, and much better than critics might lead one to believe.

Realised this meant that it's been two decades since I last read a full novel by Dickens. I know this because with Nickleby I completed all the novels - feeling a bit disappointed there were no more to come, I seem to recall. The only longish thing I've read by the Inimitable since then was Sketches by Boz, which I recall reading in Melbourne, of all places, on one of our December jaunts.

I'm vaguely wondering whether to make a New Year's resolution of making a start on a read-through (or, rather, reread through) of all the major novels, but I doubt that I'll do so, lovely as that sounds. Just got too much on my plate, and still a number of classics of European lit to encounter, never mind stuff from other Far Places. Still, it's nice to contemplate getting immersed in, say, Martin Chuzzlewit to name but one. (A big favourite which I've only read once.)

Not Exactly Finished

I'm feeling a little bit pleased with myself for having completed my cover-to-cover reading of the first volume of The Complete Poems of Archie Ammons. When I excitedly embarked on reading the tome back in late May I don't think I envisaged it taking me the better part of seven months to get to 1977's Highgate Road, but then there were times I found myself so bogged down in particular poems (I'm thinking of Essay on Poetics, I'm thinking of Sphere, among others) that I saw myself still reading the volume in 2022 - not that I would have minded that, but I was keen to move onto Volume 2, or get back to William Carlos Williams (or Robert Lowell, whose big Collected Poems is in my sights.)

By the way, that final short book, Highgate Road, is a belter. Archie at his pithiest, in which mode he excels, as I was previously aware as a devoted fan of his little paperback, The Really Short Poems of A.R. Ammons. Actually, a few of the Highgate Road poems appear in the collection and it was wonderful encountering them in the bigger volume. Gorgeous stuff!

Oh, and I should finish off here by letting you know that I'm moving on with The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, Volume II: 1939 - 1962. Started last night with The Swaggering Gait and very happy to do so. The great thing about being a poetry-lover is that you really can't lose, eh?

The King Is Dead, Long Live The King

Earlier today I chanced a short bit of shaky video, featuring the last moment of King Crimson live. Felt tearful, not just because I'll never get to see the greatest band in the known universe again, but in response to the dignity of Robert uniquely taking the final bow alone.

The Greatest

Finished Ammons's wonderful The Snow Poems today. In a couple of the final sections I caught myself thinking/feeling: This is better than The Wasteland. And Four Quartets. Then thinking: I can't possibly say that; do I really think/feel so? Then thinking: But how about those two other brilliant long poems of the 20C - Crow and Omeros? Is it really better? Then thinking: But it doesn't matter does it? Comparisons are odious/odorous, even if great fun.

Now sort of regarding AA as my idea of the greatest poet (in the English language) of the 20C. But realising that there's quite a list of writers who've occupied that spot in my mind over the years, if only temporarily: Tom Eliot / Yeats / Auden / Robert Lowell / Ted Hughes / Heaney - and, I suppose, Thomas Hardy since nearly all his verse was published after 1900.

Odd that there're no women in my list. Plath, I guess, comes closest, but she seems so much like a special case with a limited body of work. My goodness, what if she'd have lived? Imagine what she might have done had she outlived TH! Also vaguely wondering about Carol Ann Duffy, but she straddles centuries. What if she has a final great period and goes somewhere quite new, a bit like Yeats, unlikely as the comparison sounds?

Again, all a bit pointless, but I find it sort of useful as a way of getting myself doing a bit of thinking.

Mr Teh Tarik - 6

Forgot to mention yesterday that one of the key features of our walk at East Coast Park was my discovery of the excellence of the teh tarik gajah prepared by the Ali Lagoon Corner stall (number 61) at the Lagoon Hawker Centre. Apologies for sounding hideously complacent again, but it's a public service sort of thing to let everyone know this. (Pictorial evidence above - the stall, not the actual tea which, sadly for the environment, came in a plastic cup. But that was the only downside of the experience.)

Sunday In The Park With Noi

We spent the best part of the morning revisiting our old stomping grounds at East Coast Park (pictorial evidence above, and below...) It was a good place to be. A few changes, in terms of new developments in cafes and the like; but lots of old friends, in terms of the splendid trees. Lots of people around also, but sometimes you need people, even if you prefer friendly trees.

Snow On Snow On Snow

I was quite wrong the other day when I confidently predicted I wouldn't see snow on Christmas Day. I've been deeply immersed in the stuff for those parts of the day when I enjoyed reading some segments of Archie Ammons's deeply imaginative immersive epic The Snow Poems. 

When I started on the long poem I forgot that I could easily check the dates of the individual poems comprising the whole in the notes at the back of Volume 1, 1955 - 1977 of The Complete Poems, so I didn't realise, until I checked this morning, that by an odd coincidence I'd reached the poem written on the actual Christmas Eve of 1975 and in the sequence of days that followed (Ammons  writing a poem a day) there was plenty of snow around - wonderfully represented in the great poet's endlessly inventive versifying.

Actually I'd not enjoyed the previous long poem sequence in the volume, Sphere, the Form of a Motion, from 1974, as much as I'd expected I would. It struck me as an unusually abstract, obscurely difficult work. I appreciated it without loving it, if you know what I mean, and that implies a degree of struggling needed to keep going in places. So it was relief to find Ammons on absolute top form in his next extended sequence. Indeed, the editor of the Complete reckons that AA declared The Snow Poems his favourite of the long poems towards the end of his life. I'm finding it such a flowing read that I now think I might meet my target of completing Volume 1 by the year's end, but, I must say, I doubt I'll move right onto Volume 2, 1978 - 2005 next. I've been so immersed in this stuff for so long (the poetry, not the snow) that I think it might be time for a break and a return to progress on William Carlos Williams since I've still got the second volume of the WCW Collected to enjoy.

Compliments of the season to all and hoping you've had a good one, whether snowed in or tropically sweating, whether struggling or flowingly at ease, or whatever!

The Power Of Prayer

On the way to Friday Prayers just now I was listening to a BBC World Service programme related to the world of soccer. It's always a good listen as it features all sorts of interesting angles on the game and is genuinely international in flavour. The piece I caught was about the effects of their religious faith, specifically Christianity, on a couple of players from the EPL, one retired and another still in the game. Both came across as very likable guys with a real sense of groundedness about both their religion and the game. The retired player had only got going in the EPL when he was 27, after his conversion, and it was fascinating to hear how he attributed his late improvement as a player to a new-found sense of perspective resulting from his new-found faith. Anxiety issues that had plagued him since being dropped from the books of Charlton Athletic as a youngster dropped away from him.

He ended up playing for Portsmouth, in the Harry Redknapp era, where he crossed paths with the other player featured, who was in the youth team there during that time. In fact, the programme featured a lovely classic anecdote from Harry himself, relating to the senior player. It seems Harry couldn't find most of the Portsmouth team just before the big game when they were playing the mighty Man U, when the Mighty Reds really were Mighty - the Giggsy, Scholesy, Roy Keane team, three names Harry recalled from the team list he'd just seen. It turns out that his players, having seen the same list, thought it would be a good idea to attend an impromptu prayer meeting set up by the Christian guy - and Harry decided he would attend himself given his own sighting of the list. But then he gleefully chortled that Portsmouth actually won (at Old Trafford, if I'm not mistaken, though I might have got that bit wrong, and can't remember the game myself, probably because I don't want to.)

So there it is: absolute proof of the power of prayer, though painfully so from this perspective.

Not A White Xmas

We were sitting enjoying a cuppa this afternoon in a new coffeeshop in Clementi Mall. Since we'd never been in this spot before the view we were offered, mainly consisting of Clementi Primary School across the road, through some nice big windows, was quite striking for us. Admiring it, in between munching on tasty croissants, Noi suddenly said, more than a little longingly, If only it was snowing!

Gentle Reader, I was shocked. How anyone would want to look out on the dreadful flakes falling (and feel the attendant chill) is quite beyond my understanding. I'm entirely happy to be in a part of the world where we're definitely not going to suffer the archetypal Christmas freeze. I suppose it's no big surprise that my favourite carol is, In the Bleak Mid-Winter (the Holst version.)

New Words For Old

I was nattering to the Missus in the car this afternoon, on the way to the doctor's for the annual medical my employers require me to pass before they give me another contract, when I found myself saying the following, in relation to the latest in the news here related to the pandemic: I'm sure the government are watching very closely for an uptick in Omicron cases.... At this point I suddenly broke off, not because I was stunned by the depth of my rather obvious analysis, but because for the first time in my life, as far as I can remember, I'd used the word uptick out loud. In fact, I pointed out the fact this was so to Noi, who wasn't terribly impressed, probably because she didn't quite get what I was on about anyway, the term being understandably quite foreign to her.

I'm not sure if I was happy or horrified that I'd used the word instead of simply talking about an increase. But I was vaguely impressed at the odd capacity we have of picking up entirely new and cumbersome ways of saying the obvious, as if this came quite naturally.

In The Long Run

Did a fair amount of reading of various periodicals today accompanied by quite a bit of thinking, generally of a depressing nature. Then cheered up considerably upon reading this, quoted from Henry Gee in a review of his book A (Very) Short History of Life on Earth: 4.6 Billion Years in 12 Chapters: 'Against the backdrop of geological time the sudden rise of humanity is of negligible significance.' 

Sort of puts it in proportion, really.

Exceptional

Writing yesterday's post I was wondering whether to make some reference to the typhoon that hit parts of the Philippines over the weekend whilst I was talking about the flooding in Malaysia. I didn't make any such reference since I suppose I felt it would be over-doing the doom and gloom to do so and might add to my already uneasy sense of almost gloating over my own good luck in having such a peaceful life. 

Today I was mightily reminded of the closeness of the typhoon in several senses when Peter messaged about the damage it caused to Lia's hometown and other places. Fortunately it wasn't utterly disastrous for them, though worryingly there's some uncertainty concerning the welfare of one of Lia's brothers in another area that was badly hit. I was very struck by Pete's comment about the reactions to these events of Filipino people in general; he applauded their extraordinary mindset: No wailing or gnashing of teeth but calm acceptance, even humour, and the will to just rebuild and carry on.

And here's the strange thing. Just a few minutes after he'd posted those words I went out with Noi to do some shopping. As I was driving she was checking some of the videos appearing online related to the floods in her homeland. One featured a bit of a commentary by a guy who'd been visiting KL from abroad and he was praising the attitude of the Malaysians he'd encountered in terms very close to Peter's, talking of the amazing cheerfulness of those dealing with the misery and murk and mess of the flooding.

In all honesty, I get bothered by the smallest thing not going exactly as I want it to. It's humbling and embarrassing to reflect on the difference in attitude, though I'm not sure I can find the wherewithal to deal with this, except in trying to hide my lack of real resilience - and sensibly admiring the remarkable people who live in this part of the world.

Not Exactly Fair

Noi and I enjoyed a jolly good morning walking from Kent Ridge Park to Hort Park in pretty much perfect conditions regarding the weather. Then came back to hear more news about and view videos of the terrible flooding that's taken place over the weekend in Malaysia. Strange to think we might have had to endure the appalling conditions in Selangor were it not for our inability to travel due to the pandemic. Anyway, there are few signs of any real guilt in the pictures above, which is, in its way, appropriate, in just reflecting the way things are.

Still, hoping those not so lucky will be able to recover and get back to some sort of normality soon.  

All In The Mind

Yesterday evening I chanced upon an audiobook reading of Stephen King's Rage (the first of the series he wrote as Richard Bachman.) I listened to the first three chapters and was reminded of just how powerful this early novel is - and just how tightly written. Not a note out of place in the narrative voice of what we'd now call a school shooter. It struck me that when I first read the book there were no such things as such shootings, not that I was aware of then. I was also sort of surprised to learn that now the novel has been withdrawn from publication, by the writer himself, I believe. 

Spurred on by a quite possibly unhealthy interest in this disturbing intersection of fiction and reality I went on to read the whole book this morning. Funnily enough I'd retained enough of the details of the plot from when I first read the novel back in the 70s not to be surprised by its contents, except perhaps for a small sense of astonishment at just how accomplished a writer King was right from the start. But I was surprised at just how weirdly prescient the work is. I can imagine that the writer might even feel guilty about this product of his imagination; I actually felt guilty reading it.

Something Like Normal

Attended Friday Prayers at Masjid Darussalam for the fourth time in as many weeks - and managed to get a slot at the 'usual' time, in the first slot. So far it's been easy booking a slot. Hope this continues. 

Is this a sign of something like a return to normality? Can't be too hopeful, I'm afraid, what with the Omicron variant and attendant matters. But it is satisfying that this central pillar of life seems to be re-establishing its rightful place.

Out And About, Again

It's been a long, long time since I've been able to use the gym. I think the last time I was there was in June, just as our second semester began. Since that time the gym has been either out of bounds due to the rising numbers related to the pandemic, or I've had problems with my back which have precluded any attempt at real exercise. (I'm not sure the 'or' is correct there - I've got a feeling that the obstacles have run concurrently, but I might be a bit muddled.)

I'm now trying to get out walking on a more regular basis as a way of getting at least some degree of exercise. Thankfully the problem of my cranky left leg seems to have gone into remission, and I've nearly completed the latest round of medication related to that. Must admit I wasn't best pleased when my back doc decided to keep me on the meds for another two weeks following my last appointment since the problem seemed resolved back then, but he detected some lingering degree of stiffness in the area and I thought it best to be a good boy and do what I was told was good for me. However, I'm convinced that keeping those muscles moving is the best way to fight off decrepitude, hence the attempts to get some serious walking done.

Yesterday the Missus and I enjoyed a morning at West Coast Park (some weak evidence above) and today I went solo to Kent Ridge Park. Felt all the better for it.

Not Convinced

Forgot to mention yesterday that I was reading Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close pretty much at the same time as Ms Martin's novel. I'm assuming that we're meant to think of Foer's main narrator Oskar as somewhere around the high end of the spectrum of autism, so there was something of an overlap involved in my reading.

I found Foer's novel an interesting read with much to admire in its sheer energy, but I don't think it came close to being as convincing or moving as the story for children. I'm quite certain that Mr Foer is a very clever chap, but the cleverness overwhelms, eventually becoming tiresome. I suppose all fiction is contrived in some sense, but Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close managed to be extremely and incredibly so.

Making Demands

Read a children's novel entitled Rain/Reign over the weekend. Written by Ann M. Martin it's won quite a number of prizes for its genre, prompting me to give it a read after it mysteriously appeared on the table just outside our apartment. Glad I did. Ms Martin employs a narrator who's been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome and does so convincingly, managing to avoid an overly mawkish read. The relationship of the narrating daughter to her father is particularly well done. He isn't in any sense an attractive character, generally struggling to understand and accept her behaviour, but the adult reader can really feel for him. And the fact that things don't exactly work themselves out in the end is bracingly honest.

There's much to admire in the craft involved in this kind of writing, and in the generosity of insight it demands.

A Little Learning

As I mentioned back in late November, I wasn't at all gripped in my reading of John Keegan's The Second World War, and at that time was seriously considering abandoning the volume. However, it turned out that I was able to make myself keep going, managing to finish the book today. I suppose I felt a bit of a duty to do so given the depth of the work in terms of sheer detail, especially on the statistical front. It would have felt like an affront to all that research to just abandon the tome.

Did I really learn anything from my reading? That's always a tricky one to answer in relation to anything concerning historical events, but I'd say I have a firmer grasp of three aspects of the conflict: 1) Any war is wasteful in any number of ways, but WW2 was extraordinarily so, and being extraordinarily complicated didn't help. 2) Strategic bombing of cities is obviously a war crime, but it was always going to happen and somehow we all manage to accept it. 3) After Okinawa the use of nuclear weapons was inevitable and no matter how much we might want to condemn their use it would be naive to pretend that we can comfortably do so.

Oh, and just to state the obvious: War is hell, and this one went to the deepest circles thereof.

Heartfelt

Decided that today was the day for my annual listen to Dylan's Christmas in the Heart. Realised that since I only play the album once a year I listen with a quiet ferocity which is very useful indeed since the lovely details of the arrangements repay that kind of close attention. Dylan seems to be drawing on the cliches of American Yuletide music but he does so with such wonderful invention that nothing is actually cliched, nothing is glib.

When I first listened to the album a few years back I found it a wee bit difficult to accept Dylan growling out the more traditional material, like Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and couldn't help but wonder if he was treating the carols in some kind of ironic manner. Now it's obvious he isn't, and that those pieces are genuinely meant, and the listener is meant to just mentally sing along with appropriate joy. And that's what I was doing today.

Out And About

Spent most of the morning at Jurong Lake Gardens. Good place to be. No otters sighted, by the by, which was a bit of a disappointment all told.

Spent a chunk of the afternoon at the IMM shopping mall. Very crowded. Not my favourite place, but I've been in worse.

Spent the evening at home, with the Missus. A contentedly happy place to be.

In The Headlines

It's been a pleasant enough day, despite the rain, but this headline in the on-line version of the Graun transformed it into something special: 'I thought I was going to die': otters attack British man in Singapore park. Just to clarify, I wasn't the Brit in question, though I am thinking of going for a walk at the Botanic Gardens some time in December. Fortunately, I'll have the Missus there to protect me.

More Bad News

Reading the stuff coming out of the UK regarding the unethical behaviour of a number of functionaries of the current government, including the man at the top, is depressing. At one time I might have thought deeply depressing but I'm too old and too knowing to get as bothered as all that.

What was it that made it so difficult for these people to follow their own guidelines on social behaviour in the pandemic raging around them? And just how many parties did they feel they were entitled to attend? It's the triviality of it all that's so striking. The humour of John Crace's coruscating sketch of recent events made me feel a bit better on first reading, then thinking about the fact it needed to be written, a whole lot worse.

In Order

Since I'm physically in reasonable shape I thought today might be a good time to get on with cleaning all the bookshelves, and their contents, in the apartment. Also Noi was out at a baking class so the coast was clear for getting noisy and sweaty.

Turned out to be a wise decision. There's something about feeling things are in some kind of order that helps restore equilibrium. 

Something Serious

Finished The Secret History. Enjoyed the chapters on Bunny's funeral which got away from the college and widened the range of characters. But found the ending as thin as the early chapters. Just couldn't get interested in the group the novel is centred on. Also got a bit fed up with all the drinking and consumption of illicit substances. All a bit much somehow: I developed a sort of unsympathetic headache as a response doing so. Have to say though, I found it an easy read just at the level of story and was genuinely interested in how it all worked out without caring too much for the folk in it.

Fortunately I saved the day by rereading something of substance: the Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass. I will be teaching this in the first term of 2022 and found myself happily thinking of how that might work in the classroom. Kept thinking of what it might have been like to read this in its year of publication, 1845. Genuinely life-changing for many a white reader I would imagine.

Cleaning Up

This is the time of year when I make attempts to tidy-up stuff relating to work in the vain hope this will lead to some kind of order. Failure is inevitable, of course, but I'm happy with the idea that I can mitigate the chaos of it all to some small degree.

Over the weekend I tried to clear the various docs on my desktop. It looks a lot clearer now, but I can't say I'm terribly confident regarding where all the bits and pieces were tidied away to. Today I attempted to clear the inbox on my email. Once upon a time I could delete most of the mails since the business involved had been completed. That is no longer the case, I'm afraid. Stuff that looks finished has a way of rearing its ugly head(s) just when you really don't need it to - especially material related to finance, which is always unforgiving.

But I did get to vacuum all my books at my work station and clean various dusty surfaces. Progress, I suppose.

On The Surface

I've been reading Donna Tartt's The Secret History for the last couple of days. Somewhat puzzled over the good press the novel generally gets. It's entertaining enough as a read but paper-thin in terms of characterisation. Is it intended to glamorise the world of academia depicted or show the emptiness behind the facade? I can imagine a novel that makes that a genuinely interesting question, but this doesn't seem to be that work. I'm intrigued enough to want to know how it all plays out, but I doubt it'll stick in my mind.

(Mind you, not much does stick these days, I'm afraid.)

Even More

Fuad, Rozita, Fifi & Fafa just popped around to extend the celebrations for Noi's birthday, bringing with them ample amounts of foodstuffs. Much laughter, much munching. Now considering how to lose a few kgs as December moves on - but happy to have gained them.

Staying Put

As another pandemic year limps to its end I'm reminded that normally this would be the time for making our various plans for travelling, even if only as far as KL. I'm both enjoying the sense of relaxation at not having to rush around getting stuff done and missing the excitement of it all.

Noi was just chatting on the phone to Sharifah who is spending the weekend at our house in KL. It sounds as if the place is in good shape despite our not having been anywhere near it for over a year and a half. We're lucky to have trustworthy neighbours and our great gardener Devan to keep an eye on things for us. Must say though, I'm very keen to get back there in the first half of next year as things ease up (we hope.) The current regulations on travelling north mean we're not considering trying to get there this December. Frustrating, but wise, I think.

Togetherness

Just got back from a tasty dinner at a restaurant in Kampong Glam, in honour of Noi's birthday. We'd sort of expected it to be quiet in the area, this being mid-week, as it were. We were wrong.  The traffic in the area was heavy and we were lucky to find a spot to park. And all the restaurants appeared to be doing a roaring trade. Good to see business picking up despite the pandemic, but I was a bit worried we wouldn't find the quiet corner I was thinking of in the eatery I had in mind.

But our luck was in. The place was busy, but we got our spot and that was more than enough for us. In fact, being with the Missus anywhere, any time, is more than enough for me, thank you.

Beyond Medication

It looks like the doc's magic potions did the trick in dealing with my cranky left side. I haven't felt anything close to a painful tweak for a week, this contributing in a big way to a change in the quality of my life. I'm checking in with him this Saturday and hoping that there'll be no need to keep taking the tablets. Much as I enjoy getting better I'm never really comfortable with pill-popping.

Also I have the feeling that one of the tablets I'm now on is making me a lot more relaxed than I really want to be. Frankly I'd be happy to spend most of my time asleep - managing to do just that very successfully last week. This week I've tried to get on with things, but even now it feels suspiciously easy to slumber at a moment's notice.

Funnily enough this stands in distinct antithesis to the effects of the medicines I was taking earlier in the year to deal with my sciatica. I remember feeling unusually energised at that time, waking in the early hours and happily planning my working days without feeling in the least bit tired during the actual days. Perhaps this sort of thing is psychological rather than physiological, but I like the idea of being sure of the real me by not taking anything at all.

Not A Clue

I'm often surprised by the sterling good sense of most of the young people I teach. When I try and remember the details of being seventeen the strongest emotion I feel is one of embarrassment. In fact, I find it very hard to recall coherent details, which is a sure sign of repression.

Oddly enough today I found myself getting most closely in touch with  my younger self by listening to The Decembrists' gorgeous Lake Song. I never went near a lake at that age but I was certainly terminally fey. Isn't it strange how we can so easily project ourselves into that which wasn't and isn't ours - but feels as if it should be? 

Hard Graft

Realised today that a mind-numbing admin task I thought I could put off until next year needs to be completed pronto. This is not good news. The irony is that all the lessons it relates to went well and, in a small way, were a pleasure to organise. But you can be assured that the associated documentation is cunningly designed for maximum misery. At one time I would have found this extremely frustrating, but now I roll with the punches, as they say. Just wish the punches didn't hurt so much.

Signs Of Hope

Just had a natter with John who seems to be in a good way. He was complaining a bit about the loneliness of his situation but it looks like that might be alleviated this week since he's expecting that Maureen will be sent home. She has stopped drinking completely and 'sounds like a different person'. It seems that social services are organising some kind of 'package' for her return and he's just waiting for that to be put in place. I'm hoping the handover involves stringent checking that there's no alcohol in the house at all. Unfortunately the simple fact that Christmas is approaching doesn't exactly fill me with confidence.

It's a bitter irony that the season of goodwill in my homeland has for many people become deeply entangled with a general sense of woozy intoxication such that the two are synonymous. But I suppose any day of the week at any time of year can pose a threat to the addicted, so it might not be a bad thing if they're together with enough clarity of mind to behave responsibly at a crucial time.  

Not So Involved

I'm roughly halfway through John Keegan's account of The Second World War, borrowed from the library, and not too sure that I'll press on to finish it. Odd really since Keegan's The Face of Battle is by far my favourite book related to military history. Somehow Keegan fails to bring alive the visceral experience of war in the later book. 

Actually the main reason for my borrowing the book was to have something in print to supplement my listening to Anthony Beevor's book on the conflict which I've been doing, usually when I'm shaving, since it's easily available on Youtube. But Beevor's account is so much more gripping than Keegan's that the print version seems curiously bloodless - a very odd word to use in this context.

I hate giving up on a book, so I can see myself continuing, but it'll be a thin reading at best.

Next To Normal

Attending Friday Prayers this afternoon felt odd simply because it came close to business as usual. It's now a lot easier to book a slot as the numbers allowed to attend have greatly increased. For the first time since the restrictions kicked in I was able to make it for the first shift - i.e., the normal time for the prayer. There are still gaps between worshippers, of course, but the masjid is beginning to look reasonably packed. The car park was full and it took me a good half hour to get away in contrast to the last time I attended when I sailed in and out with ease. I suppose that because I've not been able to attend prayers for the last few weeks due to my iffy leg I've missed out on the gradual move towards things as they used to be.

I also managed to pray without the aid of a chair, which is a key indicator in my physical recovery. If you'd have told me on Saturday morning I'd be able to pray like normal by Friday I certainly wouldn't have believed you. So a prayer of thanks for the excellence of my back doc featured in the afternoon's proceedings.

Nothing Was Revealed

Finished Cloud Atlas today. Enjoyed the six stories in themselves, but didn't see how the whole thing was meant to cohere. To be honest, I felt the dividing of the stories came at the cost of narrative momentum, especially for a reader like myself who easily forgets detail.

A Bit Lost

I've been reading David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas and finding plenty to enjoy, not least his command of narrative voice. There's an astonishing range of voice and point-of-view in the six narratives involved and a wonderful sense of linguistic exuberance. And it's easy to be get involved in the stories themselves, though the central piece, Sloosha's Crossin' an' Ev'rythin' After lost me in places.

However, I must confess to having doubts about the structuring of the text. The reader is given five incomplete stories before the central Sloosha's narrative is given complete, with the stories moving forward in time from the mid-nineteenth century of The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing to the post-apocalyptic future of the narrative sitting at the centre. But now I am a fair way through the second half of the book with four stories complete in the telling I'm not at all sure what links them together.

I'm hoping for something revelatory about the text as a whole as I work through the final eighty pages, but I'm doubtful.

Mending

It looks like whatever the doc gave me on Saturday is doing the trick. I've felt something close to normal moving around today. Am now able to sit on our sofa again without my back feeling frozen when I lift myself up.

Of course, there's no guarantee that the improvement will last and, inevitably, I'll face further back-related difficulties in the months to come. But I've learnt to relish the profoundly simple pleasure of feeling well and I'm enjoying that relish even as I write this.

Beyond Reason

Listened to Act 2 of Mozart's Don Giovanni this morning. Noticed for the first time how deeply odd it is that the great womanizer actually invites the statue of the Commandatore to dine with him despite Leporello's fears - and despite the fact that they are inviting a statue, albeit one that nods and speaks.

But the dream-logic of this works completely. It's what we expect our hero/villain/scoundrel to do, and to do with that calm insouciance that stands in replacement for any form of reasoning in the Don. And similarly when the Commandatore invites him to dine with him in return and we all know where that dinner will take place, we are not in the slightest surprised that there isn't even a hint that the notion of redemption enters into Don Giovanni's mind: ch'io non mi pento. He refuses the offer of salvation six times on my count.

In simple moral terms Mozart and Da Ponte present us unequivocally with Il Dissoluto Punito (The Rake Punished) as the full title of the opera lets us know, and we are horrified, but I'm not convinced that condemnation of the Don is drawn so easily from us and one awkward aspect of that is how we cannot help but admire the courage of the unrepentant rake despite our knowledge of all the damage that's been done.

Peak Relaxation

My end of the year appointment with my back doc couldn't have come at a better time. The crankiness in my left side has shown no signs of subsiding. Even on days when I've managed to avoid the sudden, sharp shocks of pain that have characterised the problem (as on Tuesday and Wednesday this week) I've had a haunting feeling of vulnerability and an intuitive sense that the shocks will return (as they did on Thursday and Friday.) I wondered if the drive to the medical centre might provoke an attack or two and, indeed, walking from the car into the centre featured two moments of gritted teeth.

The doc decided that the problem called for a magic jab - which, unusually, was a bit painful in itself - the donning of a patch to ease the pain, and a lot of pills designed to relax my muscles. It was a relief to think that, with some luck, the problem might just disappear before I see him again, two weeks from now.

After the appointment Noi and I went off to Arab Street for a cuppa, and a visit to Wardah Books (which is temporarily located in different premises.) Apart from enjoying a bit of a browse our visit had a definite purpose - to get hold of the latest CD from the esteemed Ramli Sarip. Noi had read an article about how the bookshop was one of few places where Papa Rock's album was available for purchase, and purchase it we did.

I was very sure indeed it would be a great listen and I wasn't wrong, but I didn't quite realise just how memorable that first listen was going to be. Getting back home I took the first round of the pills prescribed with a distinct sense of feeling a mild high as the jab and pain patch were kicking in. I did the Zuhor Prayer with an awareness that if I didn't pray right away I wasn't going to manage to do once I lay down. And lay down I did with Encik Ramli as entertainment, though the word doesn't do justice to how beguiling Rasa is. Beautifully played, sung (RS has never been in better voice) and produced it held me spellbound. I can't remember ever being quite as relaxed as I was for the next three hours. Almost worth the three weeks of discomfort preceding.

Flooded

For some time now I've been doubtful about the Youtube algorithm that decides what gets into my feed. Some of what appears does have an appeal, but a good half of the videos do nothing for me at all - and they tend to stick around, or recur with monotonous regularity as if someone, somewhere can't quite believe I take such little heed of them.

However, recently I've started to revise my opinion. This is on account of a quite wonderful video that cropped up for no reason I can fathom of one Evangelina Mascardi doing wonderful things with a lute and slaying a Bach Partita in the process. I've always had a penchant for the lute even in my teenage years when I borrowed an album or two of Julian Bream's wonderful playing. I think it's the unfussy crispness of the sound that appeals, plus the instrument attracts the kind of repertoire that I feel at ease with - tuneful but not overly romanticised, if you see what I mean. If anything I reckon Ms Mascardi goes into territory even beyond Mr Bream's mastery.

But the great thing is that after my playing her expert performance a couple of times the algorithm seems to have sprung into action on the lute front and flooded my feed with recordings and performances from all sorts of luminaries. And these ears tell me it's all good! I suppose I vaguely regret I never had this kind of access to such expertise as a teenager, but my goodness I feel blessed indeed to have this gently forced upon me now.

On The Move

Had a walk up to Holland Village this afternoon, once the rain had stopped. I wasn't sure my poorly leg would be up to it, but since it's lying down and sitting around that seem to spark problems my instinct told me that a well-paced walk would be a good idea. And it was.

I was vaguely hopeful that I might have effected a cure, but that was not to be. I haven't felt any painful spasms today, but the odd twinge now and again points to a basic vulnerability. Happy to accept the situation, though, as long as I can get out for a few walks in the looming school vacation.

Surviving

Very pleased to pick up a copy of the Mekong Review from the Jem branch of Kinokuniya this afternoon. The last time I saw a hard copy of the magazine available for purchase was pre-pandemic (the February 2020 edition) and I thought it might not have survived the change in circumstances for us all. It looks to be more robust than I thought, and I'm very happy indeed to be able to write that about any serious publication anywhere.

Making Demands

I've now covered Ammons's poetry from the first couple of decades of his work, having just arrived at his book-length Sphere: The Form of a Motion from 1974 in Volume 1 of the Complete Poems. Astonishing stuff. Uneven in quality, and sometimes impenetrably difficult - at least for this reader - but always engrossing. Above all, genuinely funny. I laughed out loud three times this evening when reading another longish winter piece, Hibernaculum from 1970 - 1971. The bit where he details the exact cost of some car repairs made me want to cheer. Mind you, I also found myself frowning a time or two reading the poem regarding lines that lost me. Good job, I don't mind being lost in this writer's company.

I can think of quite a number of poets from the second half of the twentieth century I greatly admire. But A.R. Ammons is the one I love. 

Perchance To Dream

I've mentioned this before in this Far Place, indeed more than a few times, that my night life features stunningly boring dreams. Last night was no different. I'm at an airport and I need to get home. I'm not accompanied by the Missus. I suddenly realise I have no tickets for the plane; in fact, no idea what plane I'm supposed to be boarding. I try ringing Noi to find out what flight I should be on, but can't get through. Then as I head towards where I need to check-in I awake, to my considerable relief.

Now the thing is this. Upon reflection I realise that I've had this kind of dream before, but the mode of journeying varies. It's involved going to a railway station. It's involved getting on a coach. But I'm always lost and suddenly aware that this is so. And I never get to figure out where I am, though I'm always going home.

I suppose there's some deep symbolic significance in this somewhere. To be honest, even a superficial interpretation would sort of sound deep, involving a fairly obvious existential crisis predicated on a life that lacks direction. See what I mean? And I quite like the idea of having dreams that hint at some kind of depth. But I have a sneaking suspicion that this is all just a bit of random free-floating anxiety that just related to someone who likes to be on time worried about missing an appointment. Nothing that would rouse Freud or Jung there, I'm afraid.

So still terminally dull, despite my best efforts.

New Worlds

In early October I was foolishly thinking that I would avoid reading any further novels until I'd finished both Connections 2013 and Connections 2012, the two volumes of plays 'for Young People' from the National Theatre that have been sitting on my bookshelves since last year. Well, that wasn't to be. It's true that I have just finished reading the 10 plays from the 2013 volume and technically speaking haven't read a novel in that time, but that's because short stories don't count, and I haven't got all that far in the novel that I couldn't help but make a start on so it's hardly 'read' at all.

I think I saw myself racing through the plays on my reading list back then but that hasn't been the case, much as I've enjoyed the 5 I've read since. In fact, taking the plays slowly is a way of maintaining their individual integrity. Each offers its own world and I find I have to work hard to gain entrance since these worlds bear so little resemblance to my own in their concerns - and even in their language. I don't think I talked like the teens depicted when I was a kid. The dialogue is generally a lot livelier than I remember conversations being, and a good deal more sweary, I think. Not that myself and those I knocked around with were clean-spoken in any sense, but I don't think we cursed at quite the level of intensity maintained in most of these pieces.

I'm not complaining though. The final drama in Connections 2013, entitled Forty-Five Minutes featured a lot of the kind of raw dialogue I couldn't put on a school stage, but it struck me as an outstanding piece of work, angry, funny and honest, with lots of insights into the pressures faced by the young people depicted (who are completing their UCAS applications in the titular time allowed.) I'm looking forward to Connections 2012, but I'll be taking it slowly - and reading much else besides, I hope.

Mr Teh Tarik - 5

Our favourite cafe around Clementi Market is Prata Alley. I heartily recommend the coin prata set dish, but everything we've had there has been highly acceptable. Above all the teh tarik gajah is happily consistent, so no surprises that it was excellent this evening and I am now deeply content. And I'm not just being unbearably complacent since this is, above all, a public service announcement for the greater good of all.

A Ratty Tale

Took Noi for her booster jab yesterday evening. Drove up to the community centre at Holland Village. The parking is a bit restricted there, so she went off to do the necessary whilst I waited for a parking lot. My luck was in and I didn't wait too long - just as her luck was in, and she was duly boostered on arrival at the centre. But, of course, she then had to wait for half an hour to check there were no side effects and whilst she was hanging on there I popped to the food court for a cuppa.

I didn't want to sit too long though since sitting around anywhere is guaranteed to make the muscle around my left hip cranky if I do so. I need to stand with great care after sitting and walk very slowly for a good five minutes to avoid unpleasantly painful spasms. So that's what I did, going to stand in the corridor between the food centre and where I had parked. And that was where the encounter took place.

There was a messy heap of the usual food centre rubbish at the back of the shop and I was standing admiring it and generally minding my own business when a rat popped out. Well, not exactly 'popped' since it emerged fairly slowly then continued to move at a gentle but definite pace in my direction - looking me squarely in the eye. I thought briefly of the queer sardonic rat of Isaac Rosenberg's fine poem, but then decided that this fellow was not so much sardonic as curious, and that I was the object of its exploratory curiosity. It struck me that it would be a good idea to move to indicate that I wasn't an edible object but a potential threat. I'm happy to say I didn't panic - though it was a close-run thing - and on my moving one step towards the rodent it slunk back whence it came. 'Slunk' is a pretty good word here, except it suggests a sense of guilt and, to be honest, the rat didn't look guilty. It looked like it owned the place. And I suppose it did, really. I was the intruder on its territory.

Two thoughts about the encounter: 1) As far as I'm aware the only times I've seen rats live have all been on these shores - don't think I ever saw one back in the UK; 2) Whilst I admit to feeling the usual disgust about the creatures, I'm sort of happy to share space with a species that's probably a lot less destructive than our own when you think about it. And one further point: Noi is very well post-booster, with just an achy arm and very mild fever. So do get yours, Gentle Reader, if anyone makes the offer.

Just Thinking

Realised that when I assumed I was having a thought just now, the thought was having me.

Spooky!

Just Lovely

A wonderful poem by William Barnes features this week in Carol Rumens's reliably excellent Poem of the Week. She provides, as always, an insightful analysis, but in this case I think it's quite enough to recognise just how lovely the poem is and not delve too deep.

Limpid simplicity. You don't get too much of that these days.

Any Problems?

I didn't know the word problematize existed until I heard a couple of colleagues using it in recent years. To be honest, I'm still not convinced it should be a word but who am I to question the democracy of common (or even uncommon) usage. The meaning of the verb is obvious, though one may wonder who might want to create a problem for its own sake. Someone who enoyed thinking a bit too much for their own good, I suppose.

I don't like to problematize. I'm happy to have an easy a time as possible. But I'm well aware that life has a propensity to throw up problems in many aspects of our existence. Today I've struggled with a variety of problems in the following broad categories: physical, familial, professional. I suppose it's the penalty for being alive. Happily I can think of other broad categories (the spiritual, the financial, to name but two) that survived the day unproblematized. (Ugh.) So, not a bad day overall.

Unreal Beauty

My prayers this evening were enhanced by a particularly sharp crescent moon with a star shining amiably below it, as if in communion. Mind you, it probably wasn't a star, being too bright. My guess is that I was looking at Venus. And whatever communing was going on was strictly in my head. I suppose there's an argument that the beauty of it all was only something in my mind, but even it that were the case it makes little difference to me as the severity of the beauty was perfectly real as far as I was concerned.

And to the Missus, who'd herself noticed the moon whilst praying in our back room. Confirmation, indeed. All that matters in terms of what's real in this little corner of the universe.

Telling Tales

The last story in Ha Jin's collection of twelve short stories The Bridegroom was one of the strongest in the volume. After Cowboy Chicken Came To Town exemplified a number of the virtues of the work as a whole, not least the poignant combination of sly humour interlaced with a deep sense of a lack of fulfilment for the generally baffled characters Ha Jin creates. The deliberate lack of any real depth of characterisation works particularly well in this tale: the reader senses there's more to the characters than the narrative allows us to encounter. The hints of a greater complexity that we cannot access emphasise the writer's acute awareness of the limitations on humanity imposed by the political system so forensically analysed in these pages.

The feeling of the sheer pettiness of the society centred on Muji never lets up. It reminded me of Joyce's Dubliners in some respects. Only the trivial has some kind of real meaning in this half-paralysed world, seeking re-birth through a kind of compromised, only half-understood capitalism.

But putting it like that doesn't do justice to the particularities that Ha Jin brings alive for us. When the burning and soiling of surplus chicken annoys as it much as it does here, you know you're in the hands of a master story-teller.

Out Of Time

The Christmas decorations are going up in Clementi Mall. Just saying. 

Slow Motion

On a few occasions today I was reduced to walking at a pace that would have embarrassed a tortoise - and I'm talking of an elderly tortoise who had seen better days. The slow motion was on account of the crankiness of the muscle running down my left side, from my lower back to the thigh. It seems to go into spasm if it decides that it's had enough, and I can't quite figure out what constitutes 'enough' or the exact circumstances that will provoke spasm. What I do know is that it's painfully debilitating when it all goes wrong, and the result is that I just can't move at any pace above extremely sloooow unless I want to provoke a further attack.

This is an excellent way to learn patience, by the way, and I recommend it to anyone who aspires to re-set an overly fast-paced way of life. I suppose it's also very frustrating, but I'm too busy trying to survive the day to bother to fume.

In Motion

Struggling to get around at the moment, and for the last week, due to odd things going on in my back. Not in any real pain though, which is a big plus. And happy to be actually able to move around at all. Learning to count blessings is on-going and of great utility.

Real Insight

Of late I've been keeping myself gainfully occupied grading the oral examination for Language & Literature for the International Baccalaureate. It calls for some intense listening but makes a nice break from the usual marking of written scripts. There's a certain fascination when you start listening to a new recording and have to deal with a new accent and distinctly individualised version of English.

It's also heartening that so many kids seem genuinely enthusiastic about what they've studied. Of course, this could just be a bluff calculated to get the long-suffering examiner on their side, but it's difficult to fake for the full fifteen minutes or so of the exam and you rarely notice the mask slipping.

Today one candidate finished her exam talking about how she not had any awareness at all originally of how an advertisement she had been analysing actually worked on its audience. Her analysis had been a solid one, not terribly exciting but saying the obvious in a clear and persuasive manner. At least, that's what I originally thought, but then I came to realise that for her the obvious was something new and interesting and she was feeling a very real sense of being granted real and important insights that she had been completely unaware of when first encountering the text. Through her I felt that excitement we are granted when we know something is happening to our view of the world that will change that view for ever.

I could almost remember what it was like to be seventeen. 

Not So Obvious

A substantial amount of my reading this year has involved books that have come, one way and another, from other people. I like the feeling of unpredictability involved. I would never have chosen to read anything by Ha Jin, of whom I'd never even heard, before finding a copy of The Bridegroom on my desk at work. It's a collection of twelve short stories and I'm halfway through, having just read the title story. I'm impressed.

The stories are set in the fictional town (or city maybe) of Mujin in the period just after the death of Mao Zedong, and evoke a China that is both realistic in an almost tedious manner yet surreal in a way that touches on nightmare without quite going full-on Kafka, if you see what I mean. Ha Jin exhibits an icy control of proceedings, all the more impressive when you realise he's chosen to write in English to distance himself (I assume) from his native land.

Funnily enough he's praised for his 'simplicity' in the blurb on the Vintage edition. I find this odd since, although the stories make for straightforward reading, they don't deliver much in the way of obvious interpretations. Probably why I like them so much.

This Is Important

I'm feeling conflicted about the Cop26 climate summit. I have no intention of listening to various politicos voice platitudes about how concerned they are for the fate of the planet, so I don't intend to watch any of it. But I'm convinced that it's by far the most important 'news' going on, assuming, that is, that real things get done. I doubt they will, but given the obvious truth of the emergency we're facing who knows? Maybe we'll see an outbreak of sanity. Praying we do.

In the meantime I suppose we'll continue to nurture our addiction to waste.

A Single Story

Fuad passed me the first volume of Tall Order - The Goh Chok Tong Story a week or so ago. Since he'd gone to the trouble of lending me a copy I thought I'd better rise to the occasion by reading it and I'm now halfway through and, somewhat to my surprise, I'm enjoying it. Of course, as with any political biography I'm reading the tome with a healthy scepticism, but it does grant a number of insights into the ways this Far Place is run and the kind of people who make the big decisions about folks' lives here.

I suppose the fact that the book is profoundly unexciting says much for what has been achieved on these shores. I experienced the transition from the days of LKY to the new regime and, since then, to further transitions. Much has changed and I feel oddly privileged to have been around to witness those changes. I've gained a little more understanding of the nature of those changes and the nature of governance here, from Tall Order, but I'm keenly aware there's a much richer story going on. There always is, I suppose.

Perfectly Ordinary

Just got back from the McDonald's at West Coast Park. We popped out to have a very ordinary time on a very ordinary evening after a very ordinary day. And all of that ordinariness was more than fine by me. Quite a gift really. Indeed, something of an exception in a world that is so frequently unkind.

Another Number

I've been listening to some of the online lectures given by Tim Snyder, the historian who wrote Bloodlands, an account of the mass murders that took place in Eastern Europe, the bit between Germany and the Soviet Union, between 1933 and the end of WW2. One day I'll read the book, but I've been putting it off as being a bit too depressing to take on at the moment. I suppose the lectures function as a kind of substitute for the overwhelming detail of the real thing for me.

One number sprung out from the various statistics the prof expertly analyses. 14,000,000. The number who died (men, women and children) in that territory, in that period. The idea of 6,000,000 Jews as victims of the holocaust is difficult enough to comprehend, impossible really, but this number (which includes most of those six million) moves to a place that the brain just cannot go, except in the most abstract sense.

And this in Europe less than a century ago. In the lifetimes of my parents.

Numbers

There have been so few Covid-related deaths in Singapore for so long that it was both uncanny but reassuring. Of course, it couldn't last. There were 10 deaths yesterday and the total now reads 349. Amazingly low compared to other places, but enough to emphasise the sheer nastiness of the virus. Each one likely to be a source of grief for someone somewhere, and since grief is endless we move beyond numbers into that which lies beyond measurement.

I'm not looking forward to seeing that number increase, but it surely will - which surely makes it incumbent upon us to mitigate that increase as much as we are able to. It's easy to forget in this context what just the single digit 1 means, but we can at least try to remember.

A Fine Mess

Finished watching the series on Netflix about the O.J. Simpson case. Impressed with the writing and acting, though I do wonder just how much liberty was taken with the facts of the case. I've got a feeling it was all even messier than the mess we saw on screen. Must say, I thought overall a sane kind of balance was created in terms of allowing a range of perspectives to emerge.

I liked the sense created of the hollowness of O.J.'s 'victory'. The final scenes centred on the man himself felt deeply uneasy, and rightly so.

How strange it all was. And how reflective of America, its problems and its promise. And how sad in terms of the damage done to so many. Probably some still going on.

The Hard Stuff

Just finished the August edition of The New York Review of Books, the Summer Issue (according to the cover.) I read a lot fewer editions of the publication than I used to over a year, I suppose because I'm now so accustomed to reading stuff through my phone, pushing to one side the reading of material in hard copy. However, I grow more certain over time that what I read for 'real' somehow 'sticks' in a way that 'soft' material doesn't always manage to.

As usual I put this edition aside (meaning on the pile of NYRBs on the bookshelves outside) convincing myself I'll revisit it one day, though I suppose that's unlikely. But I am taking note of the articles that had a particularly eye-opening effect, especially one on W.E.B. Du Bois that served to reinforce my desire to read The Souls of Black Folk sometime soon.

Good Cheer

Relieved to get through on the usual number to chat with John this evening. I was baffled as to what was wrong with the line the last few times I've tried to ring him. The thing is, getting through on our landline means the calls are reasonably cheap, whereas using the mobile entails the cost of an arm and a leg and I hated the fact that I'd rushed the previous call after all he's been through.

Actually my niece Cheryl was visiting him, which is also very good news given the occasional strains between them. She'd just shown him a recently taken picture of Maureen and he reckoned my sister looked a lot better - even more good news. In the course of our last rushed conversation he'd told me that she was due for a detox on the day after the call, but this doesn't seem to have taken place. Today he was talking about a possible detox around May - and the real possibility of her then being allowed to go back home from the place she's now in, which is somewhere in Dukinfield. Since John hasn't had a drink himself for some three months, and doesn't care about drinking anymore, it sounds as if there's a possible future in this.

It's clear that John is lucky to be alive. His daughter Louise was told he might not make it in his first month of unconsciousness and surviving both septicaemia of the liver (I think that's what he said) and bleeding on the brain (definitely) clearly couldn't have been a picnic, especially for someone already missing a leg. I reckon he has the constitution of an ox, and I'm talking about a super-fit, genetically superior ox here. Long may he continue.

Noi reckons that, since he's stopped drinking, now would be a good time to get him to convert and give him a chance of communing with the angels. Not a bad idea, I suppose, but I'm not sure what the angels would make of him, though I reckon he'd provide them plenty of entertainment.

Not So Blank

Acquired my diary for 2022 today, in the usual edition. Except they've changed the cover, which I don't like, and the price, which has increased by $3.00 (a 25% hike!) which I like even less. I suppose the increase in price is related to the unpleasant cover, but at least the inner contents remain reassuringly the same in terms of content and layout.

Not sure why people think they need to make progress by making sure everything gets worse, but it's the nature of things, as far as I can tell. So who am I to complain?

Getting Into It

I managed to find the time in the later part of the week to watch the full 2018 live performance of Radiohead in Sao Paulo. Apart from just how good it is, I was struck by the difference between this version of the band and the live from the basement stuff they do, available on YouTube. It's difficult to believe that they're as convincing as arena rockers as they are in the tight confines of a studio. The sign of something very special. And, I suppose there's a third version: the albums themselves and the sense of the studio as an instrument.

One unexpected reaction from me to the Sao Paulo performance. I found myself genuinely moved by just how much the young crowd were into the music. The singing along added an unexpected dimension, and normally I find that kind of thing irritating. This time the special sincere intensity of it all helped me to a better understanding of how much the songs have the potential to mean.

Betrayal On The Grand Scale

Great piece in The Guardian about the betrayal of the families of the victims of the Hillsborough disaster. A reminder of the degree to which it's wise to distrust the British Establishment. That degree being a lot.

Can't imagine the anger the families must feel. I only know my own.

No Sign Yet

In previous years I've sometimes found myself complaining in this Far Place that mention of Christmas approaching has come too early - often around the first week of October. This year we haven't encountered a single sign of the season, so far. Wonder if this is part of the 'new normal'? Suits me if it is, I must say.

A Blank

I haven't yet acquired my week-to-a-view diary for 2022. I've seen some in various bookshops, but not my favoured brand, and I am nothing if not a creature of habit. I might just start panicking if I get to November without one since this is the time that detailed planning begins for me (which means carrying around two diaries at the back end of the year.)

In case you are wondering why I don't go digital, I'll just say real life requires a real physical diary.

But perhaps I should add that the fact that 2022 remains a sort of blank canvas has an element of charm about it. Would that it remain so! 

Trying To Connect

I've read five of the plays from the Connections volume I referenced the other day and enjoyed each of them to some extent, with that extent usually being a lot. Mind you, I think you have to be a bit of a theatre person to grasp how some of them work on stage, and even then I couldn't quite visualise fully Howard Brenton's The Guffin (yes, there are some big-name dramatists involved) and Stacey Gregg's I'm Spilling My Heart Out Here. But I grasped enough of these to get a sense of how exciting they'd be to witness - at least by a teenage audience attuned to their concerns - and how they are meant to work. (I know that sounds patronising, but it isn't meant to. Such concerns are passionately real and thought-provoking to all, but they tend, to some degree, to push back on old geezers like myself.)

The only disappointment I feel in relation to the volume relates to what was primarily on my mind in 2017 with regard to the 2014 compilation: above all I'd really like to find a piece we could do as part of a production with my drama guys. However, there are two key problems regarding this: the plays (so far) are wonderfully edgy, but too edgy for these shores, I think, and they are very, very British. I like a sense of the local but there's a limit and adaptation necessarily loses something (even as it might gain something else) and when that something becomes too much of a thing you end up failing to do justice to the material, I'm afraid.

The play I've most enjoyed so far has been the most obviously conventional in terms of telling a story. Ryan Craig's We Lost Elijah struck me as a brilliant bit of theatre and I can almost figure out a way to get it done in our context - almost, but not quite, I'm afraid. A pity, but I've still got fifteen plays to read, with five more from this volume and ten from a different Connections to go.

Just Walking

Went out for a walk this evening, to blow away the cobwebs and get outside of myself. I walked in the direction of Pasir Panjang Road, following what is almost a winding country lane once past the hospital, turning around when I reached the road at the bottom of Kent Ridge Park. That gave me forty minutes there and back, a reasonable time for someone as out of condition as myself.

At the turning point it occurred to me that I'd been so lost in my inwardness and little concerns that I'd paid hardly any attention to the loveliness of the greenery around me, the sounds of various night creatures, and the general freshness of the evening, mild humidity and all. I told myself to get out of my thoughts and attend to all this on the way back. But I didn't. We're strange creatures, aren't we? Well, I am, at least.

Not So Cheerful

Over time I've developed the belief that it's good to at least try and be cheerful despite everything. But today just wasn't a cheery sort of day, sadly. At least I got to talk very briefly to John just now, and he's back home from hospital and has some at least mildly good news about Maureen.

The problem is that our communication was restricted to just a couple of minutes due to circumstances beyond our control, as they say. Another aspect of the disappointing nature of the day. A pity. I could have done with a bit more good news.

Some Strings Attached

Listened just now to an informative interview with Jonny Greenwood, serving to fuel my on-going bit of an obsession with Radiohead. Would have liked more about his work on film tracks and thoughts on Penderecki, but glad to have some access to his thoughts on these matters. Wonder if Radiohead have ever worked live with a string section, or full-blown orchestra. Doubt it, but interested in trying to find out.

On Occasion

I was listening to Handel's Music for the Royal Fireworks a few days back - the excellent Archiv recording with Trevor Pinnock and his merry men - when a fairly obvious thought came to me: It's splendid stuff, but you really have to be in a Baroque kind of mood for the over-the-top grandeur of it all. Then came another, somewhat fresher, thought: Even regarding music I'm a mindless fanboy for, there is some element of needing to be in the mood to get close up and very personal - it's just that those moods are easy to find. So I can listen to Crimso, VdGG, Radiohead, Dylan, Richard Thompson, Elvis (Costello, that is), Vaughan Williams, Haydn almost any time, but not quite every time.

And here's my final thought, dredged from memory: In my early teenage years I listened to whatever it was I was getting into at any time, and all the time, over and over - and never tired of it - especially with regard to my encounters with the giants of the underground scene: Deep Purple, Sabbath, Led Zep, Tull, Crimso (of course, my first love), Floyd, VdGG, Genesis, Strawbs, Yes, ELP and the like. Just spinning the vinyl created the occasion.

I suppose the change began when I developed a primitive kind of discriminatory taste.

Keeping Cheerful

Just lately I've been listening a lot to Radiohead, the live stuff on YouTube mainly, particularly in brief moments of downtime at work. It's all a bit contradictory: I think it would be fair to characterise the band as pretty intense on the somewhat depressive side. But after listening I always feel unaccountably cheerful.

(Just to give a specific example, I listened to a wonderfully frantic 2 + 2 = 5 live from the Reading Festival a couple of times today, at a suitably happy volume, and it went a long way towards healing the pains of an unconscionably busy day.)

On Waking

Does anyone actually describe themselves as 'woke'? Or even see themselves as such?

The best we can ever achieve, it seems to me, is to be trying to be awake to all our various world has to offer. But isn't sleep so inviting?

Sadly Lacking

I've long been bewildered by the utter mundanity of my dreams. After all, I'm a vaguely artistic sort of chap who regularly wrestles with works of high imagination. And do I dream of centaurs & sea-nymphs & heroes in battle with the spirits of rivers? No. I dream of getting on-line in a lesson three hours before I actually go on-line. I suppose it's a form of lesson preparation, but stultifyingly dull.

As Others See

I've been watching the mini-series centred on the O. J. Simpson trial on Netflix in fits and starts. I'm not at all comfortable with the ethics of dramatisations of real life events, and I wondered if The People vs OJ Simpson was just going to be high class trash, but I've reached the sixth episode and been impressed by the acting and general production values. I get a sense I'm being shown something close to the truth, at least in terms of the basic facts. To be honest, I'm a bit surprised by how much I didn't know, having followed the saga from a considerable distance back in the day.

Watching Episode 6, which generally focuses on Marcia Clark, the main prosecutor, was in many ways quite a painful experience. I'm not sure if the real Ms Clark would have wanted herself portrayed on screen - actually I wonder if seeing herself depicted might have added to the pain she suffered in the course of the trial, horrible thought - but for this viewer, at least, it was illuminating to see first hand, as it were, what a woman in her position had to face. Before watching I think I might have brushed off the idea that the media paying attention to one's appearance is a big deal. Now I know a lot better and am so much more aware of how that necessarily looms so much larger for women - even one as obviously accomplished in so many ways as Ms Clark.

I suppose that if there's any justification at all for this genre (apart from providing interesting television) it's the possibility that the viewer might grow in sympathy and understanding of others - especially those whose perspectives are so foreign to us.

On The Edge

Listened to the first act of Mozart's Don Giovanni this morning. I'm growing in understanding of what's going on in the music in relation to the drama, but there's still a way to go. Mind you, if that implies that I'll be listening to this and the other operas for years to come then I have no objection.

The whole mythos of the good Don (or, rather, emphatically Bad Don) in both high and low culture is fascinating and disturbing. There's a weird energy about Mozart's central character that seems to break every frame he's put into. Talk about living on the edge.

Making Progress

My progress on the first volume of the Collected Poems of Archie Ammons stalled for quite a while when I reached his 1969 poem Essay on Poetics. Odd really, as I assumed that as a longish piece at over 700 lines I was likely to enjoy it as I've enjoyed every one of the longer poems I've read. But that was not to be. Or rather, I would need to get through the maze of the first 100 lines or so and tune in to the peculiar concerns of the poem before feeling reasonably at home with it.

It turned out that once I really got going on the poem I was able to read it in a couple of sittings today, and I think I understood what the poet was exploring - though I'm not convinced that poetry itself is the main concern, despite the title. I suppose a reread is in order, but not for the time being: I need to maintain my forward momentum in the volume as a whole. I'm vaguely targeting completion by the year's end.

I also made some progress today on one of the Connections volumes of New Plays for Young People, this being the one from 2013. It's been on my bookshelf for some time and I've decided not to pick up any kind of novel until I've read the ten plays in it - and another ten from a companion volume I possess.