Mr Teh Tarik - 7

We were roaming our old stomping grounds out on the East Coast early this afternoon and decided on a snack at the Al-Azhar Cafe at Geylang Serai - located on the premises which housed the estimable Mr Teh Tarik Cafe at one time, before Mr T.T. shifted across the road to the market. The teh tarik gajah was happily excellent: hot & sweet in the appropriate proportions. The curry puffs weren't bad at all, either, being genuinely that little bit hot.

I must say, it felt good to sit there, awaiting the Chinese New Year in our own way. But I have to confess I found myself viewing my surrounds to some degree through the lens provided by Meira Chand's A Different Sky, specifically relating to her account of the war years and the Japanese Occupation, the section I reached in my reading yesterday. Of course, I was aware of this dark background to our Far Place prior to reading the novel, and I've sometimes thought of locations in which I've found myself as they were in relation to the events of that time, but she does such a good job of conjuring the sense of everyday details of the period that it was difficult not to reminisce about a past in no real way my own. The magic of fiction, eh?

Except that A Different Sky isn't especially magical, to be honest, though very worthy and extremely well researched. As I think I mentioned before, it's a solid read, but there's something predictable about it, something conventional, something limited - at least, that's how I feel at the halfway point. But perhaps Ms Chand will surprise me. 

I was thinking about this in relation to one of her characters. His nickname is Wee Jack and he's the main communist (so far.) And so far it looks like he's going to be the type of the unreasonable fanatic. I'm wondering if she'll do more with him than trade in that stereotype, but I'm not terribly hopeful. It's a pity, I suppose, he didn't discover the joys of teh tarik (well, not yet, he hasn't); it might have inculcated an unexpected tolerance.

All Too Human

After uploading my shot yesterday referencing our spidery encounter at Labrador Park, I thought I'd better provide a few of pics of the bigger and messier creatures undertaking the walk there, and the earlier outing to East Coast Park in the middle of the month. If we look fairly jolly, it's because we were.

Unmoved

We kept ourselves moving at Labrador Park this morning. Lots to admire in our surroundings, but the gorgeous spider above was the highlight for me. Perfectly still in the perfection of its web. Impressive as it was, I don't think the fellow thought too much of the big messy creatures dropping by for the photo-opportunity.

Still Not Stopping

I began posting from this Far Place pretty much fifteen years ago to the day, and conducted a sort of minor review of proceedings at the end of its first decade. Five years on I'm happy to report that my readership hasn't grown at all. I'd be seriously worried about my bad influence on the world if lots of folk were dropping in on my intemperate ruminations, but, other than yourself Gentle Reader, most of the population sensibly avoids contact.

My original aims in writing this also stand: to let friends beyond these shores know I'm somehow still ticking over; to enjoy the sound of my own voice, and see what happens to it when I go mildly public; and to practise writing to make myself a tad more authentic as someone who's supposed to teach others how to do it. And this being the case, I reckon I'll see if this can be kept going for another five years or so, God Willing.

There might well be changes in that time, related to my earning of a living, with retirement highly likely at some point. And perhaps a change in content might not be such a bad thing. Indeed, much as I appreciate, along with Prince, the joys of repetition, fresh pastures have their allure, eh?

Let's Ban Some Books

I think that at one time I would have been righteously outraged over news stories about the banning of obviously worthy books in the classroom by the champions of decency, like today's bleak little tale about the banning of Art Spiegleman's Maus  by a group of 'educators' on a school board in Tennessee. (By the way, I promise to avoid any snide references to the oddities and limitations of third world countries, and the like, in relation to the particular nation involved.) But I honestly found myself unable to find this anything other than very funny, based on my suspicion that right-thinking youngsters of a Tennessean persuasion are more likely to get hold of the offending text now it's been torn from their metaphorical grasp and read it with a reasonable degree of attention if only to find the offending 'curse words' and 'nudity'. (I just can't remember any of this from when I read the offending text, which, I suppose, means I'm so corrupted I just didn't notice.)

Indeed, the whole scenario fits beautifully into my cunning master-plan to get youngsters really involved in the wonderful world of lit by banning all of it. I know this sounds a bit crazy, but think about it. Let's take Shakespeare as a test case. There's no problem in outlining a wide range of reasons for any of the great tragedies being banned from the classroom. King Lear, to take but one example, is so obviously beyond the pale in its extreme violence and demented sexuality to make one wonder how anyone ever thought it was a good idea to put it on a reading list. So once we sensibly make clear to students they should on no account corrupt themselves by reading it - or, worse still, watching it staged - I reckon sales of the Arden edition and various DVDs will go through the roof.

Job done!

Other Places

Caught a few minutes of one of those spectacular Natural History documentaries helmed by Sir David Attenborough for the Beeb earlier in the evening. It was about deserts and it was typically mind-scrambling. Suddenly I found my protected little world expanding and I was, temporarily, in a better, richer, place.

Not Long Now

I'm not a great believer in the virtues of hard work for its own sake. But I will admit, there's something satisfying in its own way about feeling very tired at the end of a week of work and crawling into bed. The thing is, though, that when you feel that way on a Tuesday night it's a signal that all isn't exactly well. 

Looking forward to crawling into dreamland some time very soon!

Staying Alert

Prompted by one of my students recommending I listen to Sufjan Stevens's Fourth of July, a track I know very well, from Carrie & Lowell, I went on a mild SS binge over the weekend. Was very happy I did so, and quite startled to realise that I really don't know the material on The Avalanche (the outtakes album from the wonderful Illinois set) as well as I thought I did. This means I'll need to revisit the CD over the next week or so, a welcome diversion from the routine, I must say.

I suppose this is why I remain generally committed to listening to CDs, rather than going down the streaming route, apart from simple inertia-cum-laziness. The act of really getting into a CD forces something like concentrated listening, which brings its particular rewards. I suspect the ease of streaming might result in lazy listening, for this audient at least.

Still Getting Started

My Januaries are often characterised by a distinct sense of derailment as far as getting on with my reading in general terms. This January has not proved a notable exception, though in recent days I've begun to get back on track to some small degree. I suppose this might be connected to a slight easing in the demands made by the Toad, work, but it might also relate to an increased determination on my part to carve out some kind of life as the working year begins.

I've not exactly made wonderful progress in reading the work of WCW in 1939 - 40, but this is partly because I've deliberately slowed up at the translations of the Jean Sans Terre poems. To be honest, I've no idea of the French background of the series; I don't even recognise the name of the writer, but I've found Williams's versions fascinating since they are so uncharacteristic with their deliberately clunky rhymes and rhythms. Thus, instead of breezing through them out of happy familiarity with the voice of the writer, I've been pulled up short and had to read and read again, almost in slow motion, to grasp the poems. It's been a salutary reminder of just how essentially experimental WCW was throughout his career, how ready to try out forms and idioms that didn't necessarily flow from his centre, as it were.

The other book I've been making progress of a limited sort on has been Meira Chand's A Different Sky. It's a fairly mainstream popular novel of the well-researched history-cum-romance-cum-family-saga set in mid-twentieth century Singapore - the setting being the basic reason I wanted to tackle it. So far, so good, I'd say, having reached 1940, about 100 pages in. Predictable, but not in a bad way, and written with genuine craft. On a simple level, I've learnt a fair bit about day-to-day life on the island in the pre-war years, including the fact that an Englishman working in a business at that time needed no fewer than fourteen suits to keep up appearances. That's fourteen more than I possess, by the way.

I suppose my sustained reading has centred on the periodicals I got hold of at the back end of last year. Must say, I found each one very readable in its way, and a reminder of how reading the real thing in hard copy seems so much more engaging to me than the stuff I read online. I was particularly taken by the end-of-2021 edition of The Mekong Review and am seriously wondering if I should pick up the editions I missed in the months of the pandemic which are available at Wardah Books, if I'm not mistaken.

Something Like Grief

I've been thinking about the problems Dad had catching his breath, on this the anniversary of his death. Well, not so much thinking as remembering the wheezing. Painful to listen to, it must have been extraordinarily difficult for him to deal with.

Almost half a century away. Feeling an echo of something like grief.

Looking Back

I've seen a fair few British Prime Ministers come and go. The earliest I know I have actual memories of was the Tory PM Alec Douglas-Home who came just before Labour's Harold Wilson. Oddly enough Mum and Dad seemed to have some respect for the fellow, regarding him as a decent sort of bloke. Not sure how die-hard Labour supporters reached that conclusion, but it was a sign of a fundamental sanity in politics as they were practised back in the day. Since then there have been a fair few leaders I have roundly detested, but even at their egregious worse (I'm thinking of Thatcher here, who Mum utterly detested) I didn't doubt a basic competence in them and their administrations.

I suppose that's what's so strange about current circumstances. The lack of even entry-level competence in relation to the current UK government, and the grotesquely stark absence of anything approaching a sense of integrity, is both comical and frightening. How did we get to this place? (Fortunately, my happy sojourn in a very Far Place means the question only really troubles me when I watch Sky News or read British newspapers, and it's fairly easy to avoid both - or just turn to the football results instead.)

A Fresh Perspective

Yesterday I chanced upon a 1981 recording of an interview with John Lennon's Aunt Mimi that I've never seen before. It's lovely to watch - very moving in a quietly dignified kind of way. I've never put much store in the kind of biographical material that depicts her in a negative light. It was so obvious how much John loved and respected her, and the eight or so minutes of the interview make it abundantly clear why this was the case.

Funnily enough, I think they also tell you a lot about the groundedness of Lennon himself. Yes, he could be daft at times, as can we all, but it's so obvious listening to Mimi where he got his scathing good sense from.

At Rest

Another pretty frantic day, but managed to find a bit of time to gaze out of the SAC window at the view pictured above. So all was well.

Random Play

In recent months I've figured out how to play the iTunes stuff I've downloaded on the car's stereo system. Quite a step forward for me, by the way, and I did it on my own without any help from my various IO Consultants (Unpaid.) But it was only over the weekend that I started to play stuff in random mode rather than playing an album at a time.

The effect of this on my hearing was revelatory. Not quite knowing what was coming seemed to make me focus twice as hard as usual and recognise more intensely the qualities of what I was hearing as it seemed so fresh. There was also the curious joy attendant upon some strange juxtapositions.

Here's the list of performers/composers that leapt out at me in a random sequence on Sunday morning: Toru Takemitsu ↦ Van der Graaf Generator↦ Ennio Morricone ↦ Richard Thompson ↦ Malcolm Arnold ↦ Joni Mitchell. Must say, I'm pleased at the oddness of that list.

On The Move, Again

Staged a reprise this morning of our New Year's Day jaunt to East Coast Park in the same jolly company as on the previous occasion. Much nattering, many steps, and, of key importance, several cups of teh tarik to keep the machine running.

It was unreasonably hot, to add to the fun, and I spent the early afternoon happily knocked out by my efforts. I prefer this to the gym, but I'm not sure it's actually making me any fitter.

Heartening

Carved out the time today to watch the second half of It - Chapter 2. Lots of sound and fury, sometimes creating a bit of a visual overload for this viewer. But a well-told tale with lots of heart. Found myself unreasonably moved on two or three occasions.

Yet again I managed to forget enough of the plot of the novel to feel that what I was watching was full of surprises, and I suspect the film-makers took enough sensible liberties to make this genuinely the case even for those with better memories. Oddly, though, my involvement with the characters as recalled from my reading added considerably to the emotional heft of the movie.

Hooked, Again

It looks like I'm becoming a Steven-King-movie-of-the-novel junky. A few days ago it was Doctor Sleep though a chance discovery on Netflix. Now it's It - Chapter 2, through the same medium. I'd sort of forgotten just how much I'd enjoyed Chapter 1 and, for some odd reason, thought Chapter 2 wouldn't work as well since adult performers in the roles of the Losers wouldn't work as well as the brilliant kids in the first film. I was stone-cold wrong - and am delighted by the fact that the second chapter features the characters intermittently as youngsters again, nicely interweaving their story, or stories, with the story, or stories, of their adult selves.

Similarly to my viewing of DS, I'm having to watch It - Chapter 2 in bits and pieces since I can't find time to watch the whole in one go. But in its way this episodic viewing works since I'm breaking off on the cliff-hanger moments (of which there are gloriously many) and I'm being kept in wonderful suspense.

In The Headlines

For the connoisseur of unlikely headlines today's New Zealand man has cockroach extracted from ear three days after feeling wriggling was something of an unforgettable classic. The problem is, though, that in many ways I'd like to forget the story. Not one to click on for the faint-hearted.

Under The Influence

You know you're well beyond your sell-by date when colleagues make determined inquiries about when you intend to retire. At least one thought I'd already done so and apologised for saying farewell in November 2021. The funny thing is that I have no recall of the event. I think I assumed it was the usual bye-bye before the long vacation.

Since folks are clearly expecting a new direction for me I announced in a meeting the other day that when I did retire I had it in mind to earns lots of cash as an 'influencer' (as they seem to call themselves) on social media. This created much merriment. Can't think why.

Hooked

Chanced upon the film Doctor Sleep on Netflix yesterday and, highly unusually for me, just couldn't stop watching it. Didn't manage to view the full two and half hours on Monday, despite being hooked, since Noi also had something she wanted to watch, but watched to the end tonight. Happily I found I'd forgotten most of the plot of Steven King's excellent follow-on to The Shining, and even more happily I suspect the film-makers rightly had played fast and loose with it anyway. (My copy of the novel is on the shelves of Maison KL, so I can't do even a cursory check.)

In fact, the film draws as much on the Kubrick movie, it seemed to me, as it does on King's novel, especially in the final sequences in The Overlook. The result is that the mythic power of both the movie and King's earlier novel come together to powerful effect.

I don't think Doctor Sleep is a great movie (or a great novel, in its written incarnation) but it's a very, very good one. It lacks the monomaniacal obsessiveness of The Shining, which was a great movie (and a great novel). The supernatural apparatus of the Inner Knot (I think that's what the bad guys call themselves) is well done, but doesn't touch the mythic power of the Very Bad Place. But, having said that, the cast of DS are excellent and the lady playing Rosie the Hat is disturbingly sensational. Oh, and Ewan McGregor is note-perfect as the haunted Danny Torrance.

Keeping It Real - 1

Had a rather intense moment today when goofing off for a few minutes and listening to soothing sounds over a cuppa. Happened to be staring out through the SAC window - one of my favourite views. As I zoned out to everything around me the music - something from Radiohead - became more real than I felt myself to be. Indeed, the thought occurred that the music most likely will still be very real for someone when I'm long gone. Oddly comforting idea.

It's Just A Number

Funny things, numbers, aren't they? They're so definite, so actual, so real - except they're not.

I was thinking of this in relation to all the figures I posted yesterday relating to what my clever phone tells me about the steps I take in a day (assuming I'm carrying the phone, that is) and the flights of stairs I negotiate. Yes, they give some insight into what I've been up to, but they don't come close to the whole story.

It's strange how the numbers can affect one's behaviour, though. I'm thinking of those times when I start to wander off somewhere without my phone and then actually consider going back for it so as to add the steps I'm about to virtuously accumulate for my score. Fortunately I've never gone back for it.

And then there's the great mystery of exam results: condensing someone's experience of an entire discipline of thought such that the number scored comes to represent the whole experience. I hope most of us sanely appreciate that the two do not equate. But I do wonder.

In Action

It proved very easy indeed to fulfil my resolution for the new year to Keep Moving on returning to work. Frantic movement characterised last Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. This was by no means a bad thing since the gym remains closed, so moving around my place of work provided necessary exercise. These days my handphone is smart enough to count my steps, and these are the numbers for those days: 13,937, 10,025, 8,919, 13,430. Not exactly spectacular figures, but indicative of covering a reasonable amount of ground, and you'll just have to trust me when I tell you this was generally done at a fair rate of knots. Also, I've got the stats for flights climbed each day, which goes some way further to explaining why I felt thoroughly cream-crackered yesterday evening: 24, 19, 21, 30.

I should add that in previous years there have been far more frantic days. I know that sometimes when I've been directing productions I've clocked something like 18,000 steps and 34 flights climbed for a week or so at a time. The funny thing is that at those times I've rarely felt extreme tiredness. I suppose I must adjust to the pace as a year goes on - thankfully so.

I should also add that, despite the above, I'm no great believer in the stats involved. It's how you feel inside that counts. But biggish numbers can be comforting in their way.

Even Stranger Days

On this date last year I found myself astonished at what was transpiring in the US. I suppose I vaguely thought that things really couldn't get much worse. One year on and credible commentators are indicating that things have got a lot worse, and the tipping point may have been passed already.

We live in interesting times. Unfortunately.

A Homecoming

Noi cunningly arranged for a bouquet to be delivered on Tuesday to John and Maureen's house back in Hyde. The happy occasion was the return of my sister to her home after several months of rehab. We're hopeful that this time the treatment works and, as far as we can tell from a considerable distance, the signs are good. According to my niece, Cheryl, her mum can now have perfectly coherent conversations and sounds like her old self, except for the fact that her short term memory has gone.

I managed a brief exchange of words with Maureen on the phone yesterday, though she seemed a bit uncomfortable. I'm not entirely sure she grasped who exactly she was talking to. But at my end it was a relief to hear her again. I wasn't convinced she would ever be able to move out of care and it's great to be proved wrong.

Getting Started

Unusually busy day today due to the odd coincidence of several overlapping but separate concerns coming ferociously together. The four main ones: busy meeting a new form class, as it is known here, with the attendant admin stuff to attempt to cover; very busy day on my timetable of actual lessons to teach up to 3.00 pm; busy giving out IB exam results to my form class from last year with the attendant admin stuff to deal with; busy having to get to the airport (fortunately after 3.00), to pick up new scholars from Vietnam and dealing with all the airport regulations about picking in-coming passengers up, then installing the guys in safe quarantine back at the ranch.

It took a looong time at Changi Airport waiting for the new guys to get through all the testing on arrival, so a late finish to the day was guaranteed - though Noi and myself enjoyed a nice cuppa waiting for the flight from Hanoi to touch down. (Then she went back home leaving me to it in line with the rules on minimising contact with those arriving from overseas.) The funny thing was that the airport staff and folks involved in all the ushering and testing were incredibly helpful despite the system being, understandably, very, very strict so it was impossible to feel any irritation. Indeed, it struck me that quite a few of these had had busier days than yours truly if truth were told.

I suppose in a vague way I enjoyed most, if not all, of the day - but I'm hoping that things calm down soon. I'm definitely getting too old for this!

Expanding Horizons

Over the years I've found myself relying on two music-themed blogs to both get me thinking and increase my awareness of what's out there that I've never heard of but am very likely to find simpatico. Richard Williams's blog the bluemoment.com is a treasure trove of info related to the kind of rock/blues/jazz and what-not that rings my bell, and loudly so. So I was a bit disappointed at Mr Williams's announcement of a hiatus after 760 posts, but then that's a lot to look back on. (Incidentally, this is the 5000th post here at this Far Place. Just saying.) Mind you he has a book to write, which is a pretty good excuse for taking a break.

At least I've still got the wonderful On An Overgrown Path to rely on for expanding my horizons. I loved a recent post relating to RVW, and found it reassuring that good old Pliable rates Vaughan Williams so highly. It was fascinating to take note of the brief but spot-on list he provides of key works that really demand regular programming and radio play: Very few other composers can offer the Classic FM appeal of The Lark Ascending and Tallis Fantasia, the abrasiveness of the Sixth Symphony, the filmic allure of Sinfonia Antartica, the mysticism of A Pilgrim's Progress, and the serenity of the Bunyan-inspired Fifth Symphony. 

I would add to that the tuneful London Symphony and the gloriously melancholic/bucolic Third Symphony, the magisterial Job, A Masque for Dancing (more great tunes) and Flos Campi, for which I've run out of suitable adjectives, except to say when I heard it in the concert hall it blew my tiny mind. Which is a reminder to give one of those pieces a spin right now.

Making Connections

In a post from mid-November I mention embarking on a reading of the 10 plays in Connections 2012, sensibly talking about taking the volume slowly. And that's exactly what I did, though I had in mind a completion date before the new year. Well, I'm happy to report that I managed to read the final play before December was out.

This volume turned out to be somewhat more varied in terms of the backgrounds of the various plays than Connections 2013, since the dramas were commissioned under the banner 'Ten Plays about the World' according to the editors. Thus, I was hoping that I might well come across something that my drama guys might tackle in public performance - but this was not to be. However, I enjoyed the diversity of material (typical of this series from the National Theatre) and I am wondering whether we might be able to use Meera Syal's brilliant Generation Next as a kind of template for a piece of our own. (Shameless ripping off is what I have in mind, I'm afraid. But, hey, this is Theatre and what worked for the Bard is fine by me.)

On The Move

Made a good start to the year with Noi and myself taking a bit of a walk early in the morning at East Coast Park with chums Boon & Mei & Yati.

As you can see from the evidence above, we sensibly combined the walking bit with plenty of teh tarik and prata for breakfast.

The sheer enjoyment of the experience (the walking, not the nosh) served to convince me that my resolution for the year ahead needed to move away from reading, a field in which I'm automatically resolved as it is, to something more physical. Indeed, John Harris's excellent piece in the Graun from a few days back was a reminder of walking as a kind of radical act, a notion of deep appeal to the activist in me.

But I've decided to try and get beyond the relatively narrow notion of walking. So here it is: In 2022 I am resolved to Keep Moving (in a radical sort of manner.) Pithy, eh?