Good Fortune

Came across this from Robert Burton concerning Unfortunate Marriage as a cause of melancholy: Amongst these passions and irksome accidents, unfortunate marriage may be ranked: a condition of life appointed by God Himself in Paradise, an honourable and happy estate, and as great a felicity as can befall in this world, if the parties can agree as they ought, and live as Seneca lived with his Paulina; but if they be unequally matched, or at discord, a greater misery cannot be expected, to have a scold, a slut, an harlot, a fool, a fury or a fiend, there can be no such plague.

Not sure how Seneca and his Paulina got along - though I'm guessing swimmingly given the context - but in exchanging cards with the Missus on this illustrious date in our personal calendars I found myself meditating on my great good fortune at being able to do so.

A Kind Of Perfection

That was a baked potato and a half, said the Missus just now, and she did not misspeak, Gentle Reader. The one in question was twin to the one I'd just polished off, the set having been purchased yesterday by myself on my Holland Village jaunt. It's fair to say the taters were of epic proportions and required expert baking and general tender loving care, as supplied by our resident MasterChef.

Completed with a filling of tuna and sweetcorn, with a bit of salad on the side, they constituted a Sunday dinner to remember. And I will.

Just Walking

Today was the first day of the school vacation, unaptly marked by a morning spent contributing my bit to the school's Open House 2021 - and getting a bit of marking done in between. To be honest there wasn't a lot for me to actually do over the three and a half hours of my involvement - hence, the marking breaks - but I was tied down to monitoring what we were sending out on-line for what is known now as a 'live event' (live except for being on-line and being almost entirely recorded, that is.) So it was a relief to get out for a walk in the afternoon.

In fact, this was my first extended walk since the gym closed down and home-based learning kicked-off. I suppose I should have got out earlier, but it always seemed like there was something or other to do, even when there wasn't, if you know what I mean. And I kept thinking that somehow the holiday was the right time for getting out and about.

Anyway, I took myself off to Holland Village in the blazing sun, and made myself useful by buying a couple of large size potatoes for Noi when I got there. Normally the highlight of such a journey would have involved sitting in the CBTL there and imbibing a cuppa, but given the current restrictions on eating & drinking outside this was not to be. I intended to substitute the quaffing with some deep philosophical thought but failed to think of anything much other than how much I was sweating and how out of condition I felt. Better than nothing, I suppose, but only just.

Next To Normal

When the authorities here tightened the rules related to containment of the spread of the coronavirus a couple of weeks ago I vaguely assumed that attendance at Friday Prayers would be out of the question for the immediate period. Thankfully this proved not to be the case and it turned out to be relatively easy to book a place for the third session today, the one with the prayer starting at 3.05 pm.

It's a sign of just how easily we adapt to circumstances that what originally had seemed a complex procedure - taking the ablution in advance; carrying your own sejadah; showing the proof of booking on the way in; clocking in and out through Trace Together; wearing a mask; distancing from the rest of the congregation - was easy and natural today. Indeed, the whole experience felt comfortingly familiar. Something like normal.

Of course, that which lies at the still centre of the turning world remains unchanged, undisturbed by all our human stuff.

Mature As Ever

I'm trying to remember a time a team I supported won a game that went to penalties. I just can't do so. So you'd think I would have got used to the crushing disappointment of losses that aren't really genuine losses. But are still bitter losses.

And I think I have grown a little bit over the years in terms of developing a mature outlook on all this. But I suspect not everyone would agree.

And that's all I've got to say, thank you.

Sadly Familiar

Found my attention gripped this evening by Dominic Cummings's testimony before the select committee. The younger me would have enjoyed learning things about the inadequacies of government. The older version finds much of it all too familiar. And sad.

Turning Inward

I'm getting back into the routine of teaching from home. With tomorrow being a public holiday we've only got a couple of days left to the term, so I'm not exactly over-stretched. In some ways it's made for a pleasant change of pace, but I wouldn't want this to go on too long. I'm feeling a distinct sense of turning inward, retreating from the world, and I'm not sure how healthy that might prove to be in the long run.

Old Favourites

I've enjoyed reading the rash of articles appearing on various aspects of the Greatest Living American as he celebrates his eightieth birthday. The best so far has been the one in which various luminaries choose their favourite Dylan song simply because it serves as a reminder of the Bobster's astonishing output - and even has almost uniformly appreciative comments BTL for once. (I guess the nay-sayers couldn't be bothered to explain why everyone naming their favourites were entirely self-deceiving.)

The fact that it would make perfect sense to name at least three songs from the recent sensational Rowdy Ways is evidence, if needed, that some geniuses somehow don't lose it. And a lesson to all oldsters to keep going regardless.

Top And Bottom

This morning when I was showering I got to thinking about various poets I have taught over the years. Yes, I know it's odd to be thinking about that in the shower of all places, but that's just how it happened to be. (In the interests of full disclosure, I also found myself thinking about various houses I have lived in and visited and which I had the fondest memories of, but that's not really the point of this little screed.)

Now when I say 'taught' I mean something in between doing the absolute full monty of the complete works (something I don't think I've ever done) and just a single poem because it cropped up on an exam paper somewhere. I was struck by the fact that somehow or other I've managed to touch on a fair number of poets within those parametres, and was further struck by the extremes of those I really did not enjoy teaching at all and those who were a blast to deal with. (I suppose the fact that I've been thoroughly enjoying teaching some of Carol Ann Duffy's stuff over the last couple of years may have provoked in some small way these ruminations.)

Without any doubt the poet I've least enjoyed teaching is W.H. Auden - which is weird because the poems of his I have taught have been almost uniformly very fine and very 'teachable', at least on the surface. But nothing has ever seemed to work somehow. When classes have got the point it has always felt to me like they did so in a kind of mechanical fashion.

At the other extreme, I'd place Thomas Hardy. Don't know why it is but Hardy, even at his clumsiest, just works. I suppose it could be that he's recognisably writing poetry with obvious formal qualities, so there's the craft to appreciate, yet he's a bit like you and me, a bit of a duffer, a bit obvious in what he's got to say, so very comfortable in his way. You feel like you know him somehow. Nowadays he'd be called 'relatable', a quality that's easy to sneer at but which makes for a happening sort of classroom.

Encountering The Familiar

I've been holding back on a reading of my two chunky Collected Poems of A.R. Ammons, first of all to ensure I completed the equally chunky Ted Hughes volume, and then to complete the other books I seemed to have been reading forever and then to dedicate myself to some distinctly Islamic reading over the fasting month. And now is the time to begin.

Today I completed the first collection from the mid-fifties, Ommateum, and very uneven it proved to be with Ammons obviously finding his way. But the strange thing is, I felt comfortable with the work right away, as if it's something I somehow already knew. I was reminded of when I first started reading Ammons - with Garbage, I think. Instant recognition. My kind of writer.

Minority Report

Noi just got her second jab and so is completely vaccinated. So far there's been nothing adverse in her response, and our luck appears to be holding. If such a thing is possible, we're having a good pandemic, to use an ungainly phrase, and well aware we are in an extremely fortunate minority - so far, at least. But we're keenly aware that luck can turn, especially the undeserved variety. It makes sense to count blessings when you've got them, and I'm busy doing just that.

A Wise Decision

Decided to listen in sequence to all the episodes of Dylan's Theme Time Radio Hour. Will aim for one a day, but won't worry about falling short since that will simply prolong the riches in store.

Started today with Episode 1 on Weather and was very glad I did so. Played it though a fairly basic laptop not even using proper speakers and it sounded great. It sounded like the radio used to sound - which is the whole point, I suppose.

For Future Research

An informative post over at Open Culture caught my attention earlier today. Entitled How to Take the Perfect Nap it suggests that devoting ourselves to increasing the amount of sleep we get is the way to go for the general enhancement of our health. As an ardent napper I didn't need much convincing, but it's heartening to know that evidence-based science supports me in my endeavours.

The Wow Factor

Just read Kipling's The Gardener. Stunned at its brilliance. Surely one of the greatest short stories in the language? - yet I contrived to be completely unaware of that fact until today. Perfect artistic control from beginning to end. And what an ending! Cold, hard restraint resulting in one of the greatest expressions of raw grief imaginable.

Kipling haunted by all the young dead, especially his own son.

In Readiness

The switch to home-based learning for our students wasn't exactly a surprise and, since we've been there before, is hardly revolutionary. But things are a wee bit frantic at the moment as the necessary arrangements are made to make things work. I'm lucky in that I don't have to deal with anything on the scale of fixing examination arrangements and the like, so I'm very far indeed from complaining. Indeed, there's something bracing about getting done what needs to be done, and something like a sense of accomplishment in contributing to the nation's welfare in a very small way. A sense of purpose, an awareness of necessity, goes a long way towards easing the pains of work.

Touching Greatness

Managed to overcome my laziness to get started again on the Kipling short story collection which was occupying me prior to the fasting month. Read two tales over the weekend: His Gift and The Wish House. The first of these seems best classified as one of the stories designed for children, originally appearing in Land and Sea Tales for Scouts and Guides. Slight but entertaining, with a wryly sarcastic humour regarding the derring-do of the Scouts movement. I'm not sure Baden Powell would have approved of the thoroughly lazy and unprepossessing protagonist, one William Glasse Sawyer. I was reminded of the toughness of the Stalky stories in some ways.

In contrast, The Wish House, once I managed to cope with the demands of the Sussex dialect in which the story is largely rendered, proved to be one of RK's finest. For a writer who's supposed to be limited in his portrayal of women, he trawls extraordinary depths here. The two old ladies whom we are privileged to overhear are stunning in their particularity. If this isn't great writing I don't know what is.

And what great range RK has. You never quite know what to expect from him - apart from an effortless mastery of style no matter what he turns his hand to.

Sitting Still

Needed to get a few things done today, but enjoyed the moments of rest in between. Just sitting still has much to recommend it - and nicely complements the latest guidelines in this Far Place in relation to controlling the pandemic. I seem to be getting lazier with age, but I can't honestly say this worries me overmuch.

There's much to be said for wise inaction.

On The Move

Spent the day avoiding Liverpool supporters. Social distancing has its uses. Hah!

Small Blessings

Hari Raya Puasa, Eid ul-Fitr; 1 Syawal 1442

Just enjoyed the small miracle of munching on a few peanuts in the middle of the day. Blessings abound, if we know where to look.

And for those who are blessed enough to celebrate this day, this particular manifestation of the miraculous: Eid Mubarak!

The End In Sight

30 Ramadhan, 1442

18.02

Nearly there.

21.00

Got there with Fuad, Rozita, Fafa and Fifi to help us break our fast. Good to be in company for a moment of small celebration. Now need to reflect on where 'there' is and know the place for what it is.

Privileged

29 Ramadhan, 1442

I tried to book a place at prayers for Eid this morning, but it just didn't work out for me. The on-line system for bookings for prayers in general put up the specific link for Raya at 10.00 am and I went in on the dot, only to get repeated messages about the server not being available. My guess is that the system was overwhelmed with enthusiastic brothers and sisters trying to get their places. I kept trying to get in to the system for 15 minutes, but since I was actually teaching at the time I couldn't keep going any longer. My class finished at 11.00 and I went back in right away to find the link now readily available, but every place in every mosque on the island fully booked. A bit disappointing - I'd been imagining being able to enjoy a 'full' version of Hari Raya Puasa, as opposed to the much reduced 2020 model.

We'd also been planning for two sets of guests on the day, now reduced to one small group in line with the adjustment of the government's guidelines. Again, disappointing - but not as much so as the full lockdown imposed in Malaysia ahead of Eid. We were talking about this last night and Noi made a number of wise observations about both the need for the lockdown and ways to make the best of it.

Surely that is what our understanding of Ramadhan demands of us? Yes, it's good to celebrate a successful month of fasting, but the real celebration is the one in the heart. If we add to the well-being of others through considerate behaviour in Syawal we can only be reinforcing the lessons of the month. We are privileged to get through the month at all in reasonable shape and without being tested in any genuinely extreme way - unlike so many other Muslims.

I know this sounds 'preachy'. It's meant to. Sometimes we need the clarity of knowing exactly what the right thing to do, the right way to behave, is. The knowledge gives us purpose, and purpose gives us meaning.

Not Entirely At Ease

28 Ramadhan, 1442

I tend to think of the final days of the fasting month as ones involving a certain degree of ease. The finishing line is in sight and the body has adjusted to the challenge of not eating or drinking from dawn to dusk.

But today was a welcome reminder that it's not always quite as simple as that. I got back from work in time for the Asr Prayer - and struggled to do the necessary. Then, upon completion, I went into full scale collapse, lying helplessly, haplessly on our sofa, utterly drained. Nothing could have made me move for the next hour and a half or so.

Finding the wherewithal to get moving again, making myself human and preparing to break the fast took some doing. But it was done - in itself a reminder that there's more to us than we might think even as we discover we're much less than we really want to be.

Getting Our Sparkle Back

27 Ramadhan, 1442

We bought a new set of sparkling lights a couple of days back to replace our sadly malfunctioning favourite set of yore. But then we found ourselves unsure of exactly how to put up the new ones. Fortunately we had Fafa come to our aid this evening, and so now we are one major step closer to the Raya celebration.

I'm happy to be so easily pleased.

Glorious Food (And Drink)

26 Ramadhan, 1442

This will sound hideously complacent, but I'll say it anyway. Over roughly a quarter of a century of fasting in Ramadhan my appreciation of the sheer wonder of being able to enjoy food and drink has steadily increased. And funnily enough I don't seem to have to imbibe as much as I used to.

Routines can be very useful, but routinely quaffing and munching is most emphatically counter to our interests. Breaking free of such routines has much to recommend it.

Idolatry

25 Ramadhan, 1442

Power, status, money, celebrity, youthful attractiveness, the cult of the self. The empire of illusion is powerfully seductive; we underestimate it at our peril. This holy month is a bulwark to help protect the self and the wider community against the intrusion of that empire. Let's hope the barrier holds.

Below The Surface

24 Ramadhan, 1442

In a world of surfaces following the fast enables us to dive deep. The challenge is to navigate those depths and remember them when we, inevitably, surface again.

Necessary Caution

23 Ramadhan, 1442

In recent days we've seen an increase in the number of community-based infections related to Covid-19 within these shores. The numbers are by no means terrible, but they've rightly rung alarm bells. The authorities here understand the concept of exponential growth and they have a firm grip on science and common sense - and they are decisive when it's necessary to be so. It's been made very clear indeed that another lockdown is on the cards if the numbers don't improve.

I'm feeling the results already. The gym is now out of bounds, which is both mildly annoying and happily reassuring. It's good to be in a place, no matter how far it is, in which an admirable commonality of purpose serves to bind the community. We've been lucky here so far, and there's a decent chance that we'll continue to be so.

On The Rise

22 Ramadhan, 1442

I cleared my examination marking for IB over the long weekend, although I still need to check-in daily on my team to see if anyone needs help. Listening to tens of Individual Orals is somewhat wearing, but it was something of a change from marking written scripts. No difficult handwriting to have to figure out - but one or two orals that required a third listen-to to make sure I'd understood what was being said.

To my surprise the thing that I found most irritating was the number of candidates employing uptalk - the constant use of rising inflections at the end of statements so that they sound like questions. Initially I found this somewhat endearing in its hapless tentativeness, but it wears you down, especially if you get batches of it. I had to consciously avoid marking down out of annoyance. I suppose it was a good thing I was doing the marking in fasting month as I was unusually conscious of the need for charitable patience.

Thank goodness uptalk hasn't infiltrated its way into local patterns of speech. Not so far, at least.

In Production

21 Ramadhan, 1442

As we move into the final third of the fasting month Noi is stepping up production in the kitchen. This is a familiar scenario. The biscuiting is in full swing, which means that Hari Raya isn't all that far away.

They taste as good as they look, by the way, just in case you were wondering. 😊😊😊

Even More Complicated

20 Ramadhan, 1442

Having arrived at the final chapters of Tariq Ramadan's The Messenger, I'm struck by the unrelenting nature of the challenges faced by the Prophet - peace be upon him - to the very end. I suppose all Muslims tend to think of the triumphant return to Makkah as the endpoint of the story, but existential threats remained even after the capitulation of the Quraysh. Indeed, the assimilation of the converted Quraysh was, in a sense, as much as threat to the ummah as it was a triumph.

What simplifies the impossible complexities of the survival and expansion of the first Muslim community on the Arabian peninsula is the character of the Messenger himself. To be confronted by that exemplar of complete integrity is compelling to say the least. When I first read the story I recall the fascination attendant upon the unpredictability of the narrative, the sense of being a spectator to something both extraordinary and curiously satisfying - knowing that this was an encounter with a kind of 'rightness'.

Encountering the tale again, the novelty has gone, but not the sense of compulsion, the satisfaction. Those are stronger than ever. 

In Company

19 Ramadhan, 1442

This evening marked our first communal breaking of the fast this year. We had Fuad & Rozita & family around along with the equivalent from Hakim & Intan. Amicably noisy & celebratory. Unfortunately the twinkling lights we put up in the afternoon failed to twinkle, or, at least, three quarters of them refused to light up so the celebration wasn't quite complete. A reminder that you can't have everything even when you think you can.