Real Class

Treated myself to a close listen to some Duke Ellington over the weekend (Money Jungle, featuring the Duke in a trio with Charlie Mingus and Max Roach) and decided I've not been listening to enough of the great man lately. I thought it might be a good idea to seek out live performances by Ellington with his big band on YouTube, and I was right. It was an excellent idea. Their 1958 performance at Monterey provides more than ample evidence of that rightness, and demonstrates the world can be a better place.

Out And About

Just got back from an evening at the IMM shopping centre. It's not exactly my favourite place to spend time since it's usually ultra-busy, but the Missus needed to go there to bring back some suitcases from the storage centre we use there which she'll need to employ for her next visit to the homestead at Alor Gajah and a trip she's making to Jakarta (coming soon!) I also needed to buy some running shoes to replace my old pair which are happily falling apart and there are quite a few sports outlets in the mall.

The funny thing is that I almost enjoyed the visit, basically because on Monday evenings the crowds seem to disappear, presumably having better things to do than wander round a shopping mall after the weekend. I was vaguely reminded of how curiously relaxing shopping was at the height of the pandemic when there were so few folk around. I suppose I have to class myself as deeply anti-social. Which suits me fine.

Under Scrutiny

I'm making oddly intermittent progress in Archie's Ammons's Glare, his long poem from 1997 which I'm now undertaking as part of my read-through of the second volume of the Complete Poems. It's a wonderfully engaging work, generally even looser in its construction than the equally engaging Garbage from four years earlier and, possibly, funnier. But I'm finding that I tend not to pick it up on a daily basis. Rather I reserve it for weekends and tackle long stretches in single readings, as I did today. And I find myself reading it at quite a lick, faster I think than when I first read it as a single volume some years back. A fast-paced reading works well, I think, in keeping somehow with the improvisational spontaneity of the verse.

In addition I've got a novel on the go, this being Mary Durack's Keep Him My Country, passed to me by Angela who picked it up on a trip to Australia - I think, since it's very much an Australian novel. The nice thing about reading novels that someone else passes on is the sense of expanding one's horizons in that these are rarely things one would have chosen to read oneself. I'd never heard of Ms Durack and this work from 1955 but, judging from the introductory chapters, she's a talented writer and I'm finding myself happily engrossed in the harsh terrain of northern Australia, a land of which I know next to nothing. 

In Anticipation

We're roughly a month away from Ramadhan for 2023 - starting 23 March - and I'm engaged in the usual mental preparation to help prepare for the challenge ahead, and its attendant satisfactions. To be honest, in the early stages of recovery from my recent illness I wasn't at all sure I'd be able to handle the demands of fasting and working at the same time, but now I'm looking forward to the experience. With some trepidation, certainly, but looking ahead all the same.

Interesting that a number of websites and the like dedicated to the theme of staving off dementia recommend fasting. Not intuitively obvious, is it? But a welcome note to someone a bit concerned about the healthy functioning of his grey matter.

On The Go

Today marked my first genuinely frantic day of work for the year: back-to-back lessons, followed by a rush to get to NUH for a scan of my lungs, followed by a rush to Prayers, followed by a rush to get back to our drama guys. And then an evening dinner at Kampong Glam with the usual gang. Oh, and I got up a bit earlier than usual to give myself more planning time to handle the logistics of it all.

It strikes me that the feeling of pressure, mild but distinct, accompanying all this was due to the need to remember all the little fiddly things that characterise so much of working life - where and when to obtain the keys to open particular rooms; what needs to be collected and who isn't around to collect from; what emails require immediate answers or actions, and which can be dealt with later, but must on no account be forgotten; and so on, and so on, and so on.

Fortunately I've learnt how to carve out time for a necessary cuppa even when there isn't time, and that was enough to save the day.

Locked Out

Why is it that the wonderful world of high tech brings with it so many irritations? I don't mind submitting references for students for university applications and the like through the various portals (or what ever they call them) that the institutions employ, but when you get messages like: An Error has occurred. Please contact the System Administrator or IT support team, and there's no way to submit anything at all, it doesn't make for the happiest of evenings. Especially when no contact at all is provided for the system administrator or team, assuming these people actually exist. Grrrrrrrr!

Chilling Times

Enjoyed a spiffing morning and early afternoon out at East Coast Park with my class. After which the good times rolled on with the arrival of the Missus and further pawming around the environs. (Evidence above.) Eventually we found ourselves at Parkway Parade, contemplating just how unrecognisable our old stomping grounds had become - though a visit to the Scoops shop there, selling all sorts of healthy nuts & berries & the like, did much to ease the pain of negotiating the transition to the current era. 

The evening featured a trip to the gym, relaxing in a strenuous kind of way, followed by immersion in Noi's patented lentil soup (with bread!) for total relaxation of every fibre of being.

All told an exceptionally chillin' day, as I'm told young people say these days, though they probably don't.

What's In A Name?

Spent the early part of the evening writing down name-lists for classes I'll soon be teaching in a spectacularly old-fashioned mark book. Sort of odd to think I've been doing this for more than four decades around this time of year, or earlier usually. I used to find it extremely laborious, but now it doesn't bother me at all. I experience a feeling of expectation when I note a name, wondering what's in store from the complex individual hiding behind their title, signifier, cognomen, whatever.

I'm guessing that most of my colleagues don't bother with the kind of handwritten lists I employ. But I think they're missing something. I'm just not sure what.

Top Draw

I'd intended to draw out my reading of Alice Munro's The Beggar Maid since I was enjoying it so much. But I couldn't stop myself from reading the second half of the collection today and finishing all ten stories by the evening. 

To be honest I thought the stories dealing with Rose's marriage and love life in the second half of the volume lacked the verve of the earlier stories dealing largely with her childhood in Hanratty, but Munro was still fascinating on the messiness of her relationships - and fascinating on how the life of an individual can encompass so many changes related to their socio-economic background. And the final two stories, returning to Flo and the past, though dealing with Rose's present, were triumphant in their rightness as a conclusion to the whole. 

No surprise she won the Nobel.

Coming Alive

I've never been completely comfortable with the production of Dylan's Time Out Of Mind, despite loving the songs on the album. So I was the perfect audience for the compilation Time Out Of Mind Live (Better than the album!) which I chanced upon this afternoon. It put me in heaven for over an hour. Evidence, if it were needed, for His Bobness as transcendent genius.

Blown Away

Currently reading Alice Munro's The Beggar Maid and very glad I am. After completing the first two stories I jotted down How does she know so much? A genuinely puzzled but appreciative question. She's on another level. The highest. 

I'm trying to recall the title of the collection of inter-linked stories by her that I first read, some six or so years back, I reckon. I remember being impressed, but not quite so much as I am by The Beggar Maid.

Just finished the fourth story, Wild Swans, which involves the central character young Rose being molested as she takes a train journey alone to Toronto. Astonishing writing. Munro takes you there, a place you don't want to be, and every thought, response and impulse of Rose is blistering true and completely unexpected.

Wow.

A Bit Cramped

It looks like I'm on the way to establishing a regular routine regarding my use of the gym and I'm moving around a lot at work since I have no choice. All to the good - but involving one minor downside. Over the last four years or so it's become increasingly obvious to me that any period of enhanced physical activity brings with it the likelihood of frequent attacks of cramp in my nether regions - specifically my feet and my legs below the knee. And over the last three days I've had several minor but painful occurrences of cramp affecting my feet - not a good sign, though so far I've not been awoken from sleep by attacks, which is what happens when things get really bad.

I mentioned the general problem to my back doc a while back and he recommended taking multi-vitamin tablets. I've tried doing so but the jury is out on just how efficacious this is as a remedy. It seems to do some good, but it's not proved to be an automatic cure-all. It's also a wee bit expensive and doesn't fit well with my instinct for avoiding reliance on any kind of pills. So now I'm sort of looking up information related to diet to see if some kind of cure might emerge from an adjustment to my usual intake.

I'm not optimistic as to whether I can really make much of a difference, but there's a curious sense of satisfaction in at least making some effort to stem the ravages of time.  

Happily Complete

An exchange of cards after I did the Maghrib Prayer made my day complete. And, in truth, it was more than just the day that felt completed.

Happily Together

Noi was away again over the weekend, having made her way up to Melaka with three chums. They stayed at one of Khalsom's homestay cottages and had a jolly good time judging from the many pictures taken. As ever, I was more than amply provided with comestibles in the absence of the Missus. In fact, I was unable to finish the shepherd's pie I was left to feast on, which says a good deal about its sheer plentyfulness.

But now she's home again and tonight we're dining on fish - which is very fine indeed by me.

Must say, much as I miss Noi when she's away, there's a quiet joy in coming together again which deeply compensates. 

Happily Concluding

Finished Conrad's Chance today. It isn't in the same league as Nostromo, The Secret Agent, Under Western Eyes and Heart of Darkness, but it's definitely hovering at the top of the second division of the works of the great modernist. This reader really fell for Flora, once he'd grasped her plight, and my guess is that Conrad's early readers felt the same way. I was genuinely relieved that the outcome of the novel can be seen as a reasonably happy one, despite the attendant melancholy. Must say, I also liked the way that Mister Powell's role in the story worked out - unexpected but fitting. Helped considerably in explaining the seemingly slow start to the novel and the curious indirectness of its opening.

It further struck me that Floral's father, de Barral, was a wonderfully convincing villain, and brilliant portrait of a financial speculator - worthy of Dickens, with less of the melodrama.

Caught Napping

Happily nodded off several times in the course of the day. Highly recommended, especially when trying to watch Blade Runner 2049. Seemed an appropriate response somehow. 

Something Gained

Had an appointment at NUH today related to a scan of my lungs undertaken back in November and had my weight checked. I've put on 3 kg since the start of January, I'm happy to report, which means I'm now back at my fighting weight. Ever since I finished the medication I was on intended to prevent epileptic seizures I've generally felt a lot more 'normal' and that's involved an improvement in appetite, which has obviously translated to the gain in weight. The thing is though, that I'm not exactly sure how the neurology people at the hospital will react to the fact I'm no longer on that medication as there's a bit of confusion as to how long I was supposed to take it for. I've got an appointment with them next week and this is something I'll need to clarify, my position being that I'm very happy not to take any more pills and don't feel in the slightest bit vulnerable to further seizures.

Got to the gym again this evening to confirm my general sense of wellness. It felt good. I consider myself 100% recovered. Hope my various doctors think the same way.

Spellbound

You understand I am piecing here bits of disconnected statements. Thus Marlow to the unnamed (so far) interlocuter/narrator who introduces Chance, and listens to Marlow's account of Floral de Barral's isolation and despair - and love affair with Captain Anthony (along with lots of other associated stuff.) And, approaching the end of Part 1 of the two part text, I'm beginning to grasp, I think, why this curious novel was a popular success.

I reckon Conrad's first readers found themselves beguiled by the mystery of Flora - the result of the disconnectedness of the writer's approach to her - and the emotional power of her predicament. He invests the unashamedly romantic centre of the novel with a sense, a suggestion, of some kind of depth that is never quite defined, as if defying clarification.

Part of me suspects that the depth is essentially illusory, that Conrad's magic is that of misdirection. But another part is more than happy to surrender to his spell.

What The Future Holds

I'd been wondering when schools would need to address developments associated with artificial intelligence. In a meeting today it was clear that time had arrived as we found ourselves discussing exactly what students' access to ChatGPT will mean for our practice in the classroom and in more general terms. The simple answer, by the way, is that it will mean a lot, given what the AI involved is now capable of.

I must say, I couldn't help wonder what lies ahead. Colleagues who seemed to know most about the technology involved appeared fairly sanguine as to what we are likely to have to deal with in the near future. But given my understanding of AI I couldn't help but privately entertain some fairly apocalyptic scenarios in educational terms and the real possibility that many current assessment practices won't be able to deal with what ChatGPT v 3 (coming very soon!) will be able to offer. Whether the system (or variety of systems in relation to assessment) will be nimble enough to deal with this strikes me as doubtful.

Hope I'm wrong, otherwise some intense headaches lie ahead before I get to retire!

(I wonder whether I'm being influenced in all this by a key motif involved in my protracted visit to my personal Fantasyland back in the ICU in September last year. I'm not terribly keen on remembering the details of my various delusions, but one I will mention here is that when I was trapped in the alternative reality my fevered brain conjured up I was convinced that the 'real' world I had somehow fallen out of had been taken over by the superior intelligence of AI technology and, therefore, was no longer available for me to return to. Very odd, eh?)

Staying Positive

Got to the gym this evening. Somewhat surprised that, as on Saturday, the session went well - better, in fact. Given the severity of the relatively recent problems with my health, I didn't expect that resuming exercise would go as smoothly as this. But happy indeed to be proved wrong.

Minor Triumphs

I managed to figure out how to make that PayNow thing work on my phone the other day. And I've just set up my first ever Zoom meeting (to take place on Wednesday.) If my invitation to the other participants in the meeting works and I find myself zooming away at the designated hour I shall be well chuffed.

Just saying. 

(I know the rest of the world finds this stuff easy, but, frankly speaking, I don't. Though you've probably guessed that by now, Gentle Reader.)

Staying Power

I started reading Joseph Conrad's Chance last November, but made little progress and considered myself as having abandoned the attempt by early January when I returned the text to the library. I had been okay with the first chapter, revolving around a narrative concerning one Charles Powell recalling getting a berth aboard a ship as its first mate in his youth, but couldn't get hold of the fact that the second chapter took off in a completely different direction, with Mr Powell being nowhere in sight. Indeed, I struggled to grasp any of the relations of the new characters to each other or to the narrator, Marlow, (with that narration itself being mediated by an unknown interlocuter with Marlow, prone to comment on Marlow as a character.)

However, I didn't care for the feeling of a text defeating me - something I was only too familiar with as a teenager - and decided a week ago to have another go at reading the novel. This time I managed to overcome the confusions of Chapter 2 and I've now made reasonable progress in the story, with the halfway point coming up soon.

This isn't vintage Conrad. It has nothing of the mesmeric power of the three novels immediately preceding it - Nostromo, The Secret Agent and Under Western Eyes - but there's a degree of fascination in seeing Conrad place a female character, Flora de Barral, at the centre of his concerns. The problem is though that the indirectness of his approach to her in terms of narrative focus demands a good deal of patience from the reader.

But the really odd thing is that Chance was Conrad's first big success as a writer in terms of sales. In many ways it established his reputation as a major novelist. Presumably ordinary readers had a good deal more staying power back in the first decade of the twentieth century.

Back On The Treadmill

Got to the gym this afternoon for the first time since I was hospitalised last year. Quite surprised to find I could manage 40 minutes on my machine of choice (one with pedals, so not exactly a treadmill, despite the heading above) without undue strain. Couldn't help but think of how difficult it had been to walk a single round of the hospital ward when I was first out of the ICU - and that with Noi at my side in case I fell over. So quite some progress there.

I was intending to get back to real exercise gently, just a couple of sessions a week at first, but if there are no obvious ill-effects on this old body of mine on the morrow I might just try and get back to my previous routine. Funnily enough by the end of today's session I'd got back a feeling of familiarity suggestive of routine whereas on arrival at the gym everything seemed that little bit novel. It's good to sense an adjustment of sorts has been made.

No Excuses

Came across some of Ry Cooder's more recent work in the last few days and am stunned by the fact he sounds better than he did in his long ago youth, especially considering just how good he sounded then. Bit unfair on other old chaps like me, though. Leaves no excuse for declining powers.

Embarrassed though that this is from four years ago and I've only just found it. Really no excuse for losing touch.

In Passing

One of the grimmer aspects of old age is the seeming regularity with which the musical heroes of one's long ago youth leave this world for their long homes. The recent death of Tom Verlaine came as a particular surprise, I suppose because I still thought of him as being quite young. The fact that he was actually 73 was a bit difficult to grasp since I had the vague impression he was younger than myself.

Good to see some genuinely appreciative and well-informed articles about him, and his band Television. The Graun alone recently featured no fewer than three excellent pieces about him, with one by a guitarist named Chris Forsythe being especially worth reading.

In fact the tributes have made me realise just how limited my exposure to Verlaine's work has been. For some reason I never got beyond Marquee Moon. Odd to think that I failed to follow up on the work of a player I knew was so abundantly gifted and loved listening to - though I've been attending to the gaps in my listening over the last few days. A bit late, I suppose, but got there in the end.

Getting It Wrong

I've come to realise over the last couple of days that I might well have developed an entirely false picture of the personality of one of my colleagues. Time was I think I would have been quite disturbed as to just how wrong I've been. But after years of similar experiences I now enjoy the belated sense of discovery involved. Must say though, it's a good thing I never considered a career as a detective.