Beyond Words

The day ended, indeed the month itself staggered to its conclusion, on the highest possible note in this household. After a tough day I was revived by no fewer than two bowls of Noi's trusty lentil soup, accompanied by crusty bread of such perfection that it beggars description. (Actually, I'm easily beggared on the descriptive front preferring to avoid putting into words an experience that transcends language.)

Drawn In

The last time I posted about The Song of Achilles I'd reached Chapter 7 and was hoping to be drawn in. Well, I'm now at Chapter 26 and most assuredly gripped by a very fine novel. Once the world occupied by Patroclus and his mate (in several senses) Achilles opened out into the wider Aegean - basically when they found themselves under the tutelage of Chiron - I found myself feeling for them, for want of a better term. Indeed, that whole world came to life for me.

Miller is astonishingly good at conjuring the pain attendant upon a culture obsessed by male notions of honour without explicitly criticising such notions. Indeed, at times she seems to validate that culture, to some degree recognising its virtues, and seemingly accepting it as the way things are. But then you realise how much she undercuts what I suppose would now be seen as toxic masculinity in vignettes like that of the pitiful Deidameia, so ruthlessly abandoned by Achilles - and, yet, rightly so, somehow.

The only aspect of the novel that doesn't quite work for me (so far, at least) is the blending of down-to-earth naturalism in the 'ordinariness' of the characters and their daily lives with the mechanisms of the supernatural. The moments when we get a sense of Achilles as genuinely godlike and fated are wonderfully done, but they take me to a place I can't quite accept.

I might just change my mind, though. Again.

No More Heroes

Slightly digressed from my reading of Madeline Miller's The Song of Achilles (of which more soon) to read Tennyson's dramatic monologue Ulysses. The last time I read it with any intensity was when I taught it for 'A' level in the 90s, and I'd forgotten just how great a poem it is. (Teaching Tennyson is a useful way to remind oneself that he has a definite place amongst the greatest poets, by the way.)

There are a number of killer lines in the poem (killer sections, indeed) but for some reason the great hero's almost throwaway mention of a greater hero floored me. It's when he thinks of a possible encounter in the after-life:

       And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

So simple, but perfectly poised rhythmically. The monosyllables build to the majestic name, and the line gorgeously, sadly falls away on what sounds like a kind of boast. Sometimes it's enough just to have been around incandescent greatness.

A Matter Of Interest

Something else I'm feeling a wee bit guilty about. Despite the problems the pandemic has caused for so many, and the sheer misery it has heaped upon more than a few heads, I can't help but find the situation, in both international and its more localised aspects, deeply interesting. The last year and three-quarters have provided a gripping education in epidemiological terms and, I suppose, extraordinary insights into human behaviour at its worst and, sometimes, best.

Above all it's the indeterminate nature of what we know and understand regarding how to protect ourselves from the threat of the virus that strikes me as furthering a healthy sense of human limitations, despite our occasional successes in limiting its ill effects. I talking to Noi earlier this evening about what we might expect this time next week regarding the spread of infections on these shores and what that might mean for future steps towards some kind of return to normality. My guess, for what it's worth (very little, I'm afraid), is we'll see over 3,000 cases a day by then. That's going to be terrible news for some, and will inevitably have terrible effects for others, but, paradoxically, might make re-connecting with the world easier in the long run.

A Bit Guilty

Guilty pleasure: The Equaliser - the very, very good Denzel Washington very brutally disposing of some very, very bad guys, in some very, very final ways. What's not to like, eh? Watched it today, and not for the first time.

At The End Of The Day

Am about to hit the sack, suitably tired at the end of the week. But not so tired that I won't be able to listen to some sweetly discordant sounds. I'm thinking of nodding off to a bit of VdGG. Always a good way to go.

Afterword: Not sure it was such a wise decision to listen to A Grounding in Numbers so close to slumber last night. I enjoyed doing so, but a bit too much, finding myself reluctant to completely nod off with all the fun going on.

Making Adjustments

For the first time ever today I heard the word endemic used as a noun in the context that we are moving into an endemic. The phrase jarred, and still does, but there's a kind of logic involved, isn't there? After all, we worry about being caught in an epidemic, and we're living through a pandemic. So, by extension, we should get ready for the endemic.

No, sorry, it still jars. But if it catches on here, and I can see a real possibility of that, I can imagine it sounding perfectly natural to these ears after a year or so. After all, I can now live with characters in a novel being relatable and not flinch, or reach for the red pen.

(By the way, if you reach for a dictionary you're likely to find 'endemic' accepted as a noun - after its primary classification as an adjective - but in quite a different context to the above. But funnily enough, I don't think I've ever actually heard it used as a noun even in the context in which various authorities say it's allowed.)

Extremes

Came across a great interview with Pete Townshend talking at some length about his mate and (possibly) the greatest rock bassist ever, John Entwistle. I thought I knew a fair bit about what made The Ox such an extraordinary musician but I realised there was an awful lot about what he brought to The Who that I didn't grasp.

I couldn't help but think of how extraordinary it was that this amazingly talented musician was also a more than capable artist (as you can see if you check out his cartoons for the cover of Who By Numbers.) And I then couldn't help but think of how sad it was that, over time, his demons got to him, especially the ones that come out of a bottle.

Which brought one final, cliched thought/question to mind: Is it the case that those blessed with unreal levels of creative ability pay a price for that in terms of the demons/daemons that drive them? Cliched, yes, but for me fascinating - and sad - to consider.

Living Like Royalty

I've never envied the Windsors anything. The fact that I detest them is down to how deeply depressing I find the very idea of unearned privilege. But that didn't stop me from readily assenting to the Missus's suggestion that she bake some scones this afternoon from a recipe entitled 'The Queen's Favourite Scones'.

Based on how good they tasted I can almost believe HRH rates them highly.

Not Connecting

I'm reading Madeline Miller's The Song of Achilles having received the novel as a very kind gift for Teacher's Day from a generous colleague. It's not a book I would have chosen to read, but I feel sort of compelled to do so. I find much to admire in the writing, so far, at least. Yet for all the virtues of the text I haven't been able to connect so far.

As one might guess from the title, it's a re-telling of the story of the great hero of Greek mythology, this time from the perspective of his friend Patroclus. I'm seven chapters in and the two are now around thirteen-years-old and the homoerotic aspect of their relationship is gathering pace, but not doing much for me, I'm afraid. It isn't that I disapprove exactly, but I've never found Achilles even a remotely interesting character and in this telling he's still not coming alive for me, except as an idea.

Mind you, there's a lot of the novel left to go and I've learnt to avoid rushing to judgement on any text, so I'll just crack on and hope to get drawn in at a deeper level than just admiration for finely turned sentences.

Sad Sundays

The headache from the booster vanished quickly enough, as did the discomfort in my arm. So today has seen me in pretty robust health - which makes it doubly curious that I've felt oddly melancholic all day. It's felt like a faint echo of the sad Sundays of childhood, exacerbated by thinking about various sad and lonely individuals I've known of. Fortunately I heard fairly good news of both Maureen & John when phoning Cheryl just now, so things could be worse, though for both of them the future is fuzzy, to say the least.

A Bit Thick

Duly got my booster shot for the Pfizer vaccine yesterday evening. The procedure was all typically very efficient and went entirely without incident, being followed by a rather splendid cup of teh tarik at the little hawker centre next to the Clementi Community Centre, when I'd gone to get the jab.

Not too many after-effects - in fact, less of a sore left arm than after the original jabs for the vaccine. However, I felt quite a bit more thick-headed today than previously and resorted to taking some Panadol in the afternoon for a bit of relief, which came quite easily. A very small price to pay for the protection afforded though.

As you might guess, I have little if any sympathy for the whole anti-vaxxer thing that's going on in some quarters. The movement strikes me as an indication of a massive failure of the notion of a scientific education.

Comedy Gold

Watched Eric & Ernie, a BBC drama from 2011 today. As the title suggests, at least to any Brit of my generation, it was about Morecombe & Wise, the funniest double act ever. And, amazingly, they really were friends in the deepest sense. The guys playing the titular characters were brilliant, as was true of the whole cast. At the end I was laughing and crying pretty much at the same time. Just lovely!

A Sour Taste

Noi has been following a series, one of her Malay dramas, on the Sensasi channel, now at Episode 40, regarding which she's been unusually vocal in complaining about the various characters' behaviour. I haven't really followed much of what's going on (no subtitles, so I struggle a bit) but I do get her general point that there's little if anything to admire about the folks on display and the way they go about their lives. Everyone seems reasonably well-off (a lot of nice houses and interiors on display) but they all seem so sour somehow.

It's a fine distinction to make but I think there's a considerable difference between those who deal with the world with a kind of enjoyably bracing cynicism and those who just seem to want to pull their faces over every little thing. You really wouldn't want to spend time mixing with the characters from the show; indeed, I'm not exactly sure it's wise to spend too much time viewing their exploits. Forty episodes strikes me as more than enough - perhaps thirty-nine too many?

Mixed Feelings

As an 'at-risk senior' I've been given an appointment to get the booster shot for the Pfizer vaccine this Friday evening. I'm acutely aware of my food fortune in this, and was feeling pretty good about the situation until half an hour ago. That was when I read Vikram Khanna's blisteringly good piece in today's Straits Times on vaccine inequity.

Now I feel very guilty as well as very fortunate. It's an uneasy combination.

Addendum: Why did I write food fortune above? I was going to edit, but I enjoyed the phrase too much to obliterate it from consciousness.

Quite An Atmosphere

I reckon the music for Kubrick's 2001, A Space Odyssey provoked a lot of my generation into an exploration of 'far out' sounds that, in a few cases, led to an open-eared, appreciative exploration of atonal heroes like Gyorgy Ligeti. I was reminded today of when I first heard his wonderful piece Atmospheres at the back end of the movie (or bits of it, that is) and thought That's so far out and groovy man, or words to that effect. The reminder came in the form of my discovery today of a video of Simon Rattle and the BPO giving it what for in a glorious rendition of the piece which I managed to listen to twice in between what I was really supposed to be doing.

The funny thing is that the visuals provided by Sir Simon and his jolly men (and women) proved more illuminating in terms of what the music is actually up to than all Kubrick's visions. It reinforced something I've come to understand about the way I hear music: seeing how music is made helps me make sense of whatever sound world I am accessing. Deny me that and my ears lose something somehow.

Real, Real Gone

Enjoyed Dave Chua and Koh Hong Teng's graphic novel Gone Case. Very impressed with Mr Koh's art work. Expressive in relation to character and beautifully detailed in terms of the scene-setting. Mr Chua's story-telling is effective, exploring the ordinary and mundane, the sheer banality of Singaporean life in the 1980s (or thereabouts, I assume) in ways that remind us that nothing is ordinary when viewed in close-up.

Not Exactly Working Out

It's been a long time since I strutted my stuff in the gym. The last time I was there was in early July (around the 4th) following which I suffered a protracted bout of sciatica and the authorities here closed all gyms in view of the iffy numbers with regard to the pandemic. Since then I seem to have made a complete recovery with regard to the pain experienced in my left leg - a recovery for which I am deeply grateful given the fact that when the pain grips it does so in a manner that suggests it intends to stick around for a long time. In fact, I also seem to have got over the problem I had with my right arm which meant I couldn't do anything related to the weights in the gym. I remember thinking I'd nearly recovered back in July but not fully, so I seem to have made welcome progress on that side of my body also.

Given the fact I felt in particularly good nick this afternoon after getting a bit of book-vacuuming done, and that Noi had popped round to Rohana's for the day, I thought I'd check and see if the gym was now open. Given the additional fact that the pandemic hasn't exactly gone away - and the numbers for Covid-19 infections are looking iffier than ever at the current time - I very much doubted I'd find the doors open. And I was right. But not to be deterred from getting something done, I elected for a few laps of the track, brisk-walking style.

To be honest, I didn't feel that I was stretching myself in any real sense. But having said that I suppose any form of getting up and getting going can't be a bad thing. Plus, getting some gentle exercise done to get the left side of my body back into something like serviceable shape is probably no bad thing. I was also sensible enough to keep reminding myself as I circled that I couldn't feel any discomfort at all in my left leg or right arm and that alone was cause for celebration.

As Good As It Gets

Just back from dining out at Jalan Kayu. A bit of a family get-together, though given the busy lives we lead we weren't able to get everyone assembled. A good try, though, and in an uncertain world as good as it is likely to get.

There's a distinct wisdom in being more than satisfied over the great good fortune of being able to enjoy a family dinner.

Gripped

I've been reading Stephen King's The Outsider over the last couple of days; indeed, it would be fair to say that I've been racing through it, to some degree against my better judgement. I'd like it to last longer, but I really need to know how it ends.

What a strange talent King possesses. You could try and analyse it, I suppose, but his ability to tell a story that grips because you actually care about the people the story is happening to seems to escape cold-blooded analysis precisely because there is something warm and alive about it.

I suppose I found mid-period King a bit tiresome, as if I knew all the tricks and was just content to play along with something that didn't entirely convince. I'm thinking about stuff like Needful Things and From a Buick 8. But since Full Dark, No Stars the Master has been firing on all cylinders and I, for one, am blown away.

Worthy Of Consideration

Just finished the first novel in Iain Banks's sci-fi Culture series Consider Phlebas. Not quite as outrageously imaginative as Liu Cixin, but getting there, and considerably better written in terms of basic style. My only reservation lay in the fact that I thought the action was overdone. Mr Banks clearly enjoys destroying things (as does Mr Liu, now I come to think of it) but it gets a bit wearing after the third or fourth semi-heroic escape.

I'm sure I'll find myself reading another in the series at some point, but it won't necessarily be all that soon. I can't be doing with an excess of over-excitement.

Now That's What I Call Art

Spent a very jolly afternoon at the Asian Civilisations Museum with Noi and Fifi. It's well worth a visit simply for the standing exhibitions but we were there specifically for the Life in Edo special exhibition featuring some glorious woodblock prints. I didn't realise that the prints were accompanied by a display of some photos by Russel Wong based around the present day equivalent of the floating world, but I was happy that they were given the simple beauty of his work.

Poring over the various prints it struck me I could have happily spent a few days just looking at them. And more than that, I realised that this period, these artists and their aesthetic represent what is far and away my favourite form of visual art.

A Good Cup Of Tea

When I first read Alexander Pope's Epistle to Miss Blount, on her leaving the town, after the Coronation I suppose I felt quite sorry for the young lady in question. But some years later I can't help but think she was on to quite a good thing in moving on: She went from opera, park, assembly, play, / To morning walks, and prayers three hours a day. / To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, / To muse, and spill her solitary tea, / Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon / Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon.  I suppose I'd miss the plays but I'd welcome the coffee and tea most definitely, though in my case sharing these with the Missus would be a hugely important feature of the quiet life.

I mention this as a completely irrelevant prelude to the main thrust of my post today. This pertains to good old Lipton's Yellow Tea. Just a few weeks ago I was astonished to learn that this noble brew was regarded by some friends as a sort of lower class tea, not fit for those with a discerning palette. Bah! say I, and forcibly so. It's an excellent cuppa and preferred above all brands by those who really know (i.e., me and the Missus.) I'm sure Miss Blount would have found the lonely hours in the country speeding by on her lazy old clock had she only had access to the tea-bags in question.

Guilty As Charged

Those clever people at the Guardian on-line (who are probably not really people at all but even cleverer bits of technology that I don't understand, and never will) have contrived to make Yours Truly feel even more guilty than he normally does this early in the week. I've just read (major error) their latest message to me regarding how I am one of their top readers globally. It seems that I've now read 4271 articles in the last year and am worthy of their thanks - and a relentlessly logically convincing request that I should be paying for what I read in order to keep this level of journalism alive.

They're right of course, and I'll be figuring out the best way to cough up before the end of the week.

I do intend, though, to keep recommending the Graun as an on-line location well worth a visit to my poverty-stricken students as it remains laudably buckshee. At least that'll make me feel I'm really getting my money's worth.

Still Surviving

It's been almost a year since I endured & enjoyed an epic massage courtesy of Kak Sabariah, Noi's massage lady of legend. Yesterday I received the full treatment for some three hours for the best part of the afternoon and today I've been dealing with the attendant aches & pains - all worthwhile in the long run, I think. (I hope.)

Run-Down

Noi and I popped out this afternoon to buy some bananas, for frying purposes, from the market at Teban Gardens on the West Coast. We also enjoyed a cuppa with some tasty kueh whilst we were at it. Actually the whole of the market and the attendant hawker stalls and shops struck me as being a bit run down. Not exactly dirty, but by no means fresh and clean. It also struck me that I felt entirely at home there - I suppose sharing much in common.

More Blues

Since discovering the brilliance of Skip James on YouTube I've been regularly making time for some of those long-ago merchants of the blues, who somehow contrive to sound so immediately in the moment. Today I treated myself to a taste of Blind Willie McTell, of whom it has been said, or rather sung, that No One Can Sing The Blues Like...

Isn't it strange that a nice white middle-class Jewish boy understood that great truth? And not only understood it, but made us all aware of it at the deepest level of feeling. And was able to do that more than once.

When folks mutter about cultural appropriation and insist on the politics of identity they should be made to listen to that which transcends all politics all race all identity and simply embodies human truths.

Shedding Light

Excellent article by Samuel Moyn, a professor at Yale, on the US creating a world of endless war, featured in yesterday's Guardian on-line. Particularly powerful in its understanding of Obama's involvement and genuine thoughtfulness in the process (of the legitimisation of drone strikes) and its readiness to identify him as something close to the villain of the piece despite him being sincerely well-meaning.

I suppose this is all at something of a tangent to recent events in Afghanistan, but it strikes me that without some understanding of the wider context any attempt to grasp what is happening there must necessarily fail and leave us flailing in a disturbing darkness.