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.
