Too Bad

I feel bad about taking the opportunity to mock various fans of the Arsenal now their team are languishing at the foot of the Premiership. Unfortunately, I don't feel bad enough to stop myself. Hah! 

Mind Blowing - I Mean Really

Just finished Liu Cixin's Death's End. Got completely immersed in it, though I only vaguely understood the science. Whatever doubts I had about the first two volumes of Remembrance of Earth's Past - and there weren't many by the time I'd read The Dark Forest to its conclusion - were swept away by the final volume.

I suppose I should attempt to say something about the kind of reading experience offered by Death's End, but I honestly can't at this moment as it fried my brain. I'll just say that the sheer scale of the thing is awesome (and I mean awesome in terms of epic literature, not as in Mr Connor you are an awesome teacher (which I'm not)). Just when you think Mr Liu has reached the limit of reasonable imagination he takes you to the unimaginable - somehow made imaginable. Oh, I give up trying to explain. This is just glorious stuff, and I'll have to leave it there.

A Bit Extravagant

Came across this today in Robert Burton's The Anatomy of Melancholy: One supposeth himself to be a dog, cock, bear, horse, glass, butter, etc. He's detailing the symptoms of melancholy, more specifically Extravagant Humours. Difficult to think of anything more extravagant than a chap thinking of himself as butter, though it's the etc in the list I love. So many possibilities...

Wise Conservatism

As I mentioned the other day I find being intelligently contradicted in my basic assumptions very useful. It isn't necessarily the case that I abandon those assumptions, but when I hold to them it's usually with greater depth and nimbleness of thought - or, at least, I hope it is.

Generally I'd characterise my political leanings as being of the liberal if not outright leftish variety. So it's important to me to be exposed to those of the opposite leanings who've obviously thought their positions through in impressive detail. I'd classify Prof Ed Feser - whose philosophical writings I've long admired and benefitted from - as one of those thinkers. When he writes of contemporary American politics on his blog I think I can see his weaknesses, to be honest, though I'm a bit hesitant to say so given his cutting clarity when it comes to his critiques of those who don't share his way of thinking. But when he examines the best traditions of conservative thought he's unbeatable.

A recent post on Confucian thought is a case in point. His exposition of the Sage's ideas struck me as masterly and, as he argues, apposite to our own troubled times.

Mr Teh Tarik - 3

I've never been let down by the excellent teh tarik from the Muhammadan Stall at the market at 353 Clementi Avenue 2, and I wasn't let down this afternoon. Plus, the curry puffs they sell are well worth one's attention. Noi and I enjoyed a cuppa and a puff (or two) there after I'd attended the late session of Friday Prayers and I'm glad we did.

My only criticism: they don't serve the up-sized gajah version of the tea, but you can't have everything.

The End Of Something

I finished the last of the medicine prescribed by my back doc today. He thought it important that I finished the full round to ease the stiffness in my back that was still troubling me when I last saw him. It's been quite some time since I've felt any pain at all in my left leg, so it looks like the bout of sciatica is officially over. That's a sentence I'm delighted to write.

I'm now considering trying to get back to the gym, which I think is open again. But I guarantee a gentle start. I have enough memory of just how bad this recent bout felt to want to ensure I don't overdo things and suffer a recurrence.

The Big Sky

Thought I'd say a bit more about our jaunt to Jurong Lake Park earlier in the month, as well as posting another picture - this time of the girls with their long-suffering parents. Actually, the bit more I want to say is brief - it was a lovely afternoon with the kind of sky that's a sort of perfection in itself. Some more pictures above as evidence.

Something To Cheer For

Good to see the Tokyo Paralympics getting reasonable attention in the media on the opening day. But worrying that the first case of covid has already surfaced amongst the athletes. Some of these guys are more at risk than the average due to their underlying conditions, so hoping the protocols are firmly in place.

Just listening to the story of one of the equestrians in the US team, who lost both legs when she was just seventeen, in the suicide bombing at Brussels Airport in 2016, as outlined this evening on CNN, was a powerful reminder of just how much the participants in the games give us to cheer for - regardless of nationality. (Though, to be honest, I'll be cheering Team GB just that bit louder than the others. Hah!)

A Bit Of A Concern

I tried ringing brother-in-law John last Thursday, that being my sister, Maureen's, birthday. She's still in the home she was admitted to a few weeks back, and I already had a strong sense she was likely to stay in there from John's account of her dementia. Anyway, since I haven't got a number for the home, and I'm not exactly sure how Maureen might react to a direct call, I was calling John to get the latest on Maureen's health, and his own, and to find out whether the card we sent arrived on time, and how he would get it to her, given the fact that the restrictions resulting from Covid, and his own issues regarding mobility, meant that he couldn't actually visit her. In the event it turned out I couldn't get through to John that evening, or the next, or the next.

The odd thing was that I got a few answers to my calls, but they seemed to come from random strangers who generally didn't answer coherently as the line was bad or emphatically told me I had the wrong number. Another peculiar thing was that I rarely got the usual sound of the phone at the other end ringing. On the two or three occasions I did, the ringing was curtailed after 30 seconds or so and the familiar recorded voice told me something to the effect that the phone was not in use at that time. When I found someone to talk to at the other end it followed a period of silence once I'd dialled and the voice would abruptly break in (something that happened with John once or twice in earlier calls.)

This continued until yesterday. I wasn't particularly worried about not getting through, assuming there was something wrong with John's phone, or the whole system was wobbly. Of course, we felt some concern - which was mounting - but thought that if something really terrible had happened then someone would have got in touch. Then it occurred to me that I had Cheryl, my niece's, phone number somewhere and that it made sense to ring her to see if she could shed light on what was going on.

It turned out she could. John was hospitalised early in the month - I think just after the last time I phoned - with quite serious bleeding on the brain and a couple of other problems. He'd been put on oxygen for a time, but generally he's recovering. Fortunately Maureen isn't worried about not hearing from him as Cheryl and Caroline keep telling her she spoke to him just recently and Maureen happily accepts this, not being able to remember otherwise. Cheryl reckons that the sensible thing now would be for him to sell the house and buy a smaller property customised to his lack of mobility and that Louise could then look after him as a carer. This sounded good to me. It's a relief to know that the good sense of my nieces is likely to prevail eventually. It's a further relief that Cheryl clearly expects a full-ish recovery from John.

The only worry now relates to the phone calls. I told Cheryl about them and it occurred to both of us that since I was calling the land-line to the house the situation sounded a tad iffy. Has someone got in there for temporary occupation? Unlikely, I know, but not impossible, and it would explain some of the oddities of the calls. Cheryl suggested that it would be good for Louise to check the house and I heartily agreed. For some reason, probably irrational, I'm spooked on this one. But it's good to know that John and Maureen are in good hands over there.

The Fascination Of What's Difficult

I'm always happy to find myself contradicted in my ideas regarding just about anything, especially by thinkers for whom I have a good deal of respect. It's a great way to keep the brain juices flowing and prevent myself from falling into a lazy pontifical stupor - always a temptation for me where thinking is involved. Coming across the work and reputation of William Logan the other week provided a very useful jolt.

In recent years I've been happily promoting the virtues of a kind of relaxed democracy in the world of poetry, an attitude that somewhat precludes the bracing toughness of the Prof Logans and Geoffrey Hills of this world. I suspect these guys would treat at least some of the verse I admire with scorn and I find that both threatening and fascinating. 

Indeed, some of GH's wise words on difficulty in poetry have been quietly haunting my thoughts since 14 August: In my view difficult poetry is the most democratic, because you are doing your audience the honour of supposing they are intelligent human beings. So much of the populist poetry of today treats people as if they were fools. Isn't that fine? - But strangely suspect at the same time. What would Hill have regarded as populist poetry? Aye, there's the rub.

Non-Stop

It's been a busy old day, I must say. Or, to be more precise, a busy afternoon and evening - but pleasantly so. I spent some three hours or a bit less this afternoon attending the annual Literature Seminar for schools organised by MOE as a 'critic' and, as usual, having a fine old time. Then, after a bit of a break for a reviving coffee, it was off to Arab Street and environs for the evening prayer at the Masjid Sultan followed by a scrumptious dinner at a near-by restaurant in celebration of the birthdays of several family members.

And, having delivered some of those family to their abodes in the north of the island, I'm now back and getting ready to watch some of the recorded work of our Drama guys in an item they've been preparing for Teachers' Day. What larks, eh?!

A Good Listen

I tend to blather on a bit about the skill of listening at work but remain acutely aware of my own deficiencies in this area. This has been brought home to me over the last few days in relation to an album by the wonderful Joni Mitchell.

The first song I heard from her 1976 collection Hejira was Coyote, which immediately struck me as typically brilliant, and I knew the album had garnered excellent reviews. However, it was quite a few years before I heard Hejira in full, which was when I brought it as a CD. (Back in 1976 I just couldn't afford to buy that many records and generally listening to Joni involved borrowing from someone else.) The funny thing is that when I finally owned the album I found I couldn't get that deeply into it. I loved the second track Amelia, but nothing else really hit me, though the whole undoubtedly sounded pleasant.

Of course, I gave the CD a reasonable airing over the years but tended to zone out after the third track, Furry Sings the Blues. I suppose I thought of the songs that followed as being a bit 'samey'. So it came as a bit of a surprise when I realised that one of the best songs off Diana Krall's The Girl in the Other Room - an album I very much like - was, in fact, a song from Hejira. But when I played Black Crow as performed by Joni I sort of preferred Ms Krall's version.

All this has just changed. I finally sat down some four days back and made myself listen to the final four tracks from Hejira, with the lyrics in front of me for added focus, and realised just how marvellously, stupidly wrong I'd been for decades. The variation of form was startlingly obvious. The next day I played the central songs, A Strange Boy and Hejira, and again was blown away. I have no explanation of why I didn't listen appropriately before - but I tentatively wonder whether my omission was related to gender. Perhaps I just didn't enter sufficiently into the perspective of the songs.

Mr Teh Tarik - 2

For all fans of the drink, I need to let you know that the teh tarik at the Ar-Rahman Café stall at Tekka Market, on Buffalo Road, is the real deal - and it comes in the big gajah size. I discovered this last Saturday morning, just after our visit to my back doc's, who presently occupies a nifty office at the Farrer Park Medical Centre - close to Race Course Road & Little India.

Noi and I popped into the Killiney Kopitiam, right next to the medical centre, to munch on their kaya toast and have a quick cuppa, directly after finishing the appointment. Must say, they do a nice cup of tea, but of the conventional variety. When the Missus announced we'd be going to the market, just down the road, I was nothing loathe, as they say. (To be honest, no one says that anymore, but please let that pass.) After completing her shopping, for some oxtail and fresh salmon, she sought out the stall mentioned above and we were incredibly fortunate to get seats at a table right next to it given the current restrictions on seating. In the event, the outsize cup of teh tarik that came to me was a complete delight. Perhaps I might slightly criticise it for being a tad too sweet, but that's to be far too picky.

Funnily enough, Noi is very sure we took John & Jeanette to this very stall on their last visit to these shores - with Ray & Diane also. For the life of me, I have no recall of that occasion. But I'll remember Saturday morning for quite a while, I'm sure.

Bonny Girls

We were out at Jurong Lake Park the other day for the sheer fun of it mainly, but also to take photos of Fifi & Fafa in their graduation garb. There's one posted above and looking at it I can't help hearing Mum's voice in my head saying Aren't they just bonny girls? That's what she said of them, rightly I'd say, the last time we were all in England and Mum was alive. Funnily enough, I can also recall her saying the same thing of their mother before she was married.

And what exactly does it mean, to say a young lady is bonny? Untranslatable, I think. It sort of refers to girls being pretty, but there's a sense of something healthy about being bonny - not at all the super-model stereotype. It's also as much a comment on personality as it is on looks, I think.

The girls were equally bonny as nippers, by the way, but I can't find any embarrassing shots to prove that just now.

Mr Teh Tarik - 1

It occurred to me the other day that, given my expertise in downing copious amounts of hot, sweet tea, I really should provide a public service in highlighting those establishments that provide the best versions of said tea. It's a bit arrogant to claim the moniker Mr Teh Tarik, but I've never been short of a specie of mindless arrogance in the smaller aspects of life, so I'll take on the title for what promises (in a mild manner) to be a lively series of posts.

This very afternoon the Missus and myself found ourselves at Ginza Plaza in the prata place there, niftily known as Jalan Kaya Prata Place (or Palace - not sure). We were treating ourselves to some delicious samosas - big with thick pastry surrounds, not for the faint-hearted - and, in my case, the teh tarik gajah (gajah = elephant = big size.) The tea is always excellent, so I was already considering a glowing reviewing in this Far Place. But here's the thing. The giant glass, a bit like a pint pot in English terms, turned out to contain tea with a distinct ginger taste. I know the Missus ordered teh tarik gajah as usual, but I'm sure I ended up with teh tarik halia gajah (assuming there is such a thing.) And it was absolutely delicious, possessing a bite that off-set the sweetness.

So, a bit of an accident that I ended up drinking it but: Highly Recommended!!

Still Going Wild

As the month hits its midpoint, I find myself almost exactly halfway through Liu Cixin's Death's End and enjoying every page. I have no idea what's going to happen next and am very keen to find out. Even at a time of maximum busyness with regard to the Toad, work, I'm finding time to turn the pages late at night, even if I fall asleep after a couple. (My fault, not the writer's.)

Progress is a bit more deliberate, by the way, in Vol 1 of the great Ammons's Collected, but that's related to the need to relish every page. Usually twice.

A Crooked Man

Senget, was the pithy pronouncement of my back doc yesterday, as he studied my spine from behind and asked me to perform the usual bending movements. The word, from Malay, means something like 'crooked' or 'out of alignment'. It seems I'm a bit higher at the moment on the right, which no doubt connects in some dark way to the pains I've been feeling in my left leg.

The great thing is, though, that the pains have entirely gone. In fact, I didn't take any medicine at all throughout Friday just to check that it wasn't the tablets controlling the pain. However, my doc thinks it would be efficacious to take another week's medicine, I suppose to see if I can completely straighten up, which seems a good idea to me. Actually, I awoke on Saturday with a distinct sense of stiffness in my lower back, a place that hadn't been troubling me that much before.

So I'm not out of the woods yet, to throw in another metaphor, but I reckon I'm near the perimeter. It's my ambition to get back to the gym, but only when I'm sure it'll do me no harm. (To be honest, I'm not sure we're allowed in at the moment, given the recent measures related to the pandemic, so this is hardly an urgent issue.)

Three In A Row

When I posted the other day on the excellent couple of poems that recently featured in Carol  Rumens's Poem of the Week series I was mistaken in saying that this week's poem was the powerful I guess it was my destiny to live so long by June Jordan. I noted this on Monday but by Tuesday it had been superseded by William Logan's Leaf Color. And here's the thing: Leaf Color turned out to be another strikingly powerful poem. And here's another thing: until I read the poems I'd not heard of these three fine writers. Which tends to support my thesis that we live in a golden age for poetry.

Funnily enough it turns out that Mr Logan is an especially trenchant critic of modern poetry and he doesn't think much of most contemporary verse. Well, he's entitled to his opinion, even if he is wrong. 😃

(By the way, another poem that provoked many excellent comments below the line. If you don't quite get anything about Ms Rumens's choices you can always rely on Idowu Omoyele for clear and perceptive explication and analysis.)

A New Beginning

I'm so used to thinking of the football season starting when the cricket is over and the summer is ending, as in days of yore, that I was sort of taken by surprise listening to Sky News earlier when they featured the Premier League making its start over this weekend even though I sort of knew this was the case (since I'd followed the Charity Shield game.)

But I must say I was delighted that my favourite news channel chose to feature the newly promoted Brentford and the issue of racism in the game in a well-crafted report. Funnily enough Peter and I had been chatting about Brentford and others of the less-glamorous teams earlier in the week and bemoaning the fact that they don't any real coverage over here. (Today's Straits Times featured just the big four - and brief references to Leicester and Spurs.)

Even though I support the greatest team in the world, I'm aware of the fact that the success of the game depends upon the Brentfords  and Swindons of this world. (Swindon being Peter's team. Poor chap. Hah!)

Yer Blues

A bit of a mystery: why were so many young British musicians of the late 50s, early 60s, so deeply influenced by The Blues - sounds and voices from another somewhat alien culture? Then listen to the brilliance of Skip James singing Hard Times Killing Floor Blues and the mystery is solved.

Wonder if this speaks to kids these days? Sadly, I suspect it doesn't. Happily, I might be wrong.

Better Late Than Never

2 Muharram, 1443

I'd intended to write something about the Islamic New Year, wishing my brothers and sisters in Islam well, and completely forgot to do so. So this is a day late.

To be honest, I've been so forgetful lately it's embarrassing, but generally speaking I'm the only one who knows (and Noi notices bits and pieces.) Now at my age this might well be cause for concern but I'm reasonably certain that I'm not losing my marbles - at least, not yet. I reckon I'm forgetting the obvious occasionally due to being overwhelmed by the astonishing amount of information I'm supposed to remember at work. (This applies to my poor colleagues as well. I'm not being singled out for any kind of special victimhood.)

I suspect, by the way, that this is true for a good number of the population of most developed nations in most professions. It looks to me like the price of modernity - and it's way too high.

Still Taking The Tablets

I noted a few days back some improvement in terms of a distinct reduction in discomfort with regard to the sciatica that's been troubling me. Happily, that reduction seems to have continued. I say 'seems' because this is all very gradual and, therefore, difficult to measure - and pain is so subjective anyway. But I've got to the end of today without feeling the need to take any tablets, having reduced my ingestion of the painkillers yesterday to just a single dose. However, to be on the safe side I decided to take a similar single dose just now to avoid (I hope!) coming to consciousness in the small hours with an unpleasant ache at the top of my left leg or, even worse, in the muscle adjacent to my shin bone, of the kind that ensures wakefulness in the wee small hours.

We're off to see my back doc this Saturday and if the improvement continues I'll tentatively suggest laying off, or greatly reducing, the medication. By the by, Noi and I are looking forward to the trip since this time we get to go to the tea-place nearby for a cuppa and some kaya toast. On our last visit the restrictions on dining-in - loosened today, hooray - were still in place, which was a bit of a downer. Astute readers will notice how easy it is to please myself and the Missus, which is just the way I like it.

More Riches

I always find something to enjoy in Carol Rumens's choices for her Poem of the Week feature, but the last two poems have been outstanding. This week's I guess it was my destiny to live so long by June Jordan proved deeply moving and strangely refreshing - if that's the right word - for a poem focusing on the terminal illness of its writer. Except that's somehow not the focus. And the narrative of The Maid's Tale by the nonagenarian M.R. Peacocke was compelling, intriguing, rewarding and, for this reader, a tad unsettling, all at once.

Indeed Ms Peacocke's Tale caused much comment below the line simply in terms of how it was meant to be interpreted, and this actually spilled over into the commentary on this week's poem. In fact, the general excellence of the comments sections that accompanied the poems greatly added to my appreciation of both of them. I suppose though, looking at it from another point of view, we must thank the poems themselves for provoking such rich responses.

A Bit Messy

Evidence above of a happily messy day of reading for me, so far. The shot directly above was taken first, when I still had yesterday's print edition of The Straits Times on the go. After that the small heap of books changed location slightly in a vain attempt at organisation.

Actually a couple of the tomes relate to the Dylan album I was listening to this morning. I gave John Wesley Harding a spin and thought I'd follow the lyrics in Lyrics 1962 - 1985. I'm glad I did, being reminded of just how extraordinarily well-wrought they are in the case of this album - some being written in full, ahead of the music, if the Bobster is to be believed (often a dubious proposition.) Then I thought I'd read the requisite chapter on the album in Paul Williams's Bob Dylan Performing Artist, 1960 - 1973, The Early Years and I'm glad I did. Very insightful stuff. Quite brilliant on the sense of the songs challenging what he terms the analytical mind only to dance away from its net. Gosh, that's good!

I also got re-started on the great A. R. Ammons read-through and decided that Cascadilla Falls, which I read a couple of times afresh, having read it previously, it being roughly the point at which I'd sort of stalled somewhat, is a brilliant gem of a poem. To be more precise, I'd stalled midway in the next poem along, the rambling, discursive, almost 500 liner, Summer Session. I loved it, well most of it, anyway - the bits I understood. And, of course, the bits I didn't fascinated.

Words Of Wisdom, And Lots Of Them

Had the sheer good fortune, a couple of days back, to come across a most illuminating talk from 2016 featuring playwright Alan Bennett and director Nicholas Hytner, largely focused on Bennett's brilliant The Madness of King George III. So much of what they say captures the peculiarly collaborative nature of writing for the stage - and for the movies. I know a tiny amount about the first from direct experience of trying to write stuff for the tiniest of stages, but have, of course, zero direct experience of the latter. The little I know distinctly chimed with the observations of both playwright and director.

Aside from being gripped by the insights of those involved in the talk - even the moderator had some astute comments to make - it was riveting, in a slightly sad way, to see the elderly Bennett in action. He seems a bit deaf these days, and somewhat slower than of old in framing his thoughts, but still the clarity and wit of old were there, and it was good to see everyone involved giving him the space he needed to display those qualities.

Inspirational

Sometimes the YouTube algorithm gets it right, it seems. Came across a brilliant performance featuring the incomparable Richard Thompson with kids Teddy and Kami and Jack + a grandson (whose name I don't know). Kami, by the way, looks just like her mum, Linda, which is a bit uncanny. They're playing Wall of Death and the harmonies are spot on, as is pretty much everything else. And the occasional goofy grins add a layer of charm.

What's not to like?

Some Improvement

There's a peculiar sense of drama about sciatica. The pain arrives for no reason and often departs in a similar fashion. So there's no logic that can be applied in any predictive fashion - as far as I can see.

I was hugely happy yesterday to note that the pain generally seems reduced and I was able to put off taking the second dose of all my pills until the late evening. And the same today. I think there's a real possibility that the pain will disappear, though no guarantee, and that'll do for me!

The Height Of Cool

Great day. Ultra-busy, but pretty much every bit was meaningfully, enjoyably, busy. Only having to find a different classroom for a class (because of a break-down) and losing about twenty-five minutes in the process was mildly irritating.

And it was just before said lesson that I was reminded quite by accident of the coolest music video ever made, featuring the coolest performer. Actually the concept of being 'cool' doesn't seem to mean much, if anything at all, to the young people I teach - though I'm so out of touch I may be completely wrong about that. But it did mean a lot to the youngsters I taught four decades ago - as evidenced by the huge popularity in the UK of the American sit-com Happy Days in that period. The key character, The Fonz, epitomised the concept. Oddly enough that wasn't a bad thing in its way because the writers had figured out that the truly cool person was the one who was completely and genuinely themselves and basically didn't care what anyone else thought of that. That message figured in various positive guises in pretty much every episode.

And, of course, the brilliant Christopher Walken epitomises the point as in his sensational dancing (who knew!) in Fatboy Slim's Weapon of Choice. (And having Bootsy Collins himself on bass seals the deal, eh!?)

Great Stuff

Sort of caught up in the Tokyo Olympics, somewhat to my surprise. Actually, I'm dubious about the games taking place at all, hence the surprise, but Team GB is doing so well that the bit of my heart that's patriotic (which is not all that much) is happily beating for our medal winners. The thing is that they're all kind of ordinary, decent and likable along with the incredible talent - and sometimes sheer bravery: that lass from Manchester doing the 360 on the BMX was astonishing. For once, the part of Britain these guys represent - the best part - is genuinely Great.

A Wild Ride

Now I'm thoroughly embarked on my reading of the third tome in Liu Cixin's Remembrance of Earth's Past trilogy (a title I got wrong when I first posted on his work, thinking it was the Three Body Problem trilogy, which I now realise was a bit off the pace.) Actually I started directly on Death's End when I got to the end of the second novel, The Dark Forest, but I found myself a bit too busy then to commit to the epic-looking roller-coaster and its sheer busyness of ideas.

Yesterday I was generally just lying on the floor and contemplating stuff, the perfect time to set off on a mental adventure, even if it was someone else's - and when that someone else has the imaginative vigour of Mr Liu then plenty of Wow! was guaranteed, and delivered. Unputdownable. (I've sort of adjusted to a writer I didn't quite 'get' initially. Now I even enjoy the paper-thin characterisation.)