In fact, the struggling is still on-going, but I have managed to get a bit done. Just not enough of a bit to feel any real sense of accomplishment. Still, you can't have it all, and I'll very happily settle for the cards.
It's the steps that count; not the count that counts.
(I was thinking about compiling a set of my finest apothegms, but since the above is the best I can come up with for now, I've decided not to bother.)
I miss my involvement in drama at work. That came home keenly to me when watching the play at our amphitheatre the other week. On the other hand, I'm loving basketball. I don't think I'd have ever been much good on a court myself, but shouting at the guys on it is distinctly life-enhancing. The funny thing is that watching the guys play feels so much like directing a show: huge amounts of nervous energy meaning I can't bring myself to sit down and relax. And the pay-off when we win is the equivalent of putting on a show that really works.
It's an interesting mental exercise to try and draw the lines between Sport and Art. I suspect that, in the final analysis, it can't be done.
Over the weekend I found myself idly browsing through one of my prized possessions, this being a rather battered copy of The Calvin and Hobbes Tenth Anniversary Book. I'd been inspired to revisit by a splendid article on the greatest comic strip ever drawn & written over at the also somewhat splendid Open Culture. Now thinking of acquiring the complete three volume version of the full run plus extras, but maybe that can wait until I finally retire.
By the by, aside from his artistic genius, Bill Watterson, the man (and really just one man, alone) behind the brilliant strip is up there as one of my ethical heroes for his unbending stand against the merchandising of his creations. Much as I'd like to, I'll never wear a Calvin and Hobbes t-shirt unless he endorses the production thereof and happily (or a bit sadly as well) that'll never happen.
Just got back from visiting Boon at the KTP Hospital out in Yishun. He was looking pretty good for someone who'd recently suffered a heart attack, I'm glad to say. He reminded me that his first one happened around 15 years back, which put me right since I was vaguely telling folk I reckoned it was some 6 or 7 years ago. Time flies at supersonic speed, eh?
We'd engaged in a bit of post-Raya visiting in the earlier part of the day, which was gently joyous in its own way - especially the part involving the consumption of freshly prepared prata. So a fruitful day overall (even including the work-stuff which claimed my attention in the morning.)
Oh, and Noi intends an end-of-the-day treat with a few slices of home-baked cake of the fruity variety adding to the general sense of well-being.
A message from Mei we received this afternoon, whilst we were out for a tea and epok epok, caused Noi and myself more than a little concern. Boon has had another heart attack, following one a few years back, and at first it wasn't clear just how bad it was. Fortunately it wasn't too long before she followed up by letting us know it was relatively mild and there's no need for a by-pass. I didn't get overly worried, even when the severity of the situation was open to question, reminding myself that Boon had actually driven himself to hospital on the first occasion. But in that first fifteen minutes or so there was still a nagging doubt that this time things might not turn out for the best. And the worst might have finally arrived.
Awareness of mortality - one's own and that of one's contemporaries - is inescapable once you get to my age, I'm afraid. And, in a small way, I am afraid.
But, for now, at least, it looks like Boon and I get to go on and enjoy time's mercy.
I've just been listening to Prof Jonathan Haidt talking what strikes me as a lot of good sense about The Hidden Dangers of Social Media. Not sure how much of his analysis applies to young people in this Far Place, but I have the uneasy feeling that the answer is: an awful lot.
Considering raising a ruckus when I next find myself at a workshop predicated on the worship of our Tech Overlords. But feel like I'm getting too old for all this. Having said that I can't help feel a certain stupid complacency over the good fortune of being born at the right time.
Am certain I would have been addicted to video games if I'd ever have played them.
It's been quite some time since I've taught anything by Federico Garcia Lorca. Am now well into Act 1 of The House of Bernarda Alba, a play which in the ordinary run of things doesn't do all that much for me. Yet this time round it's all electricity. The power!
The thing is, though, that I can't go for more than twenty minutes without thinking of the murder of the great poet, great dramatist, great man. And when I remember I get angry. And deeply, deeply sad. Somehow he has come to represent all the desaparecidos for me, from another time, another dark place.
It's 35 years almost to the day since the disaster at Hillsborough that killed 97 Liverpool supporters. An excellent article in the Graun yesterday served to commemorate the terrible event and the years of injustice the community suffered (and continues to suffer) at the hands of figures of authority who both should have known better and, painfully, always did know better in terms of what actually transpired.
I thought the new inquest of 2016 had gone a long way to righting wrongs and serving the cause of truth, but it looks like I was wrong.
The one constant I have unearthed in my study of history is neatly summed up in the lyrics of a popular song: It's the same the whole world over, / It's the poor what gets the blame / It's the rich what gets the pleasure, / Isn't it a blooming shame? Sometimes you have to laugh to stop yourself from crying.
After this, in the film, the composer speaks of the appeal folksong had for him and describes British musical life as a pyramid, its apex the virtuosi and composers, then the 'devoted musical practitioners... spreading the knowledge and love of music in our schools, our choral societies, our music festivals', then 'that great mass of musical amateurs who make music for the love of it', and finally 'the great tunes... upon which everything must stand.'
The above is from the excellent notes, by Michael Kennedy, in the booklet accompanying the CD featuring Ralph Vaughan Williams's post-WW2 music for the film The Dim Little Island, that featured in my listening yesterday afternoon. I was thinking, amongst other things, of RVW's ruminations on English music as I attended the play from our Independent Stage yesterday evening. And I was also thinking of what a lovely venue the little amphitheatre makes for an evening show and how much I'd enjoyed being there for our performances of As You Like It in July last year. As I arrived I realised that I actually felt more nervous as a spectator waiting for the show to begin and hoping it would go well than I did last year as someone involved in the making of the experience who had lots of stuff to do, serving to channel whatever anticipatory nervousness I might have felt. Apart from anything else I was mildly worried about the possibility of a sudden downpour which, considering the fact we spectators were out under the darkening evening sky, was likely to disrupt the on-going drama.
In fact, it did start to pour about fifty-five minutes into How to Sell Your Art from the Grave, but if anything this added to the whole experience of the show. The cast manfully - and, indeed, womanfully - kept going for the five minutes of rain whilst a fair number of those watching without brollies (self included) went to grab some of those thoughtfully provided at stage left or take shelter at the covered side of the stage. And the show went on since nobody elected to run away, everyone being thoroughly engaged and wanting to know how the clever plot would work itself out. Oh, and I should say I put a stop to my initial worrying and just opened myself to a rather selfish enjoyment about two minutes into the show by which time it was obvious that it was all well put together and was going to work.
But what has any of this got to do with the art of RVW that I'd been meditating upon, or Art in general? Lots, in my eyes.
I'm of the firm belief that the grounds for the production of great art in a nation lie in receptive audiences and enthusiastic amateurs and the inherent excitement of creativity balanced against the necessary commitment to make things happen; and the pyramid referenced above is a sort of necessary structure for all of this. And yesterday evening I felt that Zackary's finely crafted play, so exact its variety of linguistic rhythms (the demotic, the artistic-critical) and its broader rhythms of dramatic construction, both powerfully reflected and added to the development of drama in this Far Place. The fact that the piece as a whole was a commentary of sorts on how Art might manifest itself here on this not-so-dim but very little island was peculiarly appropriate to my mood and confirmed, for me at least, a simple truth about all nations and all their peoples. We have a deep-rooted, uncompromising, absolute need for Art - drama, music, painting, dance, poetry - whatever form serves for us to find ways of expressing what it is to be alive.
I think everyone who attended the show, felt all the more vitally alive for doing so. And I'm sure everyone involved in its making had their lives deepened and enriched and extended by that experience.
18.55
Spent the morning at work, but in a fairly light-hearted manner, on duty at an Open House. Then found myself with a few genuinely free hours. Filled some of them with RVW, the music of, and felt very English; and got on with reading Passion is a Fashion - The Real Story of the Clash, which also made me aware of my essential Englishness. Not quite sure why, but one's nationality is a complex thing.
21.20
And just got back from further listening, but to the spoken word, for the most part, and an outstanding theatrical evening, of a very Singaporean bent. Of which more tomorrow as I promised The Missus a prata treat for Saturday and it's time to deliver.
I'd been hoping to get to the gym at least eight times in Ramadhan, and thought I'd manage ten. In the event I managed seven visits when fasting - and achieved the eighth today, rather too late. I have an excuse, and it's quite a good one: being super-busy precludes enjoyment of the finer things in life, at least while the busy-ness lasts. (And mine lasted.) And having to deal with a cranky back for a few days didn't help.
But it's a sign of a sort of elderly maturity that the set-back hasn't set me back at all. It's just the way of things and I'll seek to amend that way insofar as amendment is possible. In fact, I'm happy at the idea of bouncing back, something that only failure makes possible.
It's good to begin again, again.
Carved out a little bit of time today to listen to sweet sounds close up. It's been a little while since I've managed to get up close and personal with the great Richard Thompson, but I put that right today with all sorts of live bits & pieces, concluding appropriately with the Dimming of the Day.
Strange how one can both lose and find oneself in the same piece of music.
Hari Raya Puasa, Eid ul-Fitr; 1 Syawal, 1445
As with last year I attended the second session for Raya Prayers at Masjid Darussalam. The khutbah was in English and spoke deeply to me on Fostering a Confident and Resilient Religious Life. It's strange how what in another context might seem like cliches catch fire and come alive when you see how much they apply to whatever it is is real about one's own life.
As always and ever to all and everyone: Eid Mubarak!
29 Ramadhan, 1445
It slipped my mind completely yesterday that I'd intended to write something in relation to the fact that the date (western style) marked the anniversary of Mum's death. I suppose I have a reasonable excuse in the fact that it was a hyperbolically busy day, but reasonable excuses don't work for the kind of reasonable guilt I feel over the omission.
I've come to realise that, for me at least, the chief value of Ramadhan is the way it orients one towards others. Yes, the individual's fast is important, but in the great scheme of things it's the well-being of the whole community that counts. And one's generosity towards others is paramount.
When I think of my dead I think of what more I might have done for them. The answer, inevitably, is a lot.
28 Ramadhan, 1445
I'm afraid I've been counting down the days in a rather silly fashion over the last week: This is the last Monday I'll need to fast on; this is the last Sunday I'll need to fast on; etc... I do this at the end of every fasting month and it's always faintly embarrassing.
And here's the oddest thing. By the second day of Syawal, as always, I'll sit enjoying a cuppa in the canteen thinking how wonderful the freedom to drink is and part of me will regret the fact there will be no breaking of the fast at Maghrib, no small sense of triumph.
.JPG)
The hardest thing about the Holy Month is keeping up with the demand to be better than oneself, or, just to be one's best self. A sort of dwindling from those moments of glimpsing a potential to transcend the self seems inevitable. And I suppose it is.
But the great thing is that it's enough just to achieve the fast, and that's simple, despite being hard.
Zakat paid. Twinkling lights up, and twinkling. Biscuits everywhere.
The month speeding (slowly) to its happy conclusion.
The heat continues. I think I'm bearing it with some fortitude. But The Missus is outdoing me on that front. Her output on the baking aspect of life this month has been nothing less than phenomenal. And she's now into her biscuiting phase - a sure marker for the last days of Ramadhan. See the rather splendid evidence above. And that's just a fraction of what's been created over the least few weeks.
24 Ramadhan, 1445
Back in January I stumbled upon an article in the Graun that I sort of wish I hadn't. Something similar today in the same publication caught my attention, but this time I'm happy it did. There's a faint promise of some sort of closure involved for those who suffered terribly in a massacre that took place just over one hundred years ago and, wonderfully, astonishingly, are still around for that promise to mean something real.
Just the photograph of Mother Randle and Mother Fletcher made me want to cheer.
22 Ramadhan, 1445
Gosh it's warm at the moment. Normally I'm no great fan of air-conditioning, but stepping into a cool space after spending time wrapped round by the humidity of the late-afternoon was definitely an experience to be welcomed. These are by no means the best conditions for fasting, yet in some ways they add to the experience. It isn't meant to be easy and, at this point in time I'm feeling distinctly uneasy with regard to coping with it all. So it sort of fits. Unfortunately.
21 Ramadhan, 1445
I suppose it should have been a day for foolery, but it wasn't. Some days just aren't funny, and this was one. This day was sober, serious and very, very dry. Partly because it was a day for holding fast. But I'm celebrating the fact that it wasn't by any stretch of the imagination a bad day. And that'll do nicely for me, thanks.
Oh, and I should add that I crashed spectacularly around 5.00 pm, for more than an hour. For such relief, even more thanks.
20 Ramadhan, 1445
It seems a long time since we started fasting, yet at the same time it might have been only yesterday.
Every fasting month is the same. Time slows down and you come to recognise its value just in waiting for it to pass. But when it's gone it seems so fleeting, and everything seems so rushed.
19 Ramadhan, 1445
My reading for the Holy Month hasn't gone quite as smoothly as I expected, but it has proved very rewarding. I estimated that I would complete Gai Eaton's Islam and the Destiny of Man by the halfway point and move on to the Martin Lings's tome I had lined up, but I'll be surprised if I finish it tomorrow, though the end is in sight. Because I've read it before and remembered it as eminently readable I thought I'd probably race through it, but this has been far from the case.
It is very readable indeed, with never a dull moment, but that's the sort of problem. It's dense with ideas, powerful, worthwhile ideas. When I first read it the exciting quality of the ideas spurred me to read at speed with, I suppose, the notion in my mind that one day I would re-visit the text. Well, the re-visiting is upon me and I have to slow down in order to do Eaton the justice his efforts deserve.
I'm now in the third and final part of the book, in the third chapter from the end, The Human Paradox, and the treatment of the question of human suffering in the chapter is one of the best I've ever read. Completely convincing on an issue that it's extremely difficult to ever feel completely convinced about (as John Milton surely knew, deep in his bones.) I feel like starting the chapter again to ensure that I've not just fallen for the rhetorical power of the text; but I won't because I'm so keen to get on to the final two chapters, which I intend to slowly digest.
18 Ramadhan, 1445
I rarely feel actually hungry during the fasting month. Going without eating anything between roughly 6.00 am to 7.15 pm isn't terribly difficult for me. In fact, in some ways it's a bit of a relief, simplifying the day. But going without anything to drink during that time is a different matter. So it's always images of glasses of water and cups of tea that haunt me in the early days of the month. Now, not so much.
But even then it's difficult to pin down moments of actual distinct thirst. It's more a case of the irritation of not being able to fulfil one's habits. Except, that is, for when real thirst hits which it does for me if I exercise ahead of the breaking of the fast. I did that again today and the last ten minutes before the time to buka were filled with a keen physical sense of yearning. Which made that first sip of water all the more meaningful and fulfilling.
I reckon I'm becoming a little bit addicted to working out in the hour or so prior to the breaking of the fast. That feeling of thirst is worth experiencing, even if only to slake it. But I suspect its value lies more simply as a reminder of how vulnerable to our appetites we are.
17 Ramadhan, 1445
Noi and I broke our fast in the company of some of my Muslim colleagues in what has become a happy annual tradition. It felt good to be going out into the world as we so often find ourselves doing in the later stages of the month.
16 Ramadhan, 1445
There's always a day in the fasting month when it suddenly occurs to me, usually in the late afternoon, that I'm really enjoying the process of fasting. Today was that day. Yet, paradoxically, I was far thirstier than usual when actually breaking the fast (basically because I'd been enjoying shouting a lot at a basketball game.)
I'd like to understand where the enjoyment comes from, but I'm reluctant to push the analysis too far. There's something about the experience of fasting that seems designed to defy analysis. The Holy Qur'an is simple and clear as to the rewards involved and that's enough.
(By the way, this is not to say that I won't find myself struggling tomorrow and sort of wishing the month had reached its end.)
15 Ramadhan, 1445
As the lunar month pivots on its axis, a gorgeous full moon lit the way to work early this morning. There are signs everywhere and we can learn to read them. But we are in peril of failing to read the first, natural world to which we owe all.
14 Ramadhan, 1445
Gai Eaton provides a particularly incisive account of the life of The Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him) and his early successors in Islam and the Destiny of Man. Reading it served as a poignant reminder of the impossibly large footsteps we seek to follow in. Of course, such emulation is essentially beyond us, but that doesn't make the attempt to follow misguided. Quite the opposite, I think.
But another description of a kind of ideal from Eaton's tome powerfully resonated with me. This is his account of The hero of pre-Islamic Arab poetry who was always the Bedouin 'knight', standing upright, true to himself, in a world reduced, as it were, to the bare bones of sun, sky, sand and rock, proud even in poverty and seeking joy in self-mastery, scornful of security and all the ambiguities of wealth, and ready to look death in the face without flinching. Gosh, isn't that fine!
It put me in mind of the fallen Samurai who feature in some of Kurosawa's great movies. I'm not sure that I actually aspire to what this represents, except possibly in a mock-heroic Bloomian fashion. But at some deep level - possibly a childish one - I know I'm stirred.
13 Ramadhan, 1445
Got to the gym for the fourth time in this Fasting Month, again repeating the experiment of working out before actually breaking the fast, again with reasonable success. For the first ten minutes or so I could find next to no energy at all and seriously wondered whether this time the experiment would prove an ignominious failure. But then I seemed to break through to the hidden reserves lying below the surface. It wasn't that it all suddenly felt easy; but it did all feel do-able at a reasonable pace. And proved so - to the extent that I considered adding another five to ten minutes on. But I didn't, reckoning that that might come later when I'd built the foundation for working out in Ramadhan.
My aim now is to complete at least eight sessions during the fast, possibly even ten. And, more importantly, integrate these into the experience of fasting as a whole such that they gain a meaning in themselves as part of that experience.
12 Ramadhan, 1445
18.30
Looking forward to breaking the fast with all the folks up at Woodlands in less than an hour. Not exactly great expectations, since we've done it all before, but happy expectations none the less.
23.50
All happy expectations happily fulfilled. Lots of laughter. No tears. Good food. A fine teh tarik. And all is very well, thank you. It all came together.
10 Ramadhan, 1445
Found myself locked out of an IT system I very much needed to get into for work purposes. It seems that my account has been 'disabled' for reasons that lie well beyond my understanding. So information I really needed in a fairly urgent manner was denied me since it was sent through a channel that's pretty difficult to access in the ordinary run of things and impossible to get into once someone has decided you're not able enough.
In some rough notes I made to celebrate the event I wrote this: All hail our Tech Overlords, who, in making life so efficient for us, have made life so difficult. Must say, I enjoyed my own paradox.
7 Ramadhan, 1445
By definition this is a period in which one has to work within constraints. It's interesting testing oneself against those limits. Even passing the test involves the realisation of how limited oneself is, also by definition.
Yes, it was one of those days. And tomorrow looks set to be another. Ho hum.
6 Ramadhan, 1445
Switch of strategy today. I was a bit annoyed with myself for not getting to the gym yesterday, but well aware that it was sensible not to expect too much of my back given just how cranky it was. Today I thought there was a definite improvement and was so keen on trying it out I went for my workout in the hour immediately before breaking the fast. I've been half-intending to see what it's like to exercise at the end of a stretch of fasting and now I know the answer.
It's not too bad at all. And it means you don't have to drag yourself out after breaking the fast when all your instincts are telling you to simply chill. Might just try this again.
5 Ramadhan, 1445
Felt mildly uncomfortable all day, mainly due to a cranky back. Found myself feeling distinctly irritated five or six times over the fact I was fasting, as if having a cup of tea would be the answer to my woes. By the actual breaking of the fast I'd generated more of an aching head than anything I'd experienced on the first days of fasting, largely due, I suspect, to simple irritation.
All this is a reminder, not so much of how difficult observing the fast is, but of how weak I can be when something doesn't quite go in the direction I want it to. Sort of petty. Certainly not pretty.
By the way, now the fast for the day is officially over my equanimity has been not so mysteriously restored.
4 Ramadhan, 1445
Gosh, Gai Eaton really doesn't take any prisoners in his highly punctilious Islam and the Destiny of Man. It makes for bracing reading in the Holy Month, as a reminder that sometimes achieving holiness/wholeness requires a distinct toughness of mind & spirit. When I first read his exploration of what it is to be a Muslim some twenty years ago, in the early years of my own intense encounter with the faith, I spent a good deal of time nodding in recognition at the clarity of particular insights which seemed a good deal clearer than my own happily muddied thinking. And the same is true today.
Except that I now find myself nodding over entire chapters which seem remarkably prescient as we negotiate the ups and downs of the twenty-first century. The first chapter, Islam and Europe, manages in just a few pages to encapsulate a way of looking at European history that helps explain Western civilisation's encounter(s) with an Other with which it has been unable to come to terms for the best part of a millennium. Once you become aware of the long view the deficiencies of a secular view of history appear so obvious as to almost painful in their naivety.
Of course, we're talking generalisations here. Big ones. But hugely illuminating.
2 Ramadhan, 1445
16.18
It's been a sunny day and I got to enjoy the warmth of it all this morning, which means I'm feeling a bit drained now. But there's lots to do in terms of the Toad, Work, so there's no point wasting time complaining. It's a matter of just getting on with things.
20.00
And I did get on with things, and am still doing so. Though, I have to confess, I've given myself a few bits of relaxing time in between. And breaking the fast was sensationally relaxing in itself, which it usually is. That's one of the oddities of Fasting Month. Everyday features a major highlight.
1 Ramadhan, 1445
14.35
Generally easy day so far. Achieved a good deal of dozing in the morning, though now stirring myself to some kind of action. But gently so.
18.55
More napping just now. Muggy-headed, but not a sharply aching head - so not too bad for the first day. Looking forward to that first sip of water, I must say. And the teh tarik!
20.05
Fully restored, and hoping that all who have fasted this first day feel the same way. Selamat berpuasa!
Moving into gear for the test ahead. But I won't be ready. I never am.
The readiness comes from the actual doing. Or not doing, if you see what I mean. How do you prepare for a time that deliberately mingles deprivation and abundance? Two sides of a single precious coin.
Decided a week or so ago to put the great Robert Lowell read-through to one side during the Fasting Month. But ahead of the hiatus I've been trying to press on and am now well into his sonnet collection The Dolphin based on the breakdown of his second marriage to the Lizzie of For Lizzie and Harriet. Have enjoyed both of these books more than the sonnets in History, but none of this later poetry matches the brilliance of his earlier work for this reader (and it seems this is the critical consensus.)
There are great lines everywhere, and the occasional gem-like sequence, but rarely anything close to a fully achieved poem. And it all seems so privately obsessive - even the more 'public' material in History. Though it's true that awareness of Lowell's fragile mental state goes a long way towards reading him in a forgiving mode.
But, to be honest, I don't trust him. You don't need great depth of insight to sense he's behaving very badly in the writing of The Dolphin - sacrificing those closest to him on the altar of his art. Including himself, I suppose. And behaving very badly as a husband and father.
I think the younger me may, at some point, have accepted the idea that great artists sometimes needed to behave badly. This is no longer the case.
We've had Fifi staying with us for a few weeks now, since Hakim has temporarily taken over her room in Woodlands. Can't say her presence has altered our routines much, basically since she is rarely actually present. I suppose I knew police inspectors were busy, but now I know it as an actual thing. Another small change in our lives has been Noi's greater busyness in her home-based baking business. Never knew churning out big numbers of various kinds of puff - potato, chicken, shrimp, mushroom - was so labour intensive. But this is only a temporary thing since she's only taken in orders up to the Fasting Month. Once we move into Ramadhan she'll be back into producing all her various kinds of kueh and it'll be business as usual, which will still be busy, of course. Must say, I'm happy sampling her products as chief domestic taster, so no complaints from me on this one either.
At this point in time all my complaints regarding unnecessary alterations in my life are focused on my not-so-trusty laptop from work. The stupid thing has taken it upon itself to do routine things differently for reasons I can't fathom. All sorts of peculiar things have been happening on its desktop over the last week, including a refusal to download an audio file in the middle of an oral examination. That caused a worrisome ten minutes or so, I can tell you, until we finally got it to behave. But the single most irritating thing, though of only minor, cosmetic significance, has been the weird re-configuration of the look of my Outlook emails, which came suddenly out of nowhere. It served as a reminder that such systems are never really 'ours' of course, but those of our Tech Overlords.
The great thing about a period of unrelenting pressure is when the pressure takes it upon itself to relent. A strange feeling of freedom results. I experienced this at 3.15 pm today. I still had stuff to do, but could actually breathe in between tasks.
I'm not a notably creative person, though I have my moments. I suppose that's why I'm especially interested in the kind of creativity associated with various kinds of group. The ways things get done in the theatre fascinate me, partly because I've contributed to that kind of creativity myself whilst being keenly aware of my own lack of genuine originality. I'm more than happy to feed off the talents and ideas of others. Doing so gives me a definite buzz.
And then there's the world of music and its various 'group creations' - indeed, the very notion of the group or band in the sphere of popular music. I've just been reading about The Clash in the period that they came up with the classic London Calling album and it's striking how the key four players involved fed off each other. And how the group itself fed off the wider scene of which they were a part. Given the general embracing of a spirit of chaos in which they invested it's something of a miracle that anything great came out of it. But that's part of the mystery. It really shouldn't work. But it does, sometimes, and we all profit.
Got lost earlier this evening in the school next door to ours, an international school with an impressively large campus. I think years ago the sense of being completely discombobulated would have resulted in at least a mildly panicky feeling. These days I almost enjoy the experience, the only downside being a feeling that I'm getting a little too much exercise a little too late in the day.
Mind you, having Google Maps readily to hand probably helps stem the sense of existential crisis. And nice to clock-up more steps.
Excellent Poem of the Week over at Carol Rumens's column in the Graun, with a particularly astute analyst from the columnist.
Made me wonder why I don't read more Dryden. Was quite a fan, back in the day. I've sort of lost touch with some of the masters of the language and now feel the need to plunge into the dynamically metrical. It's a bit like realising you're not listening to enough Haydn. (Or Purcell!)
It all sounds so easy, and provides so much ease - for the ear and the soul.
I've been reading William Berger's Wagner Without Fear alongside Pat Gilbert's account of the career of everyone's favourite punk band, The Clash. You might think that a book on the life of a great composer with stacks of information about his key operas wouldn't have much in common with Mr Gilbert's highly entertaining tome, but you'd be very wrong. Both works are wonderfully gossipy, appreciative of their subjects both in terms of their artistic accomplishments and personal defects, and often very funny. Oh, and they're both easy to read: not an easy thing to pull off when you're writing about music and its makers.
The pictures above mainly feature our special guests for the prayers, these being the guys from a local home for boys. They ate well, I'm pleased to say, as did everybody - self definitely included.
Happily concluded The Grey King this afternoon. Now I understand why it won the Newbury. A very strong ending that ties the various levels of human story and myth together makes for a completely assured work, one that really knows where it is going. And it's beautifully written in terms of the vivid, poetic life of the prose. Great descriptions of the Welsh mountains and rural life in general.
Mind you, I'm still not convinced by the portentous nature of the mythologising. But it would be way too fussy to let that stand in the way of enjoying a darn good read, and that sort of thing comes with the territory of the fantasy genre. In fact, I think the writer does something quite unexpected here by imbuing what could have been just another idyllic landscape with a sense of dark, unpleasantly brooding power. I don't think Cooper is ever really convincing as to what the forces of the Dark are up to beyond perfectly ordinary human wickedness (and there's not much of that in any specific sense); but I do think she creates a wonderful feeling of unease, of something being uncannily wrong in the otherwise very comfortable worlds of her child protagonists.
Now wondering whether to save the last in the series, Silver on the Tree, until after Fasting Month. Sorely tempted to make a start immediately after the excellence of the fourth novel.
I wonder why Susan Cooper's The Grey King won the Newbury Medal in 1975. In case you don't know, the Newbury was (and probably still is) a pretty prestigious award in the world of children's fiction. I'm not implying that the fourth novel in her The Dark is Rising sequence didn't deserve the prize, but I would have thought the second titular novel would have been the more obvious contender simply because the later book is so strange - and so sort of grown up. Compellingly so, for me.
I'm getting close to the end and wishing I had time to finish it, but I don't want to rush. There's so much to enjoy in the quality of the prose. (I suppose that might explain the award, since I can't honestly describe the plot as gripping.) So it looks like the novel will accompany us on our journey north over an extended weekend break.
More anon. Probably.
The main characteristic of my day at work? Having no time to spit out, as Mum would have said. In its way exciting, and time certainly passes quickly, having no choice. But I'm hoping tomorrow will see some let-up in the pace. I don't mind going with the flow, as long as it slows down.
Greatly enjoying reading Pat Gilbert's highly informative, well written and fair-minded account of the only band that really matter (or used to, that is): Passion is a Fashion - The Real Story of The Clash. Never realised that Joe Strummer was actually some four years older than me, vaguely assuming that I was bit older than any of the punks of the late 70s. Now I realise they were very much my generation. It was just that I was in a small way respectable and they weren't.
Much as I admired (and still admire) The Clash I thought there were elements of iffiness in how they went about some things and the book confirms this, but brings with it the requisite understanding of what it's like to be in your early twenties and both inspired and silly at one and the same time. Thank goodness that no one would dream of writing anything about me at that age. Or any age, for that matter.
Just back from the gym where I found myself counting out time and numbers, in a similar manner to what I referenced a few days back. But I must say I'm less conscious than I used to be of measuring my progress. On the previous elliptical trainer - the one that eventually fell apart - I was always aware of the read-out related to calories used up and generally used that as the best measure of an individual work-out since it was an obvious constant. The odd thing is that when I had to switch to the 'other' elliptical trainer the new calorie count was considerably lower for the same sort of time & distance so I gave up bothering to take note of it. (The difference being something like 170 cals burnt in an hour versus 600 - 700 cals.)
But I decided recently to take note of a couple of key numbers to try and make sure I don't get overly relaxed in the course of my 60 minutes of punishment. These relate to distance travelled and calories burned and I actually wrote both numbers down in recording my efforts just now. Hope I don't get overly obsessed trying to out-perform myself - but a bit of obsessiveness could prove useful in its way.
Watched a couple of short documentaries on YouTube about fentanyl and the havoc it's wreaking in American cities. Depressing. Suppose I saw this coming with the death of Prince (the first time I'd heard of the stuff) when I picked up on just how strong it is in comparison to heroin, and how deadly. Can't understand why anyone would want to get involved with it, but have to accept the fact they do.
Now my YouTube feed seems flooded with stuff about the drug and other horrendous variations on it. (Tranq, anyone?) Not sure I want to watch further. Sort of overwhelming and inescapable. But most of what I've seen seems restricted to the Americas, so perhaps there's hope for other further places.
Fabulously busy day, inclusive of a wonderful forty minutes or so of deep stillness during Friday Prayers. These days prayers at the masjid have a meditative quality for me that feels just right, simply appropriate somehow.
I suppose it was in line with this sense of being at the centre of things that got me thinking for a few minutes or so of Prof Ed Feser recent excellent post on the argument (for the existence of a divine being) from contingency. My own reversion to a theistic belief system didn't actually begin with consideration of logical argumentation to be honest, but in recent years I've become increasingly convinced of the validity of 'proofs' I'd sort of dismissed in my time at university as a student of the Philosophy of Religion, largely through the help of real thinkers like Prof Feser and their explication of the classic (and sadly disregarded) proofs.
Before I came away from prayers I'd decided to add deeper consideration of the fine details of the arguments offered by Ibn Sina, Aquinas and Leibniz to my reading for the Holy Month of Ramadhan. Looking forward to it, but I'll need to step up in terms of my capacity for hard, focused thought.
Am uneasily aware that in the course of the day I expressed a couple of harsh judgements regarding folks who've crossed my path recently. They were genuine, honest, and reasonably considered judgements, but I need to remind myself that, for all that, they may be wrong-headed.
The first thing to do with a mind is to open it, as a wise man said. Actually, I wish I'd had the wit to say this, but I picked it up from Richard Williams's excellent blog over at thebluemovement.com, it being the final line in a particularly strong piece on the art and thought of Yoko Ono.
I've pretty much always been entirely dismissive of her work. It looks like I might well have been wrong.
One very odd feature of my relationship with my smart phone is that I'm generally reluctant to leave home without it, something I thought could never happen to me before I was forced to use the thing by the exigencies of work (and life in general.) But this isn't because I can't do without the device, though not having it with me at work can be mildly problematic on some occasions. No, the reason I want it on my person is because it counts my steps and I like to check the data.
I realised this with even greater force than usual yesterday morning when I went off to work. I had taken the unusual step (for me) of charging the phone whilst I was drinking my routine milo and forgot it wasn't in my pocket when I went downstairs. Now on this particular morning I had a duty to do before getting to the staffroom which was to deliver an in-person wake-up call for some of our students boarding in a hall adjacent to my own. Before I reached the door of their hall I realised I didn't have the phone. So, no big deal, you might think. Just do the duty then pop back upstairs to pick up the phone before walking across to my desk.
But it was a significantly big deal. I spent almost a minute thinking hard about going to get the phone right away, which was in any practical terms quite unnecessary, since counting all my steps going up and down various stair cases as I roused the kids from their dogmatic slumbers just didn't matter at all in the grand scheme of things. Fortunately I forced myself to behave sensibly and go about the business that needed to be done without undue fuss. But, even now, I irrationally miss those steps turning into real numbers, despite getting all the actual benefit of making this old body do some mild early morning exercise.
The numbers have somehow become more real than the actual steps, and this despite the fact that I don't exactly trust the processes through which the numbers are delivered to me.
People are strange. Especially me.
The other day when The Missus and I were dining in an excellent prata shop, I looked down at the table to read the following on a little notice on the table: We have contactless ordering. I was not impressed on the grounds I like contactful ordering. Oddly enough, we did get a guy to take our order and he was typically personable and helpful. Were the shop sort of trying to get rid of him?
And another thing. On the screen that comes up on my laptop before I actually get into this Far Place to type whatever it is is on my mind there now appears this message: Google is improving its sign-in page with a more modern look and feel. A new look is coming soon. Must say, I have no idea why anyone wants to change what already looks fine and signs me in easily enough. What is a more modern look and feel anyway? And why would anyone want to have one? I like the way things look as they are, or, failing that, why not be really creative and go for a less modern look and feel? I'm sure we'd all feel a lot better for that.
