Jolly Good

Enjoyed a jolly good time at the Victoria Concert Hall this evening. The SSO put up a baroque night. Every piece was immediately accessible in terms of rhythmic spring and tunefulness, which was a good job in my case as I was only familiar with one of the concerti played - that being the third Brandenburg, which I know very well indeed. In this case familiarity did not breed contempt. Quite the opposite - I loved every moment.

And the price paid for this surpassingly excellent experience? A mere fourteen dollars. I got hold of the last of the cheap seats, and at the rate for senior citizens. Of course, it doesn't speak well of my character that paying so little actually added to my enjoyment, but I'm just keeping it real.

More Differences

I'm so used to thinking of Patrick Magee's performance in Krapp's Last Tape that watching John Hurt in the role earlier today felt strange, as if not quite right somehow. And the pacing of the piece captured in the Beckett on Film collection seemed very slow indeed. But I think I now prefer the Hurt version.

Magee was brilliant, but his Krapp was a wonderful grotesque, a kind of monster. Hurt is brilliant in a quieter way - the switch in his voice from the old man to the younger versions is remarkable - and he terrifies in his ordinariness. 

Differences

It's snowing in Norway. It isn't in Singapore. In fact, it's typically hot here. I have a photo from Noi to prove this. (The snowing bit, not the heat.) But for some reason I can't download the thing from my phone to my laptop to show it to the world. Not that the world cares over much, I suppose.

Postscript:

I finally got the photo uploaded, as above. And then Noi sent me this one with what she endearingly terms the 'raindeer', which looks even colder to me:

A Little List

I'll need to read Volume 1 of David Hawkes's translation of Cao Xueqin's classic The Story of the Stone (a.k.a. A Dream of Red Mansions) ahead of being involved in the teaching of the text in 2025. This is a wee bit intimidating and very exciting. The intimidation comes from the fact I know hardly anything of the cultural context of the novel and the excitement from the same rather embarrassing piece of information, with the add-on that I'll need to find out something and quickly so. With this in mind I gabbed the Penguin Classics edition from the shelves of our department cupboard, handily situated right behind my desk in the staffroom, and this will accompany me to the UK in December.

As will a copy of Yusnari Kawabata's The Sound of the Mountain, which appeared on my desk a month or so ago with the gnomic message: It's about aging and dreams. I think you might like it. Oddly enough, I reckon I will.

So that takes care of that major aspect of my holiday planning. I doubt I'll try and take any CDs, except perhaps the Dylan Christmas album which has become a happy fixture of my December. (I'm thinking of making John & Jeanette listen, but that's something I might just relent on. There are limits as to what one might reasonably inflict on one's hosts, and the Bobster in Holiday mode is, sadly, not for everyone.)

Catching Up

Met up with AK this evening for the first time in over a decade. He suffered a bad fall a while back and was a bit unsteady on his feet, but other than that was very much the same AK, battling on. Despite having plenty to talk about it was odd how often we came back to the need to take care of our aging bodies, especially in terms of avoiding falling down. As a kid, falling is a natural activity, almost to be welcomed. In adolescence and as an adult it's a sort of non-issue. So when it starts to loom large in one's senescence it all comes as a bit of a surprise, but a disturbingly fascinating one in its way.

The Sense Of An Ending

Thought I'd take some small advantage in Noi not being around for a while by playing some stuff on DVD that wouldn't exactly fit our usual routines. To this end I got a four disk set of Beckett on Film from the library at work. Kicked off my viewing today with the version of Endgame thereon and was entirely blown away.

This production featured Michael Gambon as Hamm and David Thewlis as Clov. As you might guess they are sensationally good. Definitive in the roles. Very funny and very sad at one and the same time. It really worked as film as well with the director often exploiting extreme close-ups in an almost painterly way. Nagg & Nell in the bins looked quite extraordinary. Not just old but in something close to a state of decay.

As with any really good production of Beckett, the viewer ends up feeling something like extreme despair but in an almost cheerful way. I suppose it's the very existence of the play that does it.

Hanging Loose

Saw Noi off this afternoon from Changi Airport on her Norwegian adventure. Felt a bit low afterwards, at something of a loose end. Decided to go to a concert performed by the students in our music programme. This was an excellent idea.

If kids performing creative wonders doesn't lift you then nothing can.

Undefeated, Sort Of

Bit of a funny day. Nothing really taxing about it. Yet, at 1.20 pm I really didn't want to keep walking around on my first shift of invigilation. And at 5.30 I really, really didn't want to carry on shopping at the supermarket with Noi. Following which I very much didn't want to do my scheduled stint at the gym at 7.20. And, finally, I could hardly stand to get going on the Isha' Prayer at 9.20. 

Somehow managed them all, and am glad I did so. Not exactly a triumph, but a lot better than a defeat. 

Mr Teh Tarik - 8

For the first time in a while Noi and I managed to get out for afternoon tea. She took a break from making her curry puffs and I managed to pull myself away from pressing workaday concerns, which, for once, were not pressing enough to pin me down. Actually this tea only involved tea as I forewent munching on a curry puff outside given that the curry puffs at home were several times more delicious.

But I was delighted to find we went to exactly the right place for a splendidly hot and genuinely large teh tarik gajah. We found this at the hawker centre on West Coast Road, I think it's called Ayer Rajah Hawker Centre. The stall at which the wonderful drink was available was number 67 - that of Abdul Aziz. I'm not sure if I've referenced this stall before in my Mr Teh Tarik saga (not having posted since back in very early 2022 when we were out and about at Geylang Serai) but it doesn't matter if it's a repeat since the teh in question is worth the repeated emphasis involved.

By the by, when we went out it felt like a surpassingly hot afternoon. We could barely sit in the overheated seats of the car when initially setting forth. There was a surprisingly large crowd at the centre, given it was a weekday afternoon. I suppose folks were sort of enjoying the relaxing quality of the heat. It was heartening to think that people were able to find time to warmly chill in this most busy of cities.

Of Real Value

One of the many contradictory aspects of my character is the fact that whilst I have very little time for academic literary criticism in general, I can really enjoy and read with enthusiasm odd examples of such on a seemingly random basis. Case in point: a little book fell into my hands a couple of days back entitled How To Read Joyce by one Derek Attridge, Professor of English at the University of York, as it turns out, and I think it's a great read.

I thought I recognised the prof's name when I was passed the book. I checked in the library and he's the editor of the nifty Cambridge Companion to Joyce which I'd been browsing in fairly profitably earlier in the year. There's a particularly good essay on Finnegans Wake in there, but not written by the editor. However, in How To Read... he writes excellently on a few excerpts from the Wake and, in the book in general, every analysis he provides of the passages he selects is both illuminating with regard to the passage in question and the broader work.

The simple notion behind the book seems an extremely useful one to me - look closely at carefully selected passages from the author in question to help explore profitable ways of reading them. I suppose it fits my notion of reading lit in general: read closely and sympathetically and enjoy what you read. That's all the Theory I need.

By the way, on the last page of the short tome the prof identifies what he terms the indispensable values Joyce celebrates in the Wake. These are the fruits of living in this fallen world: generosity, creativity and laughter.

Now there's a list to live by.

Back To Life

Yesterday, to my gratified surprise, the Blu-Ray player that decided to break down after swallowing my precious DVD of King Crimson at their seven-headed finest, for some unknown reason sprang to life, coughed up the trapped DVD, and has been functioning quite normally ever since. (Actually, I suppose the fact that I unplugged it and then plugged it back in might have helped, but a post-mortem on events isn't necessary so long as things are reasonably back to normal.)

In celebration of the fact that I was able to enjoy the great music all over again, I started playing the concert from where I'd broken off with the band themselves starting up again after an interval. They resumed with The Letters and The Sailor's Tale and I have to say that I was stunned by just how amazingly good the performances were. The sheer range of expression on the former was jaw-dropping. I mean, it's always been a dramatic sort of piece but the way the musicians negotiate the movement from the gentle, tender, delicate opening to the all out furious grieving of Mel's protracted saxophone work-out is astonishing. Even though I've listened a number of times to this line-up playing the song I'd never quite realised just how ferociously busy the three drummers get in the central segment, I suppose because they are just so controlled in their fury. And the segue to the instrumental, one of Crimson's very finest, is just perfection. Oh, and the ending of the Tale, for which the audience wisely remained silent, with Bill playing those repeated fading mellotron chords as if some great sea creature is passing away, is a surpassing example of less meaning more.

The thing is, you can focus on any one of the players at any time with the realisation that whatever they are doing is just so uncannily right, even when they are doing nothing except listening to the others and watching intently.

A Walk In The Park

Noi got hold of a new pair of walking shoes recently in preparation for her impending Norwegian jaunt and was advised to do a bit of walking to break them in. It was mainly with this in mind that we set out this morning for West Coast Park. Actually she's been a bit under the weather with a nasty, sneezy sort of cough, so in the ordinary run of things I doubt we'd have bothered to go, but she forced herself and did pretty well, so it was a fairly jolly couple of hours in a quiet sort of way.

It certainly put me in mind of the need to try and explore more of the island in our final months here. We're not going to have too much time to do so before the end of this year, what with our December visit to the UK, but I'll be on the look-out for an opportunity or two or three come November.

Anyway, I posted some highly random shots of stuff we found ourselves looking at above. I suppose I should develop greater powers of observation, but it all looked pretty good to me.

Comfort Reading

I've been trying to figure out exactly when I first read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's tales of the master detective of all master detectives, the inimitable Sherlock Holmes. I think I was in my early teens, though I might have been younger. And I think I picked up various of the collections from the library, where Doyle's works were easily available. And not just the Holmes stories; I recall fair amounts of Brigadier Gerard and Prof Challenger.

In those long ago days I would struggle to figure out the solutions to the various mysteries and I distinctly remember the excitement each adventure engendered and a vague sense of dread related to quite a few, as if they were tales of the supernatural. Now the excitement has gone, and the dread, and the desire to out-do the great man, or figure out how he was going to figure it out. Now it's all delightfully familiar and more than a bit kitsch.

But I'm more aware now of the quite brilliant variety of the stories. They don't follow a formula. The sheer variety on offer in the first actual collection, Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, points to where Doyle's real genius lay as a great story-teller. I'm about to re-visit the Speckled Band, and I can't wait, even though I know what's in store. Possibly because I know what's in store.

Across The Miles

We'll be zooming in on John & Jeanette later this evening to update ourselves on stuff going on in the UK ahead of a trip back we're planning for December. Most likely we'll stay in their place in Romiley for a few days and possibly travel down to the house in Devon, which is where I think they are at the moment. Noi is also talking about going to Wales & Ireland when we there as she wants to travel around a bit - which considering the fact she's off to Norway in a week or so with a few of her chums confirms her globe-trotter status. Personally I'm quite happy to just relax, but there is a kind of happy excitement about imagining journeys and making plans.

Postscript: Well we had a good natter and things sounded tickety-boo all round. But it seems the big cities in the UK are getting more than a bit run-down and discipline in schools more than a bit doubtful. Makes us count our blessings being able to enjoy our lives in this far place.

No Hurry

Still happily reading E.P. Thomson's The Making of the English Working Class at a very slow pace. Am now at the central chapters dealing with The Transforming Power of the Cross, a brilliant account of the interplay between various religious enthusiasms, especially Wesleyan Methodism, and the lower classes from 1790 - 1840 (or thereabouts.) When I first read the tome decades back I found this the most striking and engaging chapter and the same is true today, except that, if anything, I find it more powerfully engaging and oddly moving in its evocation  of the deep need for meaning and purpose in the lives of the oppressed and, to some degree, the betrayal of that need.

The section on the greatest Prophetess of all, Joanna Southcott, is particularly fascinating. How did people fall for this nonsense? As always, easily. 

But who can reasonably resist her deranged poetry?: Who is he that cometh from Edom, with dyed garments from Bozrah; that speaketh in righteousness, mighty to save all that trust in him; but of my enemies I will tread them in my anger, and trample them in my fury; for the day of vengeance is in my heart, and the year of my redeemed is come.

No Worries

I knew the day was going to be a busy one when I set off for work this morning. What I didn't know was quite how busy. Which was a good thing as I had nothing to worry about when it started and no time to worry as it was going on. And now I'm just too tired to be bothered to worry about anything.

Of course, tomorrow is another day. Whatever that might mean.

Breaking Down

I was playing the rather splendid DVD from Crimson's wonderful live set Radical Action to Unseat the Hold of Monkey Mind the weekend before last when the Blu-Ray player I was using suddenly decided not to work. The DVD is still inside it as the machine just shut down and refuses to open the rather nifty little sliding tray you put the disks in to play them. I was left flummoxed, and still am as I've really no time to attend to failing electronic devices.

In fact, the list of failing, or failed, devices we own is now fairly extensive. The television in Maison KL gave up the ghost this year and is in sore need of replacement. Similarly we removed the tv set here since the number of odd blotches on the screen made it difficult to watch anything. This was temporarily replaced by Hakim's huge set which he's waiting to move into his new apartment when it's ready, but that should be soon, so we'll need another replacement for that. The set-box we got from Singtel has not worked for yonks, so we've been watching Starhub, which suffices for now, but we're still paying for the Singtel so we need to do something about that. And the Bose CD player has been refusing to play CDs for around a month, though the radio is working, so that's something.

I've got a feeling I've missed some other defective item, but that's enough for now. I have a vague feeling that things used to last longer, but if they ever did those days are long gone. 

Wallowing In Nostalgia

Some guy calling himself Rael, presumably in tribute to Peter Gabriel's persona on The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway uploads these brilliant 'imagined albums' on YouTube. Not quite sure how he does it, but it seems he that gets hold of all sorts of material from bands, like Genesis, aligned to certain periods of time, stuff like demos and radio sessions, and then tweaks them to create 'what might have been'. So Cynthia's Dream is what might have been released, instead of Nursery Cryme, if Anthony Phillips had stayed in the band. It features three of the songs off the real album, these being Musical Box, Harold the Barrel and Harlequin, and a load of other interesting material and is a treat to listen to. Especially if, like yours truly, you saw Genesis live in this period and fell in love with them.

So listening to the imagined album was generally a nostalgic experience but, quite to my surprise, it was the version of Harlequin that packed a wallop for me. It's not exactly regarded as a classic track in the actual album version, and I don't think it was performed live by the band, but listening to the 'new' version, which features the voices of Gabe & Phil Collins more upfront than in the original, I was struck by just how lovely a song it is and how evocative of something I can't quite explain. Except a very young Brian felt it deeply and the older version sort of plugged back into that for a glorious four minutes or so this morning.

Everything's Okay

A fab evening at the Victoria Concert Hall was just the ticket after an artistically heavy week. The proceedings kicked off with something from Hans Werner Henze that the programme notes claimed to be angular and harsh, but struck me as darkly beautiful. Noi managed to nod off so it couldn't have been overly abrasive. Then came a big slab of Papa Haydn, a piano concerto and a symphony, which is always a very good thing. I knew the symphony well (the A major Fire Symphony) and it's a bit of favourite of mine and familarity bred the opposite of contempt. And finally Stravinsky's Pulcinella Suite which I thought I'd recognise but didn't. I felt happily stupid over this gap in my musical knowledge, the suite being obviously delicious, and I intend to make a much closer acquaintance with the piece over the next few days. As I will with the Haydn concerto.

The very fact of Haydn's existence makes me feel better about the world somehow. A sort of assurance that at the back of it all everything's really okay, even if it isn't.

Moral Imperatives

Two novels I don't think I'll ever read again: Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian and Paul Lynch's Prophet Song. Just too painful. I'm trying not to think of the final pages of the eighth chapter of the more recent novel. And failing.

Indeed, the moral power of the book is haunting me, as did that of McCarthy's great work. In McCarthy's case it was like looking into the deepest places of cruelty and pain in the human heart and not being able to see much else. Lynch's novel is more ordinary, in a sense. This is just normal life in a typical city in the developed world when things start to fall apart. And the suffering engendered becomes painfully real because it is so ordinary and you can't not think of the pain of all refugees fleeing anyplace and what's happening in Gaza and Lebanon even as I write and what happened in Pinochet's Chile, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. But the moral imperative is to do something about this, fueled by the outrage, the fury, you can't not feel.

Kafka: A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. Prophet Song is exactly that.

Really Hard Reading

I was right yesterday about Prophet Song. Devastating.

But the hour is getting late and there is no time to process this today. This is not a time to talk falsely. Tomorrow, perhaps.

Hard Reading

Paul Lynch's novel Prophet Song is stunningly good, and in many ways an easy read. Completely convincing in its speculative setting; completely convincing in terms of its central characters; and a convincing, compelling storyline. So why couldn't I finish it today when I had enough time to do so? Because the sense of dread created makes it hard to go on even when desperately needing to know what happens next. And because each extended paragraph segment has so much going on in terms of the evocative quality of the writing it just can't be rushed and demands to be read slowly, painstakingly.

I'm pretty sure I'll finish it tomorrow. And pretty sure I'll be devastated. 

Not Paying Attention

I stumbled across something I wrote late last year in praise of Miles's album Tutu, with specific reference to how great it was to listen to it in the gym. Somehow I'd forgotten this, but I thought that in view of my previously expressed enthusiasm I'd give it a spin on the workout I'd planned for this evening.

So spin it I duly did and found it engaging enough for the first couple of tracks. Next thing I know I'm into the last five minutes of my stint on the elliptical trainer and am zoning in on a very busy blues piece having zoned out completely on a good 45 to 50 minutes of Miles giving forth. I'd been thinking about some stuff at work as I was peddling up the endless hill and got completely lost in it.

Must remember this next time I make a claim to being a reasonably good listener. Only some of the time, I'm afraid, even when what I'm listening to is a slice of perfection.

My Blank Pages

Acquired my week to a view diary for 2025 yesterday. It’s the same edition as the one I’m using  this year , which means that, like this year’s, it will be most likely falling apart by October 2025. But I don’t mind. As long as it gets me through each working week without my missing anything of crucial importance to my working life I’m fine.

As with last year, getting my hands on what I’ve come to regard as foundational to my routines makes me a happy soldier. But I must confess that looking at all the pages waiting to be marked by doings that will need to be done is a little intimidating. I’m assuaging the mild panic engendered by reminding myself to live in the moment. Or, rather, live a week at a time with the odd glance into a future that will soon turn to messy pages.

And I mustn’t forget there’s a fair amount of 2024 that still needs negotiating. It may be all downhill from here, but there’s a lot of slope ahead. 

Something Cool

Went looking outside myself on a warm, comfortable Sunday afternoon for a few moments of cold perfection. And found them in a kind of silence.

True North

Just finished reading the Under the North Star section in Ted Hughes; Collected Poems for Children. Hughes at his considerable best, I reckon. Brilliantly observed animal poems, some with that sense of the abstract that characterised the 'newer' style in some of the Wodwo poems, but more immediately accessible. And wonderful touches of humour.

I assumed before I embarked on a reading of this Collected that I would be in for delight on every page, and that, happily, has proved to be the case.

Uplifting

These days I can't drive at all since the authorities wouldn't renew my license due to my being 'labelled' an epileptic. (I'm quoting my brain doc there who distinctly put the term in inverted commas when he told me the diagnosis.) I sort of feel the loss, but, on the other hand, Noi is an excellent driver and it's nice to be chauffered all over the place. (And Fifi is fine as well.)

The positive side of my incapacity came home to me today when I was driven to Friday Prayers. The azan is a bit early at this time of year and we arrived a little bit late. Now in the old days I'd have been rushing to park and then would have run-walked across the carpark to arrive a wee bit frazzled. Today I got dropped right outside the back entrance to the masjid and enjoyed a leisurely stroll of less than a hundred yards. And after, of course, a lift back during which I could do the necessary adjustments for getting back to work. 

I enjoy a challenge, but sometimes it's nice to feel deeply at ease. 

Going Local

A trip back to Manchester & Environs & probably a few other places is pretty much confirmed for us in December. The last time we were there was back in 2019, pre-pandemic. I can't say I miss my homeland, but I'm looking forward to a drab December in my fashion, and I think Noi is distinctly enthusiastic, as is her way. 

I've been keeping up with a funky little series in the Graun, entitled Where tourists seldom tread that explores towns with hidden histories. It's been a reminder of just how much I don't know about the UK and how many places I've never actually been to. Part 10 has a few paragraphs on Stockport which made me more than a little nostalgic for a spot I can't recall taking Noi to see. According to cousin John we're likely to grab some tickets for a Stockport County home game and the County are attracting bigger crowds what with their recent successes. (In case you're wondering, a trip to the Theatre of Dreams is definitely not on the cards, even if we could get tickets, which we can't, given our recent tribulations.)

And I fancy a visit to the Hat Museum. Almost obligatory for someone whose dad was a hatter, until the industry abruptly collapsed. But that's another story.

The Noise In My Head

A moment of illumination early this morning. Around 6.35. I'm watching Sky News and they're doing the review of the press in the UK. The talking heads are discussing events in the Middle East and behind them a large telescreen is filled with shooting stars above a city, the same 30 seconds of footage looped. These are missiles coming down but being intercepted by other missiles. At the same time I'm reading a story from the Graun on my phone about some Brit celebrity's arc of redemption as he appears on a ghastly-sounding reality show about being stuck alone on some kind of island. At the same time as I'm half-watching the goggle box and reading off my phone I'm figuring out how to negotiate the first two hours of the day and how I'll get some marking done in the cracks.

Then I realise there's a noise in my head. I suppose I'm speaking metaphorically, but it felt loud. So I stopped reading. And I stopped thinking. And I listened to the guy on Sky who was talking some sense about the madness, and the act of attention was soothing. It lasted about three minutes, and then the day really started up.

I suppose a lot of people hear the noise as they divide their attention between all that demands it. Maybe they don't know there's genuine peace if they choose to step out of the storm?

Blind Spots

I began marking some material today relating to African cinema when it suddenly occurred to me that if asked to place Nigeria on an outline map of the continent I would struggle. How can I have got to my age without a general working picture of that part of the world? 

And how can I possibly criticise teenagers for the occasional glaring gaps in their mental pictures of the world and its storied history?

Sometimes it's salutary to turn one's gift for sarcasm on oneself. Even when it hurts.