In Space

9 Ramadhan, 1444 

I had enough wriggle room at work to set off reasonably early to the masjid for Friday Prayers. Last week the mosque was already crowded when I arrived and I was lucky to find space in one of the small classrooms on the upper level - but it felt a bit odd doing the prayer in there.

This week I beat the crowd, though I still had to go to the upper level since the organisers seem to have adopted a system of cordoning off various areas in order to ensure the gradual filling-up of key spaces. I preferred the old days of a 'free market' in terms of where you could go but can understand the need to ensure the sensible use of space when the place gets crowded - as it undoubtedly will throughout the fasting month.

It's interesting how quickly things have gone back to normal in the post-pandemic period, reflecting, I suspect, a yearning to restore the old, tried, traditional ways of doing things. Must say, I'm just happy to have the space, the time, and the peace to connect with That which lies beyond all space all time and our compromised version of the ultimate peace.

Shining Brightly

8 Ramadhan, 1444

I normally don't pay a huge amount of attention to the cover design of books. But there's no doubt in my mind that the cover of Symbol & Archetype is my all time favourite of any book I've had the privilege to own. And meditating on the symbolism of blue and yellow, and the nature of the shamsah (little sun) in Islamic iconography, I'm beginning to understand why this is.

So Colourful

7 Ramadhan, 1444 

Relishing my reading of Martin Lings's Symbol & Archetype - and reading with a greater understanding (and intensity) than the first time round. Completed Chapter 3, The Symbolism of the Triad of Primary Colours, early this morning, just before the Prayer, and found it electrifying. Like seeing the colours for the first time. As if bringing colour into our fallen world.

For quite some time people have assumed blue is my favourite colour, I suppose because I wear it so much. Indeed, I also came to assume the same. Now I know this to be the case and Lings has helped me understand exactly why.

The Qur'an: And whatsoever He hath created for you on earth of diverse hues, verily therein is a sign for people bent on remembrance.

A Matter Of Habit

6 Ramadhan, 1444 

Fasting is beginning to feel normal. But old habits die hard - which is one of the great lessons of Ramadhan. 

Around 11.00 this morning things suddenly stopped being incredibly busy at work for the first time since this year's fast began. Very nice. I had something like an hour in which I could afford to do something close to nothing. At the very moment I realised just how free I could afford to be my brain conjured up a picture of myself down in the SAC, a cup of tea in front of me, staring out at the greenery thinking deeply zen-nish thoughts about nothing at all.

It took a good 3 seconds or so to realise I was deluding myself, and, trust me, I felt the pain that came with the realisation. And then it was back to the new normal, lesson learnt (again.)

Remembering, Again

5 Ramadhan, 1444

I suddenly recalled earlier today that the early days of last year's fasting month were darkened by the news of the death of my brother-in-law, John. I spent some time today thinking of him, recalling his remarkable, and sometimes difficult, zest for life. He would have benefitted, I think, from the discipline of fasting, though it's difficult to imagine him resisting temptation of any sort. Especially the stuff that comes in a bottle.

If he's with the Angels - and I hope the All-Merciful just might introduce him to a few - I'm fairly sure they've learnt a thing or two or three in his company. I certainly did.

Good Things Going On

4 Ramadhan, 1444

16.50

Just got back from a shopping expedition to Little India. The Missus needed to buy some ghee, two very large tubs, for the industrial scale baking about to take over our apartment. It was wonderfully lively and bustling around Serangoon Road and environs. Enjoyed the verve and colour, the sheer brightness of it all, but it's strange how fasting makes you not quite part of the happening scene, if you see what I mean. We got hold of a few snacks for later, though, so we were by no means entirely detached from all the good things going on.

20.40

Have now consumed one of the snacks we purchased this afternoon, a chunky samosa, and I can safely say it was jolly tasty. (And just one of the many good things made available with the breaking of the fast.)

One of the characteristics of the Holy Month I'm reminded of: how simple things become, and how good simple things are.

Adjusting

3 Ramadhan, 1444

19.00

Marking, listening to music, sleeping, praying. A most satisfactory day so far. 

I'm intending to get myself to the gym after breaking the fast. Wish me luck!

21.10

It felt a bit odd for the first 10 minutes or so on the elliptical trainer just now. My body seemed leaden, and I had to push hard to get a rhythm going - but then it all came together and I managed the planned 50 minutes with reasonable ease, actually speeding up a little towards the end. I noticed also a degree of reluctance to get myself off to the gym once I'd broken the fast. I suppose I'm so used to just chillin' once I've started on the munchables that it took an effort of will to break the usual happy routine. So, some lessons learnt here about what it will take to keep up going to the gym in the 4 weeks ahead.

In Time

2 Ramadhan, 1444

Today I found time, unofficially of course, slowing down. One of the many gifts of the Holy Month. That final twenty minutes before breaking the fast seemed wonderfully, yet agonizingly, endless. But the end came. Happily so.

Hanging In

1 Ramadhan, 1444

16.00

Busy day so far. Had an appointment at NUH, followed by quite a few work-related tasks. Head now mildly aching and considering getting back to the homestead for a nap.

18.45

Pretty much collapsed into sleep after the Asar Prayer. Strange how tiring the first day of the fast so often feels. But have now come round with only a very mild headache. Looking forward with happy expectation to dates and teh tarik coming soon.

21.30

Now thoroughly relaxed. Not an easy day, but at ease. Just need to say, Selamat Berpuasa, especially to those who lives are not easy at all but who heroically persevere. 

A Month Of Enjoyment

Got to the gym for the last time ahead of the fasting month. Felt comfortable enough on the elliptical trainer to forget my body for a while and think about what to read in Ramadhan. I've deliberately wound up on my listing of what I need to be reading to leave the Holy Month free for Islamic-themed texts, except for my on-going Ammons Collected. (Just finished the mighty Glare and very jolly it was!)

Decided on just two books, knowing that I'm going to be ferociously busy dealing with the Toad, work, and keeping it real accordingly. The first, which I'm about to start on in the next five minutes, is Martin Lings's Symbol & Archetype - A Study of the Meaning of Existence. Have read it before, but revisiting the thought world of the thinking Muslim's favourite modern-day Sufi is a guaranteed pleasure. Some things are denied us in the days ahead, but not pure enjoyment. (Deliberate pun, by the way. Clever, eh?)

Not Wanting To Know

I'm beginning to think I need to ration my reading of the news, especially stories coming out of the UK. At the end of a tough day I really didn't want to read about just how rotten the key police force in England has become when I had vaguely formed the impression back at the turn of the century that some kind of reform was on its way.

I suppose it's a good thing to try and deal with the realities of this world, but the temptation to just run away and hide from it all is substantial.

A Bit Much

For three or four years now - possibly longer, I can't quite remember - I've made it a habit to listen to the reading of some kind of audiobook, invariably related to some aspect of twentieth century history, whilst shaving in the evening. I reckon it takes me around 15 minutes to complete a shave and it's surprising just how much I've managed to listen to over time.

I'm now listening to a very well read version of Timothy Snyder's Bloodlands, and am extremely impressed at the depth and reach of the historian's work. I've listened to one or two of the prof's talks on YouTube and always found them illuminating but the sheer compulsive power and detail of Bloodlands puts it into a different league. The problem is, though, it's almost too powerful. This evening I was listening to the section dealing with the famines of the 1930s caused by Stalin in Ukraine and the relentless piling on of individual details of suffering got close to overwhelming.

It certainly provided some thought-provoking context for the fast I'll be conducting when Ramadhan begins. One of the values of fasting month is the way it allows some insight into the travails of those who don't get enough to eat, but that insight is necessarily severely limited when set against the genuine ravages of starvation.

Getting Into Gear

We got back to blighty around 3.00 this morning, having left Melaka at 11.00 pm. The Missus thought it would be a good idea to travel at night, and so it proved to be. She also took charge of the driving duties so the whole journey was most relaxed in my case.

I got myself to the gym in the early afternoon, having decided that a week's break from any real exercise was more than enough. Since I was in the mood for stretching myself I completed a full 50 minutes on the elliptical trainer. It felt reasonably easy doing so but I registered as distinctly tired for the rest of the day as if I'd really stretched myself. I'm hoping to maintain the timing on my next visit which I'm planning for early in the week, ahead of the start of Ramadhan. After that I'm hoping to keep up my visits during the fasting month, something I didn't manage last year (I think because the gym was shut down owing to an increase in Covid cases, though I'm not entirely sure of this.)

Expanding The Mind

Read both the periodicals I brought along for the trip, finishing the February issue of the New York Review of Books this afternoon. In the process I learnt a lot, but will probably find a way to forget a good deal of what I learnt in the very near future. Still, the important thing in some ways is coming to appreciate just how much I don't know about what's going on in the world - indeed, just how difficult it is to grasp even a tiny amount about the vast complexity of it all. Had no idea at all, for example, of how Taiwan has sought to make itself indispensable in global terms by becoming the key manufacturing centre for all the world's advanced processor chips. In fact, I completely underestimated just how crucial computer chips have become to, well, pretty much everything. In the words of one Peter Tasker, who sounds like he knows what he's talking about in his review of Chip War: The Fight for the World's Most Critical Technology by Chris Miller, who also sounds like he knows what's what: The world consumes a trillion chips a year. They are embedded in nearly every complex device we use. They are as strategically important as oil and gas, but, unlike oil and gas, there is no substitute technology on the horizon. And while oil and gas can be sourced from many parts of the globe, nearly all advanced semiconductors are manufactured in East Asia, the likely flashpoint of any military conflict between China and the United States. Gosh!

Mind you, the most striking of the reviews I read in the NYRB just confirmed what seemed to me to obvious, something I thought we all knew. In her review of a podcast about teaching reading entitled, Sold a Story: How Teaching Kids to Read Went So Wrong, Christine Smallwood makes it quite clear that teaching reading through phonics is simple common sense and actually works when other methods don't. I suppose this just reinforced something I've known since I started teaching: if a theory about learning clashes with the practicalities of getting stuff done then it's wrong, no matter who says otherwise.

Still At Rest

Attended Friday Prayers at the masjid down the road and felt deeply wiped out on getting back. A typically sunny afternoon in Sungai Petai that made it feel as if the whole country were asleep. And yet the painters are still here such that the house is in minor turmoil with the Missus holding everything together. 

Time for me to beat a retreat to the quiet of our bedroom, now painted, and enjoy what's left of the quiet time on offer this semester.

Another Good Read

The second novel I brought to Malaysia was Olga Tokarczuk's Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead. I'd heard very good things about it, and it certainly didn't disappoint. I sort of expected it to be quite a demanding read - coming from a Nobel Laureate and with that striking title from Blake - but it turned out to be highly accessible and quite the page-turner, though I think that as a murder mystery it doesn't pass real muster.

I suppose what worked for me was the engaging voice of its half-mad narrator, Mrs Duszejko. (I won't call her Janina, since she hates the name.) Her obsessions curiously aligned with a number of my own, though I can't say I share her delight in Astrology, so it was easy to enjoy the ranting aspect of the novel, of which there is plenty. Also her keen sense of the irony of it all meant that a potentially bleak text turned out to be genuinely funny - as well as genuinely bleak.

I'm now sort of half on the lookout for The Books of Jacob, Ms Tokarczuk's magnum opus, though I suspect it isn't likely to be as directly rewarding as Drive Your Plow.

Quietude

We've had the painters in today, and they'll be around until the weekend at the very least. Fortunately Mak's house is a pretty big one, so there's space to hide away whilst various walls and ceilings are being attended to, and I gratefully accomplished my targets for marking and writing references for the day. In fact, we managed to get over the road for a cheerful cuppa at Rozana's new coffee place in her Bendang Studio and then for a chat with Yazir & Wan at their house behind the studio in the afternoon, which felt like being out and about even if we didn't travel very far.

In the quiet of evening the house is still very much upside down, but quiet is what it definitely is which is plenty enough for me, thanks.

Slowing Down

Since I'm getting a not unreasonable amount of marking and general preparation done here, I'm not at all sure why things feel so relaxed, but they do, and I'm happy to take that as it stands. I'm making pretty speedy progress on the second novel I brought out with me, so it's a good job I packed a couple of periodicals - these being a Mekong Review and a New York Review of Books I picked up when I was last at Holland Village. It's been a long time since either publication has featured in my reading, so it's time to right that wrong.

I've also found time to listen to a few things of interest on YouTube and am considering having a go at one or two of Britten's later operas. Watched the opening bit of a version of Owen Wingrave that's a later production than the original opera broadcast on British tv (but still appears designed for that medium) and found myself very impressed with a piece that has never really done that much for me previously. The only problem is that given my current state of relaxation I have a feeling I'll be so beguiled that I'll nod off after the first half hour.

At His Best

Duly completed The Innocent, holding over the final pages for this morning. Somewhat to my surprise I found them quite moving. I say this since the gothic elements of the fiction, so brilliantly realised and deeply gripping, seemed to compromise the reader's engagement with the characters at the simple level of sympathy for their 'story'.

McEwan is a remarkably gifted writer, but sometimes seems impelled to 'perform' somehow, as if he needs to astonish. In this novel his gifts are in balance with a sense of common humanity - as is the case in Atonement.

A Question Of Detail

I brought along a couple of novels with me for reading in the holiday week, both borrowed from the library at work. I'm now thinking I should have packed a third since I've raced through Ian McEwan's The Innocent, and am in danger of finishing it before the night is over.

Now reading a particularly grisly segment involving a couple cutting up a body in order to dispose of it and escape a murder charge. It's McEwan at his best. Completely convincing in every detail - and managing here not to seem overly contrived.

It really doesn't speak well of my character that I find this kind of thing so readable (even though I have to stop for a break after every page.)

At Rest

We arrived at Mak's house in time to the Dawn Prayer after negotiating a bit of a jam at Tuas, on both sides. I managed to sleep for most of the journey, so it was Fuad who manfully handled all of the negotiating. Since I managed several hours sleep before setting off, napped well in the car, and got a good three hours kip after our arrival, I think I might claim to be well-rested.

All seems pretty peaceful here, with Noi doing the cooking duties ahead of a kenduri this evening, and Rozita & Fuad out for most of the day getting some repairs to their car after it refused to start up again once we'd arrived. So it looks like I'm basically the one enjoying the easy life, which is fine by me.

The Road Ahead

Am now packing some stuff for a few days in Alor Gajah at Mak's house. Noi is already there, having travelled north back on Tuesday to settle matters with the contractors who are working on repairs to the roof of the old place. I'm kindly being given a lift by Fuad & Rozita, since Noi went up in our car, and I'm happily looking forward to being chauffeured. Except for the fact that Fuad prefers to travel by night, so we're setting off at 2.00 am.

Not exactly sure what state I'll be in at that unearthly hour. Wish me luck.

Not So Scholarly

I made a bit of a blunder (not my first!) back on the first day of the month when I referred to Edmund Spenser summarising his own work in his gloss on March from The Shepheards Calendar. I'd completely forgotten that the commentary is attributed to one E.K. and whoever that may be there's a good chance it's not E.S. himself. Mind you, according to a fairly scholarly introduction to the poem I came across online from one R. S. Bear at the University of Oregon recent opinion has come to prefer the assumption that E.S. is glossing his own poem. So maybe my cavalier statement wasn't entirely foolish.

The thing is, though, that at some fundamental level I don't really care and, since I enjoy the idea that the poet is commenting on himself and his attitudes, I'll continue to feel that's the best way to read the text. It's no wonder that the academic world never felt it quite fitting to hold me to its collective bosom. Pretty wise if you ask me.

Falling Down

I was at the hospital for an hour or so last Friday, getting the low-down on the state of my lungs based on the most recent scan, and had my weight checked as part of the routine. It was gratifying to find I'd put back nearly all the kgs I lost last September and was back to my fighting weight. I suspected that this might be the case since the problem I'd been dealing with keeping my trousers up in the months following my hospitalisation had been put to rest. It wasn't that they, the trousers I mean, were coming down to my knees, but they kept sagging from my emaciated waist in a manner that felt deeply uncomfortable. Nice to get that sorted.

But, quite independently of the trousers situation, I have to confess that roughly half of the pairs of socks I possess have a way of slipping away from the foot (or feet, rather) which I find equally uncomfortable. These are the older socks which seem to have lost the elasticity that makes them cling, for want of a better word. The thing is, I don't recall being troubled in this way in the past. Are falling socks just a feature of old age? Or was I so full of energy in my earlier years that I was untroubled by scruffy feet?

And another question occurs to me. Why are clothes inherently comical? Well, for me, at least.

Small Comforts

I feel fortunate to live at a time when I can access Carol Rumens's reliably excellent Poem of the Week page in the Graun on-line. This week's choice, Small Change by Carole Satyamurti, struck me as having a particular excellence, and the BTL commentary is of a typically high standard. This is what the Internet is for. (Well, actually it's not - but it darn well should be.)

Formidable Stuff

Hugely impressed by Mary Durack's Keep Him My Country. Initially I wasn't quite sure as to where the plot was leading and was misled by the references on the book jacket to a tragic love affair into thinking that the story-line would be driven by a romance crossing racial lines. In fact there's precious little in the way of a distinct plot. In very general terms we might wonder what the future has in store for the novel's protagonist Stanley Rolt, the guy running the homestead, a sort of ranch, on which the work is centred, but there are any number of loosely entwined narrative lines, each of which has its own interest. In the end I suppose the book is about the stuff that happens to the various inhabitants of the homestead, and that stuff proves to be pretty engrossing, due to the fact that life in the outback just is that way, or was in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. (I assume 'outback' is the right term for this area of the Northern Territories of Australia, but can't recall its use in the text, now I come to think of it.) Interestingly the writer frequently switches point of view, although Rolt is distinctly the central consciousness of the text, and convincingly includes a sense of the aboriginal perspective, though never claiming any privileged insights in that regard.

At times the writing is distinctly, consciously, poetic, but the overtly descriptive passages are nearly all given over to an evocation of landscape that works wonderfully well so that this aspect of style doesn't come across as forced or overly precious. And the writer has an eye for the harsh brutality of this world as well as its many beauties, so this is a bracing kind of poetry, indeed bitingly practical at times. You are left in no doubt at all as to how tough this world is, regardless of its beauty.

It's a short novel but encompasses quite a range of characters, and they are all done well in terms of being convincingly realistic and rising above obvious stereotypes. Everyone is flawed, some spectacularly so, but there's much to admire and much to like. Above all the depiction of Rolt himself is a bit of triumph: he's genuinely complex, in some ways puzzling, even to himself, yet curiously heroic.

On the evidence of the text, I can't help but think that Ms Durack must have been quite a formidable character herself as well as a gifted writer.

Hard Rain

Can't remember the monsoon season keeping going this late into the year. Got quite fed-up yesterday at not being able to go for a walk to Holland Village. Very much felt the need to stretch my legs, but didn't fancy getting wet-through doing so.

Things looked very different this morning, with the rain having finally let-up. After clearing some necessary preparation for the working week ahead I set out in the early afternoon for the village with the sun not exactly beating down but certainly in attendance. And for the next thirty minutes or so it looked as if my decision not to bother taking a brolly with me would be confirmed as solid common sense. Then, pretty much upon arrival at my destination, I detected the first drops of rain in the air. Initially it looked like a few drops were all we were going to get, but within five minutes the heavens had opted to open and the rain came siling down.

For a good ten to fifteen minutes or so I found myself rapidly crossing open spaces and diving for cover as I looked for somewhere to grab a cuppa. Sadly I was able to confirm the closure of my favourite CBTL outlet, which had been boarded up on my last visit, but finally settled at a place across the road from its former location to enjoy a cappuccino and a quick scan of a couple of publications I picked up from the magazine shop on the corner. By the time I'd finished my drink the rain seemed to have settled to a faint drizzle and I prepared myself for the walk back, thinking the worst was over. Fortunately my preparations were of the long-winded variety since before I actually made my way to the exit down came the rain again, and I mean came down hard.

At this point I thought seriously of waiting for a break in the downpour and running for a bus, but, to my surprise, the downpour decided to cease pouring after a snappy ten minutes. As it did so, I bravely opted for the return journey on foot and made it back to Dover Road pretty much unscathed, considerably assisted by the covered walkways all along Commonwealth Avenue offering protection from the occasional drizzle. 

My adventure wasn't quite over though. I needed to buy one or two things from the supermarket across from the homestead and, having purchased these, thought it a good idea to grab another cuppa from the drinks stall and sit for a bit of a read, confident that the worst of the rain was over. It wasn't. A fierce squall manifested itself just as I thought of crossing the road and getting back to safety. For a time I thought it likely I'd end up soaked on arrival after all, but the squall blew itself out and I got back reasonably dry and congratulating myself on my deep good fortune. Of course, rain in this Far Place isn't like Manchester rain - bleak, and unforgiving - but a soaking is a soaking even if you don't exactly freeze in the process.

The uncertainty of it all made my little trip quite exciting in its way. But I'm happy to wait out the rest of the day, dryly secure. It helps that I've got Noi's return from foreign climes to look forward to later (though it seems too late to contemplate staying up for.)

Not So Bright

Watched Eric Khoo's 1997 movie 12 Storeys this evening. Much to enjoy, especially in the performances of Jack Neo and Koh Boon Pin, both of whom provide convincing meltdown scenes as the pressures of HDB life take their toll. The mixture of sly comedy and out and out bleak melodrama offered by the film shouldn't really work, but I think it does. It's true that Khoo deals in broad stereotypes in his characters, but these stereotypes manage to come alive - probably because they reflect a number of truths about Singaporean society.

Nice to watch something dealing with the dark underside of the island. 

In Contrast

Noi has gone to Jakarta for the weekend with Rohana and I am eating cheese on bagels this evening. This is no bad thing in that I've been really fancying munching on cheese for quite a while, and bagels are highly rated in this household. Also I was able to play some old favourites at appropriate volumes.

Chief amongst these, two great bits of Messiaen on a 1987 EMI 2 CD set: the Quatuor pour la Fin du Temps and the Turangalila-Symphonie. Nice to hear the fine details of the quartet and get a sense of how much sheer power there is in the piece as opposed to just luxuriating in its lush mysticism. And wonderful to be exposed to the sheer ooommmph of the symphony, especially the glorious swooping of the ondes matenot - played by Tristan Murail in the CD version I was listening to, with Simon Rattle and the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra.

Must say, playing the two works side-by-side brought home to me the sheer range of Messiaen, despite the shared elements of their musical language. The Symphonie is, above all, deliriously romantic in the old-fashioned sense - an over-flowing chocolate box of sound; the quartet profoundly astringent, spare, reflective, mystical.

Triumph Of The Will

I'm happy to report that I'm now hitting the gym pretty regularly, achieving my target of three times a week. It doesn't sound much, but it feels a lot, if you know what I mean. This evening was the first time I found that I wasn't quite sure I wanted to go and had to force myself - but I knew I would be glad I did, and that proved to be the case. Now achingly tired but happy to ache as proof of getting something worthwhile done.

Strictly Speaking

Decided to read the March section of Spenser's The Shepheardes Calendar it being the first day of the titular month. Quite enjoyed the to and fro between his two shepheards boyes taking occasion of the season but was taken aback somewhat by the poet's summary of his own 'message' in his own note on the Embleme at the end of the piece:

Hereby is meant, that of all the delights of Loue, wherein wanton youth walloweth, be but follye mixt with bitternesse, and sorrow sawced with repentaunce. For besides that the very affection of Loue it self tormenteth the mynde, and vexeth the body many wayes, with vnrestfulnesse all night, and wearines all day, seeking for that we can not haue, and fynding that we would not haue: even the selfe same things which best before vs lyked, in course of time and chaunge of ryper yeares, whiche also therewithall chaungeth our wonted lyking and former fantasies, will then seem lothsome and breede vs annoyaunce when yougthes flowere is withered, and we fynde our bodyes and wits aunswere not to such vayne iollitie and lustful pleasaunce.

Talk about, you give love a bad name! A reminder that for all the attractive features of his verse old Edmund was a harsh Puritan at heart with little of Shakespeare's sense of tolerance. And speaking as one whose youth's flower withered quite a while ago, I really don't mind a bit of vain jollity on occasion.