Not So Cheerful

Still struggling with an extremely cranky back. This has manifested itself at a particularly bad time as I've got one heck of a lot of work to do. Since pretty much all the work involves having to sit on a chair and sitting on a chair involves a considerable degree of discomfort I am not a happy soldier. But I did cope with a full set of marking today so I can't complain, even though that's what I'm doing.

Staying Cheerful

Quite a mixed day. Enjoyed adding another year to my age this morning, with cheerfully celebratory cards from The Missus. Then found myself suffering from the crankiest of cranky backs for the remaining hours and struggling to get any work done.

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.

At Peace

On a busy day two moments (extended into minutes) of peace. Friday Prayers at Masjid Darussalam. And praying Maghrib at the Sultan Mosque, pictured above, as it was at 8.00 pm. Escaping the noise of it all, whilst the noise swirls restlessly around one, is peculiarly satisfying.

What Really Counts

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.)

The Sporting Life

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. 

Simply The Best

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.

Staying Well

There aren't too many positive features involved in a good buddy having a heart attack - though the fact of survival thereof ranks as a major relief. And it serves as excellent motivation for getting to the gym, as I just did.

Am now regularly putting in an hour on the torture device elliptical trainer. Of that one hour I can honestly claim to enjoy roughly four minutes. And that's on a good day.

A Sense Of Wellness

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 Bit Of A Worry

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.

Modern Life Is Rubbish Confirmed

The thing about auto-tune is that it's impossible to unhear it.

Some Good Sense

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.

Something Sad

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.

History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake - 3

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.

All Eyes And Ears

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.

All Ears

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.

Falling Short

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.

Lost And Found

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. 

Words Of Wisdom

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!

Finally

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.

Counting Down

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.

Staying Alight

27 Ramadhan, 1445

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.

Alight

26 Ramadhan, 1445 

Zakat paid. Twinkling lights up, and twinkling. Biscuits everywhere. 

The month speeding (slowly) to its happy conclusion.

Baking Hot

25 Ramadhan, 1445 

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.

History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake - 2

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.

Something Important

23 Ramadhan, 1445

One of the great things about the fasting month is the way in which you're given such frequent reminders of what's ultimately important. Of course, even then it's easy to forget for a time and fall prey to the illusion that somehow you're at the centre of things. But real freedom lies in the painful and obvious truth that you're at best peripheral. And not of any great, or minor, importance at all.

A Testing Time

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.

No Fooling

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.