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.