Finally

Just finished The Unconsoled and I am officially mystified. I thought that the ending of the novel might shed some light on what Ishiguro was up to in his narrative, but for this reader it was not to be. The narrator's final conversation with the electrician on the tram and his eating of a hearty breakfast are as baffling to me as the rest of the book, yet readable in a strange way. Is this meant to be symbolic and, if so, why is it I haven't a clue as to what is being symbolised?

So far I've managed to avoid googling around to find some guidance on this peculiar text, but such is my current bafflement that I'm intending to do exactly that in the next hour or so. I'll just say, for the moment, that I've been wondering if something archly Kafkaesque is going on - like Ishiguro mixing social comedy with FK in a peculiar literary omelette. I suppose that might account for the lack of any obvious ending.

Actually, for much of my reading I was expecting some kind of Dostoyevskian meltdown at the big concert/gathering of the final pages - and felt a vague sort of dread at what I thought was coming. I've also been toying with the notion that the text is intended as some kind of extended dream or exercise in being lost in memory, but can't reach any kind of clarity with regard to such a reading. I suppose I've been hoping for some kind of revelation as to why Ishiguro opts to write so badly, but the light has not yet dawned.

More anon. I think. Unless nobody has a good explanation as to what the 500+ pages have been about.

Showtime

Any time spent out with The Missus is, by definition, a good time, and I generally enjoyed yesterday evening's jaunt to the cinema at the Jem Mall. But I can't honestly say that sitting through the film we watched, Mat Kilau, the highest ever grossing movie in Malaysia, was an unalloyed pleasure.

Quick review: nice costumes (but too clean); good use of locations & sets; some effective cinematography - though very tiresome indeed on the (many, many) action scenes; tiresome soundtrack; patchy acting, occasionally dreadful; dreadful script; historically inaccurate to the point of being disturbing (very.) 

Now gearing up to watch our own production - The Independent Stage Guide to Using Your Imagination. Actually I've not yet seen the final edit of the show put together by our editing team, so that's one aspect of the piece that'll be entirely new to me.

And here's a first for this Far Place, with me providing a link to this evening's proceedings. It goes live (as they say, these days) 7.30 pm (local time) at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-MRkkaSJycw. 

Wakefulness

Enjoyed a rare free afternoon after Friday Prayers, having no pressing work commitments. Took advantage by falling massively asleep for a couple of hours on the sofa. The necessity of the snooze wasn't in any doubt since I'd been nodding in the masjid and zoned out for whole portions of the khutbah, sad to say. I also need to be on top form this evening as we're off to the cinema for the first time this year. (Indeed, for the first time for a few years.) The booking is courtesy of Fafa, by the way, who's just earned a promotion at work and is treating us!

Irony Alert

Listening to a talk today about the need for patience, found myself growing increasingly impatient. Massive fail on the self-improvement front, eh?

Top Man

Excellent article in the Graun on-line today about RVW. Didn't know it's the great man's 150th anniversary this year and very glad indeed it is since that'll mean a lot of airplay of his great, great music and appreciative articles, like this one by Andrew Manze (who's described as a conductor, but who I know better as an outstanding violinist, having got a couple of CDs of him doing the business with Handel.) Big anniversaries often involve a sense of a reputation shifting, and I reckon Vaughan Williams is moving into universal acceptance as one of the 20th century greats in international terms.

Astonishing to think that back in 1958 he was being dismissed by the critics as passé. Good example of the stupidity of 'received critical opinion' if you ever needed one. 

Just A Thought

Had that odd experience this evening in which a train of thought, quite a negative, bitter one, took me over for a good ten minutes or so. And once the rant - internal - was over, the thoughts dissolved, as if no longer belonging to me.

I wonder if this is what writers experience, in a larger, more controlled, more clearly creative manner when inhabiting a character? A kind of benign possession. Especially writers of a theatrical bent. Dickens springs to mind.

On Silence

Just popped out quite late at night to lock up a couple of classrooms. Enjoyed the relative peace on the corridors, but was keenly aware of the night sounds accompanying my tread. Thought briefly about writing something clever about the sounds 'staining' the silence, but realised that, quite apart from sounding pretentious, it was just the wrong word. The sounds enhance the silence somehow, and if that sounds pretentious then too bad. It happens to be true.

Still Foolhardy

The air-conditioning was down yet again in the gym this evening. And, yet again, I decided it was best to give it a go, this time for forty-five minutes. This time I felt significantly more in control than I did last Monday. It helped not having done a full day's work before stepping out on the elliptical trainer I suppose. In fact, I had it in mind to speed up a bit at the half hour mark if I felt okay and was ready to do so up to twenty minutes in. But, then, I started to experience that slight sweaty tingling that says you'll end up wanting to throw up if you push too hard and, sensibly, just maintained my pace.

One of the great things about getting regular exercise is that you get better at listening to what your body tells you, even if you don't speak the language like a native. 

A Loss Of Momentum

I've been extremely neglectful of my reading of poetry of late. So it was with a feeling of mild guilt that I picked Volume 2 of The Complete Poems of A.R. Ammons off the shelf this evening and applied myself to the third and final section of his book of 1987, Sumerian Vistas. I'm a bit puzzled as to how exactly the various poems in this section, itself titled Motions' Holdings, are meant to cohere, if at all. They are generally dated, and the dates are very disparate - yet the first two sections of the book are clearly carefully sequenced in a Snow Poems-like manner. Having said that, I don't find the poems particularly hard work, as I did back in June with the earliest material from Volume 2.

One thing I'm struck by in relation to Ammons' work: he's not a poet I find myself wanting to quote. In part this relates to the obvious fact that the poems are intended to be read from the page, rather than to be heard in public performance. There are striking phrases here and there, but it's the cumulative power of the experience of reading Archie that points to where the action is.

Which, oddly, reminds me just a little, of the effect of Ishiguro's The Unconsoled, with which I continue to make slow but happy progress. I can't imagine anyone reading this aloud for an audiobook. The style is so markedly clumsy and ponderous that it becomes weirdly entertaining in itself. Still trying to work out what exactly it is that I'm reading.

Filling The Gaps

Here's an odd thing. I've been a bit of a fan of J.S. Bach since the earliest days of my discovery of 'serious' music in my twenties. I 'got' the Brandenburg Concertos right away, for example, and loved the Passions from the get-go. But for reasons that completely escape me I've never sat down to listen to the cantatas and never heard one performed live.

Recently I've been putting that right simply because various of the cantatas have been cropping up in my YouTube feed. For once the algorithm got it right. Just blasted my ears with the four glorious minutes of BMW 50 Nun ist das Heil und die Kraft. The world is now officially a better place.

(Hope I got the title right, by the way. I haven't a clue what it means, or what they're singing about.)

Signing On

I rarely sign petitions. In fact, I can't remember signing any prior to this evening. But when I saw the one on Open Culture related to the denial of a Pulitzer to one of the greatest musicians of the twentieth century, reaching for my metaphorical pen was a no-brainer.

Which reminds me: I must listen to my three-CD set of the Blanton-Webster band over the weekend and refresh these tired old ears.

Getting It Right And Wrong

The late Sir Roger Scruton is the kind of conservative thinker I deeply admire even though I disagree with him on a number of key ideas. I came across a brief talk from him today on The Tyranny of Pop Music which is full of brilliant insights, brilliantly expressed, yet there are moments when I reckon he doesn't really convince, essentially due to his limited knowledge of the field. The great thing is that encountering and sometimes being challenged by such thinkers forces one to think even more deeply about one's fundamental prejudices, predilections and presumptions.

Working Up A Sweat

Sweated profusely in the gym yesterday evening, and almost as profusely - but happily - in the sun this afternoon. How so? The happiness was occasioned by the fact that we completed our exterior filming of three key items for our show The Independent Stage Guide to Using Your Imagination, which we can now get on with editing. We'd slated the shooting of the pieces for the public holiday of a week ago, but covid infection amongst our performers messed up our schedule. We'll be going public with the show a week later than planned, but that's okay, and if rain had prevented filming this afternoon we'd have been in real mess. But it didn't. So all's well, even if my shirt was sweatily soaked through.

Unfortunately all's not well climate-wise in the land of my birth. Just watched some residential buildings down in Kent catching fire in real time on Sky News on this day of record temperatures. Wonder what the climate-change deniers are making of this? (Actually one of my former colleagues and her husband - lovely people - fall into that category and my question is a genuinely puzzled one.)

A Bit Foolhardy

Got to the gym this evening to discover that the air-conditioning therein was not functioning. Decided to do my standard 40 minutes of pedaling regardless. Not sure this was wise. Kept monitoring my heart rate to ensure it didn't get too far over 160, but the last 5 minutes were quite a trial nonetheless - one in which I think I was found guilty. Hah!

A Bit Too Slow

I'm very much enjoying Kazuo Ishiguro's The Unconsoled but am reading it at a very slow pace indeed. I'm roughly only a quarter into the novel, still not having completed Part 1. The thing is that the narrative itself deliberately touches upon tedium, or so it seems to me, but a kind of surreal, fascinating tedium. I haven't got a clue as to what it's all supposed to 'mean' but I'm keen to get to the end and try and figure it out (and check what the critics say, or said, about the book.)

Actually, in terms of style it's an easy read - no difficulties of expression or the like. So I'm wondering if I'm supposed to be reading fairly quickly and grasping how all the bits and inconsistencies (and there are many) fit together. Wish I wasn't so busy with the Toad, work, but that's just the way it is.

Six Minutes Of Joy

I've been listening of late to various voices reciting bits of Tom Eliot's greatest hits - usually whilst shaving. A particular favourite is the poet's own voice, with his quite extraordinary accent, but I'd give first prize to Alec Guinness, especially in action on Four Quartets.

But it was only just this evening I chanced upon Groucho paying homage to the recently deceased Eliot, with a reading of Gus - the Theatre Cat. Genius. Well, two of them, actually.

Blast From The Past

Came back this afternoon and played Nick Drake's Pink Moon. Started to imagine what it might have been like to have watched him live, a privilege I was never granted. Suddenly the name Jonathan Kelly popped into my head, a singer songwriter I did see live all those years ago, as a solo performer, supporting The Strawbs. In contrast to the famously shy Nick Drake, Mr Kelly really knew how to work an audience in addition to being an excellent singer and player.

It occurred to me that I'd been so impressed I'd gone and bought his latest album, which was no small matter when I was dirt poor. (I was around sixteen at the time.) I also realised that I'd played that album to death and come to know it really well. In fact, I'd learnt a couple of the songs from it. Yet I couldn't remember the title and had no memory at all of a single song.

So it was YouTube time and I duly found Twice Around the Houses, the disk in question. Good stuff. With better luck I reckon Jonathan Kelly could have been quite a star. I also reckon I had pretty good taste in music at sixteen - which I suppose helps account for my impeccable taste these days. 

At Sunset

I was on my way back from checking some rooms for classes in the evening had been opened when I saw one of our students rushing to the main doors of the boarding school. I was a bit puzzled over his haste since I'd seen him happily eating dinner a little earlier and there didn't seem anything going on that required running around for. Then I realised he was brandishing his phone to take a picture of the glorious sky over the main building.

It was worth rushing for, I can tell you. I didn't bother trying to capture a shot myself as my limited skills with any kind of camera guaranteed my inability to do it justice.

I thought about mentioning the sunset to Noi once I got back. But I didn't need to. She was waiting to do the Maghrib Prayer, and looking out of our bedroom window appreciatively at the view afforded of the darkening sky from there. Must say, my own evening prayers revolved around my appreciation of the extraordinary beauty we'd been gifted.

The Damage Done

Got an update from niece Cheryl on her mum. It sounds like Maureen is increasingly reluctant to leave the care home, but at least she's getting out with Cheryl and Caroline on a regular basis for a cup of coffee. So likely not a bad sort of life. And a sober one it seems: entirely a good thing.

There's also talk of medication to help prevent further memory loss. If that can be done my sister might just get quite a few years of life of a decent sort of quality. Praying for that outcome, but not necessarily optimistically. Sometimes the damage we do just can't be put right. (In darker moments I'm apt to think it can never be put right.)

Gently Does It

Now feeling unconscionably pleased with myself for getting to the gym this evening. And it looks like I went about things sensibly enough to avoid injury. Held myself to a sensible 40 minutes on the peddling machine, whatever it's called, having estimated I could probably manage a bit more than 35 minutes as long as I was feeling okay after the half hour. Noticed I was mildly trembly when getting off, but managed to do a bit on the weights nonetheless. Hoping I won't feel any worrying aches & pains on the morrow.

To be honest, I doubt whether I would have got myself in action were it not for the fact that today's filming for the show didn't quite go to plan. A couple of the cast for the items intended for the afternoon have come down with covid, so we needed to postpone. We got on with setting up the sound for the items, both outdoors, so a bit challenging and needing advance preparation. But we'd basically finished by 3.00-ish, so it was 'Home, James, and Don't Spare the Horses', to get a stack of jobs done in time for a relatively unencumbered evening.

Oddly enough I felt a strange sense of something like freedom as I was sweating away just now. 

In A Silent Way

Eid al Adha, 1443

Attended a fairly packed prayers at Masjid Darussalam for Hari Raya Haji this morning and celebrated the occasion at home with family in the afternoon. Then Noi went off to Melaka with Rozita for a couple of days. Now in an unaccustomed quiet considering what lies ahead. As usual, plenty.

Filming And Fasting

09.45

Fasting today ahead of Hari Raya Haji. Feel a bit low on energy, which isn't very helpful since we're also busy filming for our drama production. Hoping to stay on top of things but can see a struggle ahead.

16.40

Wrapped up a very successful day of filming. Now headachy, very.

20.25

Considerably revived after an elegant sufficiency of teh tarik, longan & cake. Helps to have the twinkling lights twinkling away again.

I've been thinking lately of getting back to the gym, now that it's been two weeks since my second booster injection and I'm officially allowed strenuous exercise again. I did wonder this morning if I might try a session later today. However, I've come to the conclusion that with over 14,000 steps  and 47 floors climbed in the course of the filming it would be pushing it a bit too hard to attempt anything else. So I'm just going to take it gloriously easy, thank you.

Somewhere Else

Spent eleven minutes in a better place earlier today. Transported from the school's SAC to Copenhagen, sort of. 

Sheer Delight

As I noted briefly back in mid-June, progress on the second volume of The Complete Poems of A. R. Ammons has been somewhat halting. In fact, after getting back here I've hardly opened the tome. Which led to a vague feeling that poetry was lacking in my life.

Fortunately that lack was addressed today by Carol Rumens's offering over at her Poem of the Week page in the Graun. To be honest I was astonished (and sort of delighted in an odd way) that I'd never read John Clare's Clock a Clay before. I regard myself as more than a bit of a Clare fan, so how I've contrived to miss this gem is beyond me. When I checked in my Oxford Authors edition of the poems it was in there, so there's no excuse.

But that leads me to the happy thought that once I've pushed my way through to the end of the Ammons's volume I might well tackle the Clare collection in earnest and unearth further wonders. Come to think of it, I've never read a poem by Clare I didn't enjoy.

A Change Of Pace

Just made a start on Kazuo Ishiguro's The Unconsoled after completing the extremely funky Blue Moon. Talk about a contrast! In the opening pages Ishiguro's narrator gets his ears bent by an astonishingly loquacious hotel porter for several pages on the gripping topic of how many pieces of luggage it's possible for him (the porter) to carry without placing them on the floor and why he follows a code that dictates porters should not put the bags that they are carrying down. In the equivalent number of pages in Child's novel no doubt Jack Reacher would have dispatched at least two bad guys (usually more) in highly satisfying and inventive ways.

The funny thing is that I'm already gripped by Ishiguro's narrative. Funny thing, fiction. 

In The Flow

It's been a long time since I've been involved in running rehearsals for a production for the stage - and it will continue to be so. We got clearance for public performance a little back, but too late to actually take advantage of the return to something like normality (essentially due to budgetary constraints - too complicated to explain.) However, we're busy preparing for something we'll put out on film and the biggish scale means this one is starting to feel like something being worked on for the stage. The most recent rehearsals have felt uncannily close to what we'd normally be up to for live performance, to the extent that I've sometimes had to check myself commenting on likely vocal audience reactions and how they might affect pacing.

I hadn't forgotten the fact that I deeply enjoy such rehearsals - despite the work involved - but it was good to feel that depth again. To be honest I can't quite figure out what I find so rewarding, other than the simple pleasure of watching good work from talented performers - but I don't try too hard to think it through, preferring just to sit back and enjoy the experience. I suppose I achieve something close to what psychologists think of as a state of flow. Lucky me.

A Man In Need

Nominally a day of rest. For me a day largely spent working, inspired by the fact I really, really needed to. Having no choice is deeply motivational, eh?

Holding On

Here's a little inspirational, or maybe cautionary tale, whatever, from last night:

So there I am attempting to talk to someone from HMRC, the British tax people, on the phone. Anyone who's ever bravely attempted to do so will know there are lots of numbers you can ring on just about any issue, but you'll be put on hold for an age before you get through, and if you do get through the fellow at the other end is by no means guaranteed to be particularly helpful. So I'm phoning in the early evening, when it's late morning over there, and I've given myself a reasonable amount of time to wait, equipping myself with a bit of work to do while I do so.

To my surprise I get through to the department I need in just over half-an-hour. Not too bad. But the guy at the other end sounds a bit slow and a bit baffled. It takes a good four minutes just to complete the security check and he's got no idea at all how to answer one of my key questions, despite being the advisor who's supposed to handle the fact I'm questioning why I should pay more tax in a situation when I am very sure indeed why HMRC has got it wrong. In fact, he himself sees quite quickly they've got it wrong (because, though a bit complicated the issue is hardly mind-boggling stuff, and understanding this stuff is, I assume, his job) but he's still stuck on key details - like what I need to do next.

So he suggests it's best to transfer the call to another guy at another department. I'm a tad puzzled as to why the other guy will know more given that the title of his department isn't so obviously connected to the situation I'm in, but I agree. Foolishly. I sort of assume I'll be transferred right away but realise over the next minute I'm simply on hold again and starting the whole process from zero.

A good hour goes by. (Not so good, to be honest, but I'm sensibly getting some marking done.) I tell Noi I've pretty much given up and will end the call at 9.00 pm, since we're intending to eat soon after. I sort of forget about cutting the call and it's 9.05 when I decide to do so. At which point, to my astonishment, I get through. And, to my greater astonishment, this guy is satisfyingly knowledgeable and clear. He grasps the problem instantly and tells me what's best to do and how the whole thing will play out over the next two months, with me getting a fair bit of money back. Very reassuring.

I suppose there's a moral or two to this tale, but I'll settle for accepting the fact that once in a while it's worth waiting patiently on the phone despite the appalling muzak you must endure.

Looking Back

Just watched (again) P. Ramlee's classic movie Madu Tiga from the early sixties. Felt nostalgic for a Singapore I never knew. Never such innocence again (and certainly never so politically incorrect. Can't imagine an out and out feminist watching Jamil's escapades with his three honeys/wives and her not throwing something at the screen. Pretty funny to imagine such a viewing in itself.) 

Was reminded of the older Carry On films which I loved as a kid. Gosh, I miss them.