In The Background

Did you know that there are people who need to have the tv series Friends being screened in the background so they can lull themselves to sleep? It seems that the show has been a mainstay of the streaming service Netflix for several years, but now they're dropping their screening, and there's been an outcry from fans who desperately need the comforting familiarity of the many episodes to drop off to. According to the article I was reading about all this, it's the predictability of the rhythms of it all that do the job for these folk, sending them happily to the land of nod. I certainly didn't know this, or suspect anything like it, until I read about the phenomenon today, and I don't think the new information has in any way enhanced my life

Indeed, the way in which I found it out, idly scanning the news just to fill in time, frankly, is strangely reminiscent of what these viewers, or, rather, half-viewers are doing. I'm feeling acutely guilty at the moment at just how little of real value I've accomplished today. I've read hardly anything of genuine value, requiring effort and attention. Just trivial stuff off the phone, with me sometimes scrolling pointless comments on the pointless stories simply to fill in time, it being too much trouble to extend myself further.

So instead of feeling complacently superior to those who employ an old favourite comedy as a narcotic, I'm worrying that I'm only too ready to embrace my own version of brain-rotting substances at the first opportunity. 

Keeping Still

Nephew Ashraf popped round today to help us make some sense of the problems we're having with the electrics of the household. Not quite solved everything yet, but achieved a reasonably steady state. Stayed on the hill; a deliberately quiet, unadventurous day was in order and we've been enjoying it.

On The Move

18.06

A grey day. A lazy day. A sleepy day. A snuggling day. Neat descriptions from The Missus. And we’re on the road. So far, so good. Now supping tea at Ayer Keroh.

20.15

Now munching dinner on the hill after one of the easiest passages north we’ve ever experienced. Talk about smooth-sailing!

22.23

Now installed in Maison KL with most things working. Will be able to stop moving soon!

22.45

Spoke far too soon. Sudden blackout meant we needed to deal with dicey things going on in the main fuse-box. Now celebrating the equivocal joys of home-ownership as things remain dicey. But grateful for a roof over our heads.

Covering Up

Spoiler alert: more first world moaning ahead.

I don't know about you, but I'm feeling increasingly out of sorts with the barrage of advertising I encounter online. Somebody somewhere seems to think I need to subscribe to a course in tai chi for the elderly and interrupts every video I'm watching to tell me so. I'm never going to subscribe to any such course, largely on account of the fact I find the ads so irritating. And weirdly patronising. As are the ads for the six month course in AI that I'll never get involved in.

And why is that every story in the Graun online gets covered up with ads as I'm reading along, often meaning I lose track of where I'm up to? I'm used to the idea of reading as a reasonably soothing activity. Now the online version of the activity is usually mildly unsettling and occasionally feels impossibly fragmented.

The irony of it all is I never buy anything advertised, so if I'm being tracked by the surveillance capitalism they talk about, why don't the capitalists give up on me as a sad loss? I won't mind at all.

More Plans

We're off to Maison KL next Tuesday, which means we're now figuring out what exactly we need to do whilst we're in residence. It strikes me that I'm quite good at making plans. But not always effective in carrying them through. Mind you, having said that, somehow The Missus and I contrive to keep the place in something like running order, which isn't easy when you consider just how much there usually is in need of repair.

I think it would be reasonable to claim that most of the things I needed to do before setting off north have been done, with one glaring exception that I'm managing not to do by posting to this Far Place when I should be doing it. Oh hum. You'd think I'd have learnt my lesson by now considering my advanced and advancing years. But I somehow haven't.

Plenty Going On

We quite enjoy watching The Morning Show on Apple TV and got to the end of the first season yesterday. Lots going on, all of it suitably dramatic. But we got lost trying to follow the first episode of Season 2 this evening. Is this what life is like for the rich & successful? Makes me more thankful than ever for the uneventfulness that marks our passage through the world.

In Surplus

Even when I wrote that's that towards the end of yesterday's post I was half aware that that wasn't really that at all. I'd failed to mention anything about my most recent purchase from Kinokuniya, that being Conrad's novel Victory, one of the bigger gaps in my reading. And I really should have said something about the biggest gap of all: Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov. So embarrassing not to have read the major work by one of my favourite novelists, and I can't honestly explain the gap, except to say I've perused so many of the key sections in excerpts it's as if I know the book already. I very nearly purchased a copy along with the Conrad but then hesitated over which translation to go with. And I've still not really settled that question despite having looked at quite a bit of the debate about current translations on-line. My plan is to buy a copy from the Kinokuniya at KLCC once we've settled into the house, and I've made inroads into the Douglass autobiography and Victory, which I'm starting on this evening.

Plus I was seriously wondering about picking up a recent Stephen King novel from the library at work when I suddenly realised that I had on my desk a brand new copy of Achebe's Things Fall Apart which I'm supposed to be teaching in the first term next year. It struck me that the King was likely to prove surplus to requirements in our time in KL given the pile I'd built up.

The thing is that I want to read all these titles at once. It's a kind of greed, I suppose. At some point I failed to develop an adult sense of self-control with regard to my reading. And it's not getting better with time.

Seeking Direction

Am trying to get my reading in some kind of order. I'm approaching the end of Video Night in Kathmandu with just the segments on Thailand and Japan to read. There's much to admire in Iyer's essays, but a certain sameness in terms of the humour of the innocent abroad. And, to be honest, I'm finding the material on the sex trade in Bangkok just a bit depressing. Surely there's more to the city than that.

I suppose that accounts for my picking up the LOA collection of Douglass's Autobiographies ahead of completing the travel book. I'll be reading the third final Life and Times when we travel to KL and have decided not to skip the opening chapters on Douglass as a slave despite the fact that much of the material from My Bondage and My Freedom is repeated verbatim. The power and integrity of the work deserve further close reading. In fact, in reading the two opening chapters I was struck by how moving I found the child's separation from his grandmother, something I'd not managed to feel before for some reason.

Sadly I've been struggling to find the same engagement in Henry Vaughan's religious poetry which I'm admiring from a distance. Some great lines here & there, and general enchantment in the music of the verse, especially through its metrical variety, but the emphasis on the worthlessness of worldly existence gets a bit much. I just don't buy into it, I'm afraid, though I'm pretty sure it's not just posturing in the poet's case.

But I do buy into Jazz: A History of America's Music which I'm enjoying in an extremely leisurely fashion - and have been for quite some time now as very occasional reading, usually just at the weekend. Lovely book; great pictures. But too heavy to take up to Malaysia with us.

And on top of all that, my read-through of Finnegans Wake continues sturdily apace. I don't understand any of it. But in my head it sounds great.

So that's that. A bit of a mess, all told.

Getting Destructive

Got on with discarding lots of the unnecessary today in line with my New Year's resolution. The supererogatory material in question occupied my laptop which now feels lighter. Metaphorically. Strange how few of the documents consigned to oblivion genuinely related to the core business of what goes in my classroom.

Still plenty left to shovel away, though, in the days ahead. A veritable mountain. Happily metaphorical in nature. Not quite real somehow. 

Personal Best

Took myself happily by surprise at this evening's session at the gym. Posted my best ever numbers on the elliptical trainer. Just a month ago I was convinced no further improvement was possible and I'm delighted to prove myself wrong. (Having said all that, the improvement is by a single digit. But I'll take the smallest of victories, thanks!)

Bothered

I don't recall feeling in any way genuinely upset when first reading Pico Iyer's Video Night in Kathmandu back in the day. The ways of life of ordinary people in the Far East seemed comically exotic to me, but perhaps I missed out then on reading the essay on his experiences in The Philippines. In this segment, at the mid-point of the work as a whole, the writer openly states how troubled he is by the poverty he encounters in Manila, and it would take the hardest of hearts not to respond to the struggles of those who scrape not so much a living as an existence at the bottom.

Reading it I couldn't help but wonder whether the young people he encountered back then survived into reasonable middle-age. It's frightening that one has to raise the question, but so easy to imagine them simply failing to cope with the extremes they deal with on a daily basis. I don't know much at all about life in that part of the world but am vaguely hopeful that the passing decades have brought some improvement. The problem is that I know full well I might be wrong in that assumption.

All Sound And Fury

Normally I have no problem watching the kind of entertainment show that Noi sometimes tunes into. The singing competitions can have a kind of gentle charm that makes for easy viewing that doesn't take itself too seriously. But tonight's episode of Gegar Vaganza has crossed a line in terms of sheer shoutiness. It seems fueled by a weird neediness, as if some fundamental desperation to impose on the viewer can't admit of contradiction.

Strangely modern in its way.

All Clear

Highlight of the day: an uneventful visit to my back doc. No pain, no problem. Did not expect this at my advanced age. I suspect that my regular trips to the gym over the last few years have paid dividends, even if each features struggle rather than fulfilment. Worth keeping this in mind the next time I wonder why I'm punishing myself on the elliptical trainer.

Second Childhood

Now reading The Red Sea Sharks - a Tintin adventure, that I received as a gift from Fafa. Loved Herge's books as a kid. And love them just as much now. Indeed, if anything I'm more appreciative of them, recognising the brilliance of the artwork. Every panel involves a treat of some kind and the more complex are jaw-dropping in their detail.

Feeling tempted to buy a lot more in the very handsome Egmont editions. But will manfully resist my inner child. For now, at least.

All In The Timing

Came quite close to making a mistake regarding the timing of an important meeting in which I'm involved tomorrow morning. I'd noted the timing in my diary quite a while ago and was confident that I could afford an extra half an hour in bed and had planned accordingly. Fortunately I happened to decide on purging the emails lingering in my inbox, and discovered a recent one with a significantly earlier starting time for the meeting in question. So I won't embarrass myself on the final day of term after all.

This kind of confusion rarely if ever featured in my work in the first half of my career. Why not? Well, meeting times and locations were solidly fixed since our modes of communication were limited. As a result, sudden switches were generally out of the question since predictability was uppermost in our minds in terms of making sure it all worked. But these days last minute messaging regarding unexpected changes sometimes seems the default mode for organisations. Life has become interestingly unpredictable and, I suppose, more stressful for those who care about such things.

Happily, I'm now beyond embarrassment; though broadly speaking I'd prefer to be where I'm supposed to be on the grounds that it makes life just that bit easier.

Vanishing Worlds

Some years ago I was given a copy of Pico Iyer's book of travel essays Video Night in Kathmandu. First published in 1988, the year of my arrival in this Far Place, it was quite a fashionable read at the time and I'd already read a couple of the essays when it was given to me. I vaguely recall dipping into the different pieces based on the level of interest I had at the time with regard to the various locations involved, but at this distance in time I don't recall reading the work cover to cover, in sequence.

So it occurred to me that I might as well rectify that omission and see what I make of Iyer's work now we're well into the twenty-first century. And having now read (or, rather, re-read) the first piece on Bali I find myself quite startled by just how dated the writing seems. What was in its small way quite cutting-edge just four decades ago strikes me now as being positively old-fashioned in an almost humorous way. I find it quite a stretch to try and remember just how deeply fashionable Johnny Rambo was in his day and it seems extraordinary that the slightly ridiculous Sly Stallone was seen as something of an idol in the real meaning of the word in these parts.

In fact I realise that the Bali I remember visiting, in the 1990s, was already considerably more developed than the island visited by Iyer in the middle 80s. He laments the loss of an enchantment he experienced in his initial encounters with the place; I think back to my own enchantment with a world that, according to the writer, had already lost its magic.

I suspect our sense of enchantment with special places comes from within and that any world can be magical and is always fallen.

Restless

My weariness amazed me on two occasions today. Once in the morning; and again in the afternoon. And it's doing so again now. Not an unpleasant feeling if rest is imminent. But debilitating when there's lots to do. The bitter fruit of age, I'm afraid.

Connecting

Sometimes the simplicities of rhythm & rhyme are all you need. Carol Rumens's excellent choice for the current Poem of the Week is a telling example. Whilst reading I think that this is the world I really belong to. At other times I'm just happy to pop my head in and sample a better time & place. At least, that is, in imagination.

Not Connecting

Still processing yesterday's concert. The level of the musicianship from the SSO was stellar. Wonderful choral work in the Haydn mass and a soprano to die for in the final movement of Mahler 4. Yet somehow I didn't connect, beyond recognising the quality involved. 

And in a very different context I found something similar in my reading of Thoreau's Cape Cod. Much as I recognised the craft of the writing it didn't work for me beyond isolated snatches of appreciation.

Maybe I'm in a dry season. Encountering good things at the wrong time. Patience & perseverance are the order of the day. Let's face it. They are all any of us have got when things just don't work.

Limitations

Back from big helpings of Haydn and Mahler. Wonderful to be exposed to such excellence. But paradoxically made acutely aware of my very real limitations in relation to such heights of achievement.

Together

As I write this, Noi is flying in from Doha. I'll be setting off to the airport in a few minutes and we should be reunited in a couple of hours from now. Life will then settle back into its predictable routines.

And all will be very well, thank you.

Changing The Game

Attended a briefing-cum-lecture-cum-workshop related to AI in the school this morning. Found much to admire in the efforts of colleagues doing their best to find ways of integrating those tools-cum-platforms related to this into what goes on in classrooms. But also was keenly aware that the possibilities attendant upon the new technology are so spectacular in their range that the best efforts teachers make are likely to prove inadequate to the exigencies of the Brave New World that lies ahead.

Of course, I can afford to be complacent about all this, being at the fag-end of my career. So I'm looking on with a sort of stupefied curiosity, cheerfully hoping for the best, but darkly fearing the worst. 

Indeed, I fear that a significant dollop of the worst is already with us, but we're ill-equipped to recognise such.

Even More Grumbling

I'm just being extremely petty here. But I'm missing the SAC at work and I'm not entirely convinced that the place was in genuine need of refurbishment. I like areas with a run-down quality about them as spaces to hang loose in. And I can't think of anywhere in which to ease my rigid bits during the day at the moment. Mind you, things are essentially relaxed in these final weeks of the school year, hence the admission of pettiness.

I suppose there is something genuinely significant about all this, though. A recognition of the importance of trivialities in the workplace, and how deeply reliant we are on the familiar.

More Grumbling

My sore feet performed well enough today, wrapped in decent Umbro socks for protection, taking me to Star Vista in the middle of the day to do a bit of shopping to replenish supplies ahead of Noi's impending return on Friday. So nothing to complain about there. And the shopping centre itself was pleasant enough. They've put up one of those incongruously huge Christmas trees around their main entrance, but otherwise the decorations for the approaching season are reasonably restrained. And since I've got used to the tree being rolled out every November it wasn't too much of a shock to the system.

But the Christmas music in the Cold Storage supermarket was a step too far. It's 11 November, as the date above this post will confirm. It isn't the time to be musing on what Santa will bring, as one lyrically limited tune enjoined. Funnily enough I didn't recognise a single one of the songs played, which all sounded like something you might have heard in the USA of the 1960s. None of them worked in the November tropics. 

It's the incongruity of it all that's doing my head in. (A colloquialism expressing an incisive degree of personal distress, for those unfamiliar with the term.)

The Basics

It's been quite some time since I've had a good moan here about bodily aches & pains. That's largely because I've been very lucky for a few months now in terms of avoiding the unpleasant results of decrepitude as manifested in particularly nasty aspects of the above. But there is a lingering exception to all this positivity which won't go away, and its a bit embarrassing to record it here because it is so low & petty.

The fact is that my feet remain uncomfortably sore on a daily basis and that some effort is required to pretend this isn't so - a genuine walking through the pain. I suppose this is all down to a lifetime's wear & tear (and having oddly shaped feet which are overly wide) and the only remedy, since there is no remedy, is to grin and bear it.

But, frankly, ouch and oh and ouch again.

Looking Back

It would be remiss of me not to say anything about the morning I spent at the Peranakan Museum last Friday. The carefully curated exhibition rooms offer a deeply nostalgic glance over the shoulder at a vanishing world. Hearteningly that world represents the positive aspects of inter-cultural exchange in the region, something in the way of an ideal. And pitching this for students at the level of Stella Kon's appealing play Emily of Emerald Hill makes for an experience that the average visitor will find easily 'relatable', as people like to say these days. (Never thought I'd use the expression in writing, but I'm keenly aware of the need to move with the times.)

One fascinating aspect of the social world on display was the degree to which it expressed itself in what one might reasonably characterise as creatively artistic ways. Female fashions especially seemed to have an unusual weight, as did music and interior decoration in general. Appearances were kept up and meant something.

Funnily enough I experienced something akin to an attack of nostalgia myself in the course of the morning - actually two quite separate onsets thereof. The first came as I approached Armenian Street, on which the museum is situated, from the Bras Basah MRT station. I'd walked through the SMU campus and was crossing the road leading to the tunnel for traffic that avoids the campus when I realised I could no longer picture the old National Library building which had been situated there and in which I'd spent a number of happy hours in my earliest years in this Far Place. The 'new' tourist area around the museum building had been superimposed on an old workaday world pretty much erased from memory. 

And the second came as I remembered the first musical I'd been involved in directing, back in 1989 for the school I worked in then. The powers-that-be had already decided to put on Flower Drum Song, wrenching it from its American setting, beautifully delineated by Rogers & Hammerstein, and transplanting it to the Peranakan community inhabiting the East Coast of the island. We ended up borrowing a lot of furniture for the show and getting help from various luminaries associated with that fading world. I'd enjoyed it then, but hadn't really invested myself too deeply in the cultural aspects of our version of the show. Something of an opportunity missed.

All our worlds fade eventually, of course. So best to enjoy them whilst they're around.

That's Entertainment

Was surprised at just how entertaining I found yesterday's concert with the SSO. Proceedings began with a short 5 minute overture from a late 19C comic opera by some chap called von Reznicek. Pure fluff, tunefully so. I found myself tapping my feet, and wouldn't have minded a few minutes longer. In fact I suspected that I wouldn't have minded sitting through the whole show had it been on the agenda for the evening. And even though the Saint-Sains symphony that comprised the second half of the programme is thought of as a serious piece, again I heard it as something close to aural cheesecake - a sort of happy luxury of sound to listen to. Loved the bits with the organ, by the way. Its sound added a gauzy depth and almost cinematic gravitas just when it felt needed.

But it was Sir Stephen Hough's own piano concerto that definitely provided just what the listener who's in the mood for a bit of impossible glamour required. I came across a version on YouTube today and it confirmed what I thought at first hearing. This is meant as pure entertainment, surely, but entertainment of genuine worth.

Interesting that the composer's own programme notes are so well written. Music of real intelligence as well as feeling.

Not bad for just $21.00 eh? (I claimed the discount for senior citizens.)

Resisting Temptation

Fruitfully busy day involving two trips into the centre of the city - one in the morning to a museum; one in the evening to the concert hall. A bit late in the day to try and summarise each of those experiences, so I'll need to make time for that on the morrow.

But just one thing for now. I managed to spend a few minutes at Bras Basah Complex in the course of the day in a rather nifty second hand bookstore there (pretty much the only viable one left, I think.) And it was there I chanced upon a full box set of King's Dark Tower series for a mere $138.00. I surprised myself by deciding (somewhat indecisively in truth) not to purchase. And not only that, I'm fairly sure I'm not going to retrace my steps tomorrow to hand over the shekels. 

The reason? I'm not entirely sure, but I've got the oddest feeling that gazing at the whole series on my shelves will be overwhelming and I'll regret the fact it's there and now MUST be read.

Uprooted

Enjoyed my second buffet meal at Swensen's in as many months this afternoon. As I was engaged in some deep and rewarding munching one of my table companions inquired of me whether I missed English food. The answer came easily: not in the slightest. And thinking about it further this evening it suddenly occurred to me that I'd rate my memories of the lingering smell of boiled cabbage as positively traumatic. The ability of the British to get the very worst out of vegetables in preparing them for the dining table is surely unparalleled in world history.

What I do miss, occasionally, about my homeland is the spoken language. Specifically the way people speak in the area of Manchester that I'd identify as my home in the deepest, most abiding sense. But the extent to which I miss it only strikes me in a powerful sense when I'm there to hear it.

It makes me feel rooted, for want of a better word. Which is odd for someone who has chosen a life of happy exile.

Not So Routine

It's a funny time of year for me. In many ways I find myself released from the routines with which I am so familiar. No timetable to follow, for example. Yet I can't help but hanker after those certainties as I think of the final days of the week and work out the logistics of how to make their various pieces fit together. Something as simple as figuring out where to attend Friday Prayers, simple as it will be, feels burdensome at this time of the evening.

I'm pretty good at going with the flow once I'm in the water. It's taking the plunge that's irksome.

At Ease

I first heard Saint Saens's Organ Symphony, more accurately his Symphony No 3 in C minor, in the early 1980s, when I started regularly attending 'classical' concerts in Sheffield City Hall, featuring the Halle Orchestra. I'm guessing this was in 1984, when this particular experience of live music was something fresh for me. I say this as I recall the piece making quite an impact on me simply because of the sonorities involved with the inclusion of the mighty organ. And also because I couldn't come to terms with the idea of said organ being used so sparingly in the symphony, despite its title.

I'm due to listen to it live again this Friday evening at the Esplanade Concert Hall, and have been endeavouring to be rather better prepared this time round than I was in my callow youth. In those days you couldn't just magic up great music from Apple Music or YouTube as you can in this century, so I had my excuses back then for my massive lack of familiarity with the standard repertoire. But I've taken advantage of said magic this week to have a couple of listens, up close through ear-phones, one of these just being completed. And my verdict is that this is very engaging stuff.

In fact, I'm beginning to wonder if my heart, or ears rather, really align with the French composers of the late 19th century as opposed to their German, or Russian, counterparts. I wouldn't call Saint Saens light or fluffy exactly, but he's a whole lot more restrained than the chaps from further east and there's a lot to be said for music that manages to have real weight yet somehow stays easy on the ear.

Not So Comfortable

Have drawn up a reading list of sorts, to give me some much needed direction & discipline up to the end of the year. This involves going back to the Thoreau and Douglas LOA editions I recently broke away from. I'm now accompanying David Henry to Cape Cod, the last of the four full length works in the volume devoted to his writings on the Maine wilderness. It's reckoned to be the bleakest of his works, which suits my mood. Sometimes you need to embrace discomfort, even if it's only through the pages of a book.

High Energy

When I first read Tom Wolfe's The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test some decades ago I thought of it as a self-indulgent, repetitively sloppy piece of writing. Meretriciously clever enough to capture something of the spirit of 'hippy-culture' circa 1964, of which I knew next to nothing. I know a little bit more of that culture now from other sources, and I know enough about what it takes to create a world through words to appreciate that I was completely wrong about Wolfe as a writer.

His book is painstakingly crafted and, I suspect, very carefully researched. I can't be entirely certain of the latter but the signs are there. The shifting points of view can be traced to individual participants in the on-going saga of the Merry Pranksters when Wolfe is not around and, when he is, everything rings true regarding his limited participation in and understanding of the culture Kesey and his companions were consciously building. (Not one to last, I may add.) As for the style, once the reader is accustomed to the various devices adopted to re-create the mental atmosphere or subjective reality of it I suppose it starts to look lazy since the acid-head perspective on the world doesn't really change in its broad outlines. But the nuanced detail does shift and there are changes in tone and the geography of events which, reading the text closely as I don't think I did way back when, are substantial. 

What is astonishing about Wolfe's book is the sheer energy it manifests, almost over-poweringly at times. As a reader you have to bring a similar level of energy to reading closely. It's temptingly easy to skip the lists, obsessive as they are, but to do so means you are on the surface of this world and can never get inside the minds of the young people Wolfe tries to open for us. And being open & non-judgmental is something he's supremely good at. Does he admire Kesey? Does he despise him? Does he think he's deluded? Genuinely illuminated?

Was Wolfe right to build his narrative around his fellow writer? I think time has vindicated that decision. And the narrative, for there is one, is beautifully shaped, I've come to realise. 

Final point, or, rather, pointed question: Why are American writers so good at energy?

At The End Of The Day

Decided to draw a close to proceedings on this first day of the month by spinning Haydn's Te Deum in C major, as performed by Trevor Pinnock and his merry band of men & women of the English Concert and Choir. As with pretty much anything by Papa Haydn (and Trevor Pinnock et al) this was a jolly good idea.

Interesting historical footnote: Admiral Lord Nelson would probably have got to hear the Te Deum on the occasion of his meeting with the great musician. Pretty wonderful to think of the two heroes (in their own fashions) sharing notes in the Eszterhaza Palace. By all accounts they got on well together.

The Wide Open Spaces

Just back from Changi Airport & seeing Noi off on a European jaunt with Rohana & Sabariah and other friends. They'll be landing in Milan tomorrow as their first base of operations. Happy to bid farewell as The MIssus goes off on an adventure, especially when I'm set to be busier than usual with workstuff in the week ahead and even more boring than I usually am. But the apartment seems a bit too big without her. I like my places of habitation small & comfortable and she's integral to the comfortable bit. Still, she's left behind plentiful goodies and the excellent advice not to play my music too loudly.

A guideline which I'm likely to break any time soon, just to fill the space. 

No Cakewalk

We bought a scrumptious little cake last Saturday afternoon for our two birthday girls. We'd gone to Star Vista to pick up some bits and pieces Noi had ordered from the Nando's there when she spied a funky little stall belonging to Twelve Cupcakes. I'm not all that familiar with their offerings but the cakes at the counter looked appetising enough, and we were well pleased with our purchase when we tucked into it at Fafa's place in the evening. I can remember thinking as the friendly lady at the cake place served us that the business must be doing well given the good service and general sense of well-being.

I was wrong, deeply so. It turns out that the franchise shut down all its branches abruptly today leaving its employees, who didn't see this coming, in a deep lurch. So that nice, efficient lady who served us is probably in a bit of mess now. Or a lot of a mess.

Three observations: 1) don't trust appearances; 2) belong to a strong union if you're not one of the bosses; 3) enjoy your cake while it lasts - which may not be for too long.

Still On The Peak

Completed what's become a typical session at the gym this evening. No improvement in terms of cardio, so not getting any faster. But a manageable session with no indications of decline. No improvement on the weights, so not getting any stronger. But, happily, not getting any weaker. So, could do better. But not bothered if I don't. A bit like my school reports from decades back. And very much like my response back then. Some things never change.

Making Us Better

I've always assumed - intuitively so - that being exposed to Art does us good. I don't mean it makes us better people morally. I take that to be a very doubtful claim. But I've taken it for granted since late childhood that it makes us feel better on a deeper level than just being entertained (though that's not a bad thing in itself.)

Listening to great music, especially the live variety; looking at great art, especially the real thing in a gallery; reading great poetry, great prose, in complete absorption: three prominent forms of artistic experience that do me a world of good, and probably you too, Gentle Reader.

And today I stumbled upon proof of this of the scientific variety. I knew I would, one day. Nice to be vindicated. But, in truth, I think we all know this. It's part of our unfathomably deep programming.

Seeing Things

Continued to think about some of the distinctive features of poetry today, in my experience as a reader of the stuff. Pondered on how often a poem that has seemed to me on first reading distinctly unpromising has come to genuine life when I’ve persevered in attempting to grasp how it works.

This is exactly what happened to me last week when teaching Margaret Atwood’s Salt to a class. Frankly I wasn’t looking forward to subjecting the poem to any kind of rigorous analysis since I felt I’d not really grasped what the writer was doing in a satisfyingly coherent manner. I understood the basic idea and found the allusion to the tale of Lot’s Wife looking back on the cities of the plain and suffering the consequences interesting. But getting involved with the intricacies of meaning wasn’t appealing.

However, by the time the class and I had done the necessary I felt the poem working for me. I was seeing the heaped salt glittering by the final stanza as I think Atwood intended me to. I can’t say I knew exactly what the glittering meant, if it meant anything at all. But I saw it and that was enough.

Taken By Surprise

It's rare that Carol Rumens's excellent Poem of the Week feature has involved old favourites of mine, but this week proved the exception, with a belter from Dr Johnson. I think I first read his elegy On The Death of Dr Robert Levet when I was at university and it struck me then as a poignantly powerful exemplar of the genre. Robustly traditional yet so obviously personal as to be super-charged with emotion without displaying the slightest hint of sentimentality. Very English in its way.

I've now re-read it some four or five times over the last week. And somehow it has got better each time. Actually, I can account for the 'somehow' with some confidence. Ms Rumen's introductory reflection is typically illuminating. One of her best - especially on the qualities of the rhythmic force of the verses. And the BTL commentary has been helpful in any number of ways, especially in helping me to a deeper grasp of the practicalities of the practice of medicine in Johnson's time.

So, yet again, I'm left to ponder on the strangeness of poetry. The capacity of the genuinely great stuff to grow and surprise and delight afresh over time.

Family Matters

Another happy nosh-up this evening courtesy of a gathering of the clan at Fafa's place. The excuse was a celebration of Fifi's birthday, not that any excuse was necessary. Piles of grub & plentiful laughter over genuinely bad jokes and nothing in particular. 

A timely reminder of the things that really matter.

Not The Real Thing

Just back from happy noshing with Pete & Chris & Kishor & Lia. Unfortunately got caught in a bit of a storm going back, on the way to the bus stop. Fortunately we're talking about Singapore rain and not Lancashire rain, so all was well. 

Vive La République

Just lately I've been getting a bit excited over news coming from my homeland. It's not exactly a secret that I am and always have been a rabid republican possessed of the entirely rational opinion that it would be an excellent idea to do away with the monarchy. But I've never really expected that this might be achieved in my lifetime. However, the deeply egregious Prince Andrew has been doing a first-rate job of making that slim possibility real.

I reckon there's a fighting chance we might see the back of the whole bunch in the next decade. Here's hoping. 

Funforall

Enjoyed browsing a fascinating list over at Open Culture of the 100 Greatest Novels of All Time according to my fellow-Brits back in 2003. One joyous surprise, that isn't commented on in the accompanying article: Joyce's Ulysses makes the list at 78. 

Since the list very obviously comprises genuinely popular favourites (plenty of Harry Potter in there, for example) this is surely proof positive of something that I've believed for years. This supposedly unreadable masterpiece speaks to ordinary folk outside the groves of academe because it's about them and they recognise this. The so-called obscurities of the text are embraced because it's fun to read and everyone likes a good puzzle.

Back In Action

Long day today, which I wasn't entirely looking forward to as it began. After lessons I found myself out at the basketball courts as our guys resumed practice sessions following the break for the exams. And here's the ironic thing: I enjoyed every minute and, if anything, felt sort of recharged by the end of the session. In earlier years when I have been involved in drama I've noticed a similar effect.

Obviously the sense of watching students being able to do something more natural than sitting studying at desks contributes to the feeling of enjoyment. But I don't think it's just that. I reckon it's also to do with a sense of purpose & point. The activity feels educational in the deepest sense, if that sounds coherent? Frankly, there are times when what goes on in a classroom doesn't feel completely right to me somehow.

I suppose I should think this through more deeply. But I'm too old and just can't be bothered. Instead I'll just enjoy the times I really get to enjoy what I do.

On The Path

Noi and I found ourselves communing with Mother Nature this morning having taken ourselves off to the Rifle Range Nature Park - a first for us, but not a last. Our little outing was partly intended to help The Missus prepare for her forthcoming trip to Italy & Switzerland with Rohana and other chums, on which they are likely to do a fair amount of walking in idyllic spots. She handled this morning's jaunt with ease, so the signs are good. By the way, whilst the location provided excellent access to a close-up view of the natural world (loads of monkeys around!) it wasn't too far from the eateries adjacent to the Beauty World MRT and there it was I later enjoyed a teh tarik to die for, just to make the morning complete.

Sharp-eyed observers will note that for the occasion I elected to wear a spectacularly silly hat, one I picked up for a couple of dollars long ago in NZ. I intend to get full value out of it.

The Casualties

I read bit and pieces of Tom Wolfe's account of Ken Kesey's Merry Pranksters around the early seventies, when I saw myself, on and off, as a bit of a post-hippy. It was sort of the hip thing to do, I suppose. But I didn't own a copy of The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test until I got hold of the Black Swan edition in this Far Place in 1990 or thereabouts. I remember then being mildly impressed at some of Wolfe's clever writing and one or two of the formal features of the text, but not really relating to it on the human level. I didn't have a clue what Kesey was up to or how he saw himself, for example. And I couldn't connect what was going on on the Pranksters' bus with the brilliance of Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. (Or the great movie of the novel, for that matter.)

So my deciding to re-read Wolfe's account was partly based on a desire to try and do justice to the book which had languished on my shelves for so long. And now I'm a good quarter of the way in I'm very glad I did, precisely because the people it involves are coming alive for me. I think Wolfe treats them with genuine interest and insight beyond the obviously ironic elements. There's a whole lot of folly, but it comes across, so far at least, as likable stupidity, of the kind to which we're all prone.

And at times there's tenderness in the writing despite the superficial fireworks. Most of all, I reckon, it's situated in an unstated underlying concern for the well-being of the young people back in 1964 trying so hard to find new ways of apprehending reality. The thing that's so difficult for the reader of today to grasp is their lack of real understanding of just how dangerous the substances they were happily experimenting with might be. The likes of Jimi, Janice and Jim hadn't yet happened. (By the time I was reading Wolfe they had, sadly.)

The ending of Chapter Six, with Hagen's girl, Stark Naked, gone stark raving mad as the Pranksters visit the writer Larry McMurtry hits powerfully home. I wonder what became of her, as I can't help but wonder of all the casualties of substance abuse since then. So many of them.

Out Of The Moment

Still feeling under a considerable spell lingering from the recent SSO concert I went on a search for James MacMillan's Concerto for Orchestra - Ghosts and came across a full version from the LSO that confirmed my sense of how enjoyable the piece was on Thursday. Not sure if this is great music exactly or just extremely entertaining and I don't care. I like it.

As I did everything about the Thursday performance of Bartok's 2nd Piano Concerto which I'd now probably claim as my all-time favourite piano concerto. Now considering I've only heard it four times in full that's a bit of a facile judgement, but since most of my judgements are a bit thin I'll settle for it. Anyway, once you've had the pleasure of hearing Pierre-Laurent Aimard banging it out live all else pales in comparison. The Maestro is a force of nature. I'm not sure I've ever seen a mere mortal's hands move that quickly - or as slowly as they did for the gorgeous encore piece. (My musical ignorance is so deep that I'm still trying to find out what it actually was, but my friend Google isn't helping at the moment. I'm expecting a review in Monday's Straits Times will settle this for me.)

After the electrifying excitement prior to the interval I wasn't really expecting fireworks for the Prokofiev ballet stuff in Part 2 - bits from Romeo & Juliet. And there weren't any. Not for this listener, that is. It was all just satisfyingly lovely.

Now thoroughly stoked to listen to Stephen Hough in November. And feeling distinctly privileged to have access to live music of the highest order. 

Not So Routine

Still attending Masjid Tentera for Friday Prayers. According to Muis, the Darussalam Mosque was supposed to be back in action last week, but it looks like the closure might be long term. The guys serving at the Al Rayyan Restaurant, where we've recently been popping in for a tea after prayers, reckon so, and they're likely to know being in close proximity to the place.

So it's been an opportunity to explore my 'new' mosque as opposed to just a couple of fleeting visits. And since it's quite a maze of rooms and corridors in its small way there's been something new to discover each week. Today I finally saw the imam in action, which feels a lot more 'actual' than when he's just a voice. And I accessed the building by a different path to the one that winds up the hill. 

Realised that much as I love established routines I still have a taste for establishing new ones.

In The Moment

19.27

Now in the Esplanade’s concert hall, waiting for the show to begin. Anticipating good things!

20.55

Half time & Monsieur Aimard crushed it. Jaw now on the floor. Oh, and his encore was the best ever in my listening experience, and I don’t even know what he was playing.

23.00

Back home & managed to eat. Deeply need to get to bed soon. Bit daft to go out on a Thursday evening in an impossibly busy week when I very much needed to do some other stuff. But deeply, madly glad I did. 

Mixed Feelings

Just finished reading Knife, Salman Rushdie's account of the horrific attempt upon his life back in 2022. A colleague generously gave it to me on Teachers' Day back in September, otherwise I don't think I would have put it on my reading list. As it is I'm glad I read it as a very interesting account which slipped down easily.

The thing is though, that I can't bring myself to believe the sincerity of the reviewer for Booklist who is quoted in the extended list of quotations in the blurb who claimed: Every electrifying page elicits tears and awe. This is simply not so. There are a few brilliant pages, especially those dealing with the appalling attack itself; there are many thought-provoking pages; and there are a significant number of pages that made me wonder why an editor hadn't told the writer this is all a bit slack.

I feel bad about expressing this degree of negativity, especially over a gift from someone who thinks this is a wonderful book, and especially because the book is a sincere and deeply vulnerable retelling of an extremely painful episode by a man who survived and battled admirably back to a life. But for all its virtues this is, at moments, a deeply flawed text from a writer who, I suspect, isn't aware of those flaws.

I don't want to go on too much about this; it seems, and quite possibly is, unpleasantly ungenerous to do so. But just one simple point for now. Sir Salman notes, with some insight, that we live in a time when privacy appears to many undesirable, an attention-addicted time. He and his wife, he tells us, made a decision to be private people prior to the attack. Very nice for them. But then why go so considerably public about even fairly mundane features of their lives in this account? Isn't this a tad contradictory? Attention-seeking even?

Anticipation

Got hold of a ticket today for the SSO concert in early November featuring the wonderful Stephen Hough tinkling the ivories for his own Piano Concerto - The World of Yesterday. It seems like only yesterday I witnessed a masterclass by the great man with Jonah (best accompanist for a musical I've ever worked with by several million miles) as one of his pupils. But it turns out that was back in 2017.

And this week, Thursday evening, we're off to listen to Pierre-Laurent Aimard (this fanboy's favourite living concert pianist - sorry Sir Stephen, but it was a close thing) doing the business with Bartok's 2nd Piano Concerto. I'd never heard this before the weekend, but I've now listened to it twice and am wondering why I haven't listened to even more Bartok - of whom, to put the record straight, I've listened to plenty. But clearly not enough.

Can't wait. But I have to.

Empty Days

At a time when the days feel distinctly packed, and will become even more so for the week ahead, it seems appropriate to comment on my acquisition of a week to a view diary for 2026 a few days ago. The acquisition of such has become an annual ritual of sorts around this time and is always a bit of relief since I doubt I could function in the workplace without one. It's not been too difficult to get hold of the necessary for the last three years since a local publisher now provides the appropriate pages. The only drawback is the obvious lack of quality for the binding. My 2025 edition started to fall apart in late March and is now held together by sticky tape. And still just under a quarter of the year to go!

I've been filling in the bits and pieces I know lie ahead for 2026 over the last couple of days and, as is always the case, find the blankness of the pages sort of beguiling. In past years I've always felt a degree of intimidation rubbing up against the predictable anticipation. But this morning the feeling was different. I felt a sort of easy pleasure at the thought of just how interesting everything was going to be and couldn't help but reflect on my luck, if it holds, to be around for it all.

Better full to overflowing than empty. I honestly did not understand this before and am glad I now do.

Also, hoping this diary doesn't fall apart before February is over.

Keeping On Track

Noi and I enjoyed an aimless late morning at Jurong Lake Gardens, just wandering. The place is so well-designed by the Parks people - I think they call themselves the National Parks Board, NParks for short (definitely my favourite branch of government) - that you can't go wrong wherever you are. Always something good and green (and yellow and purple and red and orange and all sorts of shades and shapes, not to say sizes) to look at.

Quite a few areas have been given over to displays related to the Lantern Festival. Cheerfully silly stuff. I'm sure it all looks suitably colourful, if not a little magical, in the evening. But we enjoyed the simpler magic of everyday trees & flowers by sunlight.

Noi pointed out that some folks, I'm thinking wealthy developers and so was she, would be very keen to bung a condominium or two onto the grounds we were traversing. Nice to think that the concept of protecting the commons still has leeway in the world's saner cities. Hope it lasts.

Spinning Plates Again

Spent the day lurching from task to minor crisis to task, etc... But had a welcome break for Prayers followed by a cuppa with The Missus. Thought I'd kept all in spin until twenty minutes ago when I suddenly realised I had completely forgotten the need to reply to a pretty important email and did so. Just a bit too late. Well, a lot too late in truth.

As recently as, say, five years back I think the plate crashing to the stage would have sort of spoiled the performance. Nowadays it just seems to add to the entertainment value. A spot of spontaneous comic relief.

Just A Thought

Words of a sort of wisdom from a Far Place: If it's worth doing well, it's worth doing slowly.

(Not sure if that's original to me, but that's true of all my thoughts. Also, can't help but wonder if I articulated this before and simply forgot.)

(Great excuse for missing a deadline. Sounds vaguely plausible and vapid all at the same time.)

Thoreau's Indian

Emerged tired but happy from The Maine Woods at 7.45 pm. Thoreau was a great companion to have on the way, but a bit heavy-going in places, providing a bit too much detail. Mind you, of the three different expeditions he made through the wilderness, it was the third and final, The Allagash and East Branch, I found the most readably fascinating, but not on account of the richly vivid descriptions of the forests, lakes & rivers therein.

What really held me was Thoreau's descriptions of and relationship with his native American guide, his Indian. (Nothing too woke about Henry David, at least on the surface, that is.) The guide's name is given in full one time only, in the penultimate sentence of the account: This was the last that I saw of Joe Polis. Before that the Indian is very occasionally Polis, but usually the Indian. So what is Thoreau up to at the end? Is he subtly referencing the full humanity of his companion in giving his name and ending the narrative at the point they separate forever? Or does he remain the oddly eccentric sort of servant to the superior, civilised white guys. The Other.

It's a puzzle. But what is clear is that, consciously or unconsciously, the writer is fascinated by the man. He, his presence, dominates the account such that it becomes a narrative in a deeper sense than just a travel guide. But as to what Thoreau really thinks of Joe Polis, I don't know. And I suspect he doesn't or didn't and needed to write it out of himself. 

Glad I got to read it.

Eyes Wide Open

Started watching the recently made film of Macbeth featuring Denzel Washington as the homicidal thane a couple of weeks back with some reluctance. The reluctance had nothing to do with Mr Washington, by the way. He was the reason I felt I should watch the movie. Rather, I felt maxed out on the great drama, having taught it more than one time too many and seen two too many productions. It's the only play by WS I thought of in that way, but the feeling was very real.

And now it's gone completely, melted as breath into the wind.

As my viewing began I could watch a few minutes at a time, sceptically, finding reasons to question every directorial decision. By the mid-point the questions stopped. By the end - the Act 5 stuff - I realised I was watching a brilliant movie, chock-full of great performances, and a towering Macbeth and Mrs. Started watching again from the beginning as soon as the end credits played, relishing every moment. 

Sometimes it pays to keep both mind and eyes open.

Looking Up

Felt pretty perky this evening, the day having gone satisfyingly smoothly. Then, as I was wandering outside to accomplish one final task, I happened to look up to catch a full moon looming overhead. And things got even better.

On The Peak

Thought I might just record a strong session at the gym this evening, but it wasn't to be. It wasn't a disaster in that I managed a full sixty minutes on the elliptical trainer and got through all of my routines with the weights. But I didn't enjoy any of it and never felt free of the need to concentrate just to keep going. No sense of of ease at all.

And it now strikes me that I've probably peaked in terms of improving my numbers on the trainer. I'm not intending to try and extend the length of sessions simply because what I do is enough, and it's more than a bit boring. The future lies in maintaining the number of sessions I manage in each week, and trying not to slow down. 

But I do wonder if I can genuinely improve in terms of strength from working on the weights. Maybe that's something to push for?

In Celebration

Spent a memorable few hours this afternoon at 'Celebration of a Life', a gathering designed to recall the life of our friend Boon. It did so richly. Felt much sadness; but considerably more joy & gratitude. The sign of a deeply generous life well-lived. 

Almost As Usual

After a fruitfully busy morning it was back to Masjid Tentara for Friday Prayers today with Noi on driving duty. Not quite the mad rush to get there as last week, and actually got inside. But a slight disappointment as it wasn't the open prayer hall I'd expected. The space was subdivided into separate rooms, so all very ordinary, but comfortable.

And after we went off to return a modem to the Starhub outlet at Jurong Point since we've cancelled our subscription to their service. In fact we'd returned the set-box & wires & stuff a few days back, but didn't know we had a modem from them since we never asked for it and we've never used it. (Complicated story, of the Modern Life is Rubbish variety.) And then we eased our troubles at the Aiman Cafe and life was good again.

And what made all this not quite usual? Well, the masjid is a variation on my usual routine in itself, but the original plan for the day had been for me to get directly back to work after prayers to get a few tasks out of the way and for Noi to have a chummy afternoon with old friend Nosiah; but that needed to be cancelled on account of Children's Day, which meant that Nosiah had to look after her grand-kids.

What complicated lives we lead, eh? Anyway, the undone stuff will get done come next week, and the afternoon proved highly satisfactory and I'm happy to leave the edgy interesting aspects of life to others whilst things go by in our small corner of the big world pretty much as usual.

Away Again

Spent some time back in England today, in some woods in Northamptonshire, transported there via John Clare's The Shepherd's Calendar. Read October to celebrate the arrival of the month with much delight. The Peasant Poet is a master of particularities and his list of what he observes in the poets solitary way as the month begins brings a vanished world wonderfully to bustling life.

I have to hold myself back from quoting the whole thing, and will settle for six lines centred on falling acorns:

Crows from the oak trees qawking as they spring / Dashing the acorns down wi beating wing / Waking the woodlands sleep in noises low / Pattring on crimpt brakes withering brown below / While from their hollow nest the squirrels pop / Adown the tree to pick them as they drop

What music, eh? Yet the poem met with little success in Clare's lifetime in terms of sales. Fortunately for us it lives in eternity.

A Brief Getaway

Spent an enchanted five minutes this morning, between marking examination scripts, on the shores of Lake Apmoojenegamook in The Maine Woods. I was in the company of Henry David Thoreau and we were listening to the voice of the loon, loud and distinct, from far over the lake. Well, old Thoreau was listening and describing it so vividly that I heard it loud and distinct in SAC, just by the window looking out on our little bit of landscape.

The magic of inhabiting two places and two times at once. Aren't words strange things? Especially from the pen of a master

Casting Off

Another bit of glancing back today. At my year's three-quarter mark I thought it useful to recall my New Year resolution for 2025 - that being a vow to be Leaner and Keener. On the 'leaner' front, I think it's reasonable to say I've managed to thin down quite a bit of the unnecessary, especially at work, having paid a few quiet visits to the big bins at one of the more remote entrances into the grounds. But I could still do better (the theme of many of the pithier school reports from my teachers.)

I've got vague plans about this, relating for the most part to papers I have in storage. Picturing dumping documents I really should have got rid of years ago has an odd enchantment about it. Not sure that's entirely healthy in mental terms, but I'm of an age when it's wise to take whatever pleasures avail themselves without too much in the way of self-analysis. Definitely keen to be mean.

Still Unmedicated

Glanced back to this time last year to find out what I was up to, only to find I was boasting about being happily unmedicated and feeling very good about it. The same is luckily true today. I haven't had to pop any pills to control what I sincerely doubt is my epilepsy for over a year. And I don't think when I was popping the low dose prescribed for me it did me any good at all.

This is not to say I don't think it's possible to suffer a recurrence of what plunged me into The Delirium. Nobody, as far as I know, has any idea why I suddenly found myself experiencing brain seizures; and that means, as far as I know, that it wouldn't be much of a surprise if I suffered a reprise. And if I do, well that's just the way it is. In the meantime I quietly celebrate every day of being here. (And sometimes not so quietly, but I reckon there's little to be said for great music that's not thrillingly loud, and I know a lot of great music!) 

On Target

Struggled to hit my target for marking today, but got there in the end. That end, unusually, came after my evening trip to the gym. I still had half an essay to get though when I set off to unfold myself on the elliptical trainer and weights. I suppose I could have delayed setting off until I'd got to the bitter end but felt that pushing myself when I had other things in mind wouldn't help me genuinely focus. Oddly enough, once back home and feeling pretty much spent I found it easy to give full attention to the efforts of the candidate in question, and those final paragraphs weren't quite so bitter after all.

Long gone are the days when I could sit and mark for four to five hours at a time. But perhaps that's helpful in unexpected ways?

For All Messiaeniacs

There are times I find myself wishing the whole IT thing never happened. Especially when I recall my years of studying for 'A' levels, working in a factory and then going to university. Things were sort of complete. Music and books cost a bit, certainly, but were easily available, especially live music. And there was plenty to watch on the goggle box and at the cinema.

Now it sort of feels like there's too much, somehow, and a strange undervaluing is going on.

But it doesn't take much to pull me out of one of my jeremiads. Finding something really great on YouTube invariably does the trick. And that's what happened to me the other day when a brilliant sort of documentary on good old Olivier Messiaen from a series entitled Rabbit Hole Composers popped up in my feed. The guy who put this together, who goes by the rather fetching name Thacher Schreiber, presumably did so as a labour of love and deserves an award for doing so. Sensibly enthusiastic, informative, insightful and genuinely enlightening - for me, at least. And, I suspect, for a lot of other folk to, if they were to give it ears.

It sent me off to give a close listen to Peter Hill banging out Books 1 - 3 of Catalogue Oiseaux (which I'm able to listen to online in a very good quality recording via Apple Music. Really must stop moaning about the bad influence of the Internet, eh?!)

All Change

Felt even more stupid than is usual for me on arriving for Friday Prayers at Masjid Darussalam only to realise that the HDB carpark just behind was fairly empty - lots of spaces to park, said The Missus happily - and the mosque closed for some sort of building work. Initially I thought there might have been some kind of sudden problem inside, like a collapsed ceiling, then vaguely recalled something being announced last week about a closure. The thing was that the announcement I heard was in Malay and I wasn't sufficiently tuned in to realise I needed to find somewhere else to pray a week hence.

Anyway, off we went to see if Masjid Tentara, just off Clementi Road and not too far away, could accommodate my good self. Even though prayers were fairly early today we'd arrived at Masjid Darussalam in reasonable time, just ahead of the azan, so it wasn't too much of a panic to get to the mosque on the hillside. Actually I've always quite fancied going there, since it looks so picturesque, so I was quite looking forward to getting inside. But, as I should have guessed, it was full by the time I made my way up the steps, so I, along with quite a number of late-comers, had to pray outside.

Must say, our brothers preparing for the prayers, did a great job of dealing with the overflow and I prayed in happy comfort. But, my goodness me, was it packed by the end of the session. Which made finding my shoes something of a saga, since it was almost impossible to look down and see the ground initially with everyone milling outside trying to make a getaway. But found they were, and Noi and I were happily able to make our way to the hawker centre just off West Coast Road for the cup that cheers before I popped back to work.

A bit of an adventure then, in a quiet and calm sort of manner befitting the occasion. And I've just checked and found out that I'll need to pray at the smaller mosque again next week - when my aim will be to get inside and enjoy a good look-see, look-see, as Noi would delicately express it.

Making Discoveries

Did you know that there's a noun gnarl - meaning a sort of growling snarl? No you didn't. And neither did I until I found it in the course of my researches today. It seems Bronte uses it in Wuthering Heights: My caress provoked a long guttural gnarl. (It's about a dog, not a love scene.) Oh, and you can use it as a verb, as WS does: And wolves are gnarling, who shall gnaw thee first.

Gosh, I love the OED. Could lose myself in it. (Also had fun with a lot of stuff about gnashing, but I really must restrain my enthusiasm.)

New Words For Old

A bit of a first for me today. Saw the word gnarly used in an exam essay I was marking. A nice moment in its way. Other than advising the candidate to avoid using colloquialisms I got to thinking about a couple of issues, the first of these being whether the term was being used correctly, given its meaning. The interesting problem here is, of course, what gnarly actually means since that's so dependent on context. I can think of three basic meanings: something being tough, difficult in an unpleasant manner; something being excitingly risky; something being cool (in the Fonz sense.) Fortunately I didn't need to make any comment on this since the broad advice regarding colloquialisms was quite enough in the way of feedback. But I wasn't at all sure what actually was in the writer's mind.

The second issue, that only struck me later in the day, related to the currency of the term. I sort of assumed it is current and would fall easily off the tongue of the average eighteen-year-old in this far place - at least one whose social media bubble stretches to the Americas, but then got to wondering whether it's now distinctly dated for young people. After all, as far as I can remember it became current in the late 80s as surfer slang. So that generation of speakers would now be very much middle-aged. Curiously it still feels 'new' to me since I've never adopted the term, even in a self-consciously comical manner.

I haven't looked up its origins yet - am saving this for a trip to the hard copy mega-OED in the library at work tomorrow - but I'm guessing it might be around the eighteenth century and connected with tree roots. Quite excited in my little way to find out.

Still Going Wild

Realised after posting yesterday that my thoughts on the wilderness had been prompted, in part, by a chat I'd enjoyed earlier in the day with some of our ex-students, Satvik, Mihir & Vikaash, now engaged in their stint of National Service. They'd been telling about the challenges & rewards of a training exercise they'd had to do in the jungles of Brunei. I doubt very much that I'd be up to the demands of such training these days or even when I was their age, for that matter. But I still envied them deeply.

Found myself afterwards thinking of surviving crossing Black Hill with Tony in my prime. Not sure why I'd like to find myself in impossibly black mud up to my upper thighs and facing the deep uncertainty of ever getting out alive. But I would.

In The Wild

Since getting back from Malaysia I've been stuck in The Maine Woods with Henry David Thoreau. I've only managed a couple of pages a day, but considering how densely packed they are with details about the nature of the wilderness, as was, in that part of the world, that's quite enough to take in. I've never found Thoreau an easy read; but he feels like a necessary read somehow.

Very much the next best thing to really being in the wilderness. (Which I'm predictably developing longings for as I read on.)

Glorious Food

Chanced upon a video earlier today detailing classic meals of the British working class and plunged deeply into a half-forgotten past for its ten minutes or so duration. Rubbed up against many happy memories, though I can't recall viewing liver & onions as anything other than an ordeal.

Mind you, I'm not sure I'd want Noi to try out any of this stuff. Except for the beans on toast, maybe.

Unengaged

Made a valiant effort just now to watch the first episode of one of the series offered on our Apple TV subscription. Since we're paying for the service we're trying our best to get something out of it beyond the excellent Slow Horses (the fifth series of which kicks off next week, if I'm not mistaken.) I tried a few weeks back to watch The Studio. It won big at the Emmys, I believe, but did little for me. The series we attempted tonight also has its background in American media, in this case television. It was okay. A bit self-regarding and unnecessarily sweary, but sort of watchable. Not exactly gripping though.

We'll wait and see whether Noi is up for the second episode. But I really don't think we're the kind of viewership the streaming services are keen on, somehow.

The Week Ending

I was sort of looking forward to the first week of our final term back on Sunday when we got back to Singapore. I thought it would be a case of easing in gently and getting back into the flow of things. In the event it's been five days of unease, with nothing going quite right, even if nothing actually went wrong. And feeling thick-headed through most of it. Perhaps I'm just allergic to work? It's kind of late in my career to find that out, I must say.

Hoping that things will get better. But not counting on it.

Testing Times

Struggled through a day of heavy marking. Sniffling and nursing a unpleasant headache. Got all that needed doing done. Settled to a tasty bowl of mutton soup only to find that the first spoonful triggered a major coughing-cum-choking fit resulting in a ferociously itchy throat. Could not eat any more, so just  munched some of the bread that came with the soup.

Now feeling very very sorry for myself. As I'm sure you can guess.

Tomorrow has to be an improvement on this.

Forcing It

It's been a full two weeks since I last went to the gym. Whilst we were in Malaysia I really missed the chance to exercise and thought that when I finally had the chance to get back into harness I would relish the opportunity. But I didn't relish it this evening one little bit since I've been feeling achingly under the weather since Monday. Fortunately I didn't let my reluctance stop me, and somehow forced myself to go and keep sweatily peddling for a full hour.

I'm not sure it did me a lot of good. But it had to be done. Just glad when it ended.

Missing

We popped into the big Kinokuniya bookshop in KLCC whilst we were in KL last week. The good news is that there's no sign that the place is downsizing, as seems to be happening to the Singapore branch. For the last ten years or so I've had the distinct impression that the KL branch is better run than its Singaporean counterpart. More genuine thought seems to be put into its displays, for example, and you don't see multiple copies of the same title taking up excessive shelf-space.

But I did notice one negative development. The shelves devoted to 'literary texts' seem to be moving down market. One of the signs of this is that contemporary fiction now dominates. Now it isn't that I don't think of texts being worthy unless they've been around for a few decades, but when an upper-end bookstore doesn't have a single novel by Conrad or Balzac or Faulkner on its literary shelves it's time to worry.

Limitations

A flat day. Kept cranking the engine for lift-off. Remained stubbornly on the ground.

Passing Through

14.15

We've enjoyed a typically peaceful Sunday morning here at Mak's house, happily fortified by an first-class breakfast at Warung Nek Munah's: lontong kering for me, since they had run out of my usual prata, plus a surpassingly excellent teh tarik gajah. Hot and sweet - a phrase one needs to take great care in applying in this day and age.

And now it's time to get our stuff in order and loaded up for the drive south. As so often is the case, leaving this place feels sad, and when making the necessary preparations it can feel as if we're always leaving. But, on the bright side, that entails always arriving somewhere. And these days the uncertain nature of the journey between hardly bothers me at all, since I have Noi to enjoy it with.

20.50

Now at ease, back in hall. Easy drive down, restoring the little faith I have in the North-South Highway. Should be gearing up for the week ahead, I suppose. But happy to slip a gear or two.

Overwhelmed

Finished reading Frederick Douglass's My Bondage and My Freedom in the very handsome Library of America edition, which concludes with transcripts of a number of the speeches he delivered in the years after achieving his hard-won freedom. I'm considering whether to move on immediately to his third and final autobiography, Life and Times, which occupies more than half the edition. If I do so I'm likely to skip the early slavery chapters which, at first glance, appear to be transcriptions of the material in the second autobiography. But I'm more likely to steer away from Douglass for a week or two.

He's a very fine writer, often astonishingly powerful, but the sheer vigour of his work can be overwhelming. It's difficult to imagine anyone hearing those speeches not being utterly entranced and driven to support the speaker in his great cause. But I can imagine living to regret the infusion of moral fervour after a time and wanting to come down from the moral heights once in a while. Yet it's obvious that such was the force of Douglass's personality that this was never an issue for him.

Having said that, I'm fascinated to read about the rough and tumble of his political involvements after emancipation. And I've got a suspicion I'll end up admiring the older man even more than I do the young Douglass.

(Oh, and trivial as it sounds, I love his use of the semi-colon. I've got a feeling it corresponds to the half-pauses he would have employed in his speaking style; a way of dragging his listeners along with him as his brilliant rhetoric shook them to pieces.)

In Order

Now putting the final touches to our cleaning-up of Maison KL, ahead of a trip south to our second (possibly third) home in Melaka. I didn't expect for us to be able to leave the place looking so good, which means we can count this visit as a major success. The only things obviously lacking now are a working oven and a telly for the family area upstairs - but we didn't really miss either of these. Still, good to have further home improvements in mind for our end-of-year sojourn here.

Within Hearing

The azan for the Maghrib Prayer will sound soon - in the next three minutes or so. We'll hear it loud & clear from the masjid adjacent to the taman - and echoes from other mosques around the valley we're perched on the edge of. For someone who follows the prayers this is highly satisfactory, another unexpected benefit of being resident in Maison KL.

We can never free ourselves of time. But some ways of measuring its passing afford a kind of escape.

A Sense Of Superiority

I've been making fair progress in Frederick Douglass's My Bondage and My Freedom, finding much to enjoy in his prose style, which offsets the somewhat depressing nature of the subject matter involved. It's a story I already know well from his Narrative of the Life, but it's lost none of its power and odd suspense. I say 'odd' since all readers know the eventual outcome of the writer's travails, yet in the grimmer moments of his young life you genuinely wonder if Douglass is going to pull through given the extremes he endured. 

But, at the same time, you have no doubt as to the extraordinary strength of the man's character. It isn't that he advertises this, far from it; rather it emerges through the compelling details he gathers for the reader and, above all, through the intelligence suffusing the text. His understanding of the psychology of the slaveholders is a mark of his inherent superiority over them - something that he is quietly aware of.

And there is a lot that is fascinating about that twisted psychology. To give one example: Douglass, himself a deeply religious man, observes with some perplexity: For of all slaveholders with whom I have ever met, religious slaveholders are the worst. I have found them, almost invariably, the vilest, meanest and basest of their class. He further notes: It is not for me to explain the fact. Others may do that; I simply state it as a fact, and leave the theological, and psychological inquiry, which it raises, to be decided by others more competent than myself. Must say, I doubt that there were many such. 

Irreplaceable

Our hearts were broken yesterday evening with the news of the death of our dear friend Boon. He and Mei went on a trip to the UK towards the end of last month. We'd seen them on the Sunday before they set out for lunch at Kampong Glam, with Nahar & Yati also in attendance. Boon looked in pretty good form and was, as always, of great good cheer brimming with arcane information on everything under the sun. As always.

Mei sent the news in our little chat group. A heart attack, on Sunday.

Here's what Boon sent to the group at the turn of the year:

Can't quite recall why, but this felt especially wise when I read it on 1 January, and definitively Boon-like.

And here's Boon in action at our place from last Hari Raya Puasa:

Can't think of a single wefie he took where he isn't grinning like a maniac.

Mum would have called him a one-off, and she would have been right.

Sorely, sorely missed.

Still All I Know

Happened to glance the other day at something I wrote a few years back around this time of year that referenced what I'd learnt up to that time about teaching well. Was very struck by the fact that over a decade on I still don't know anything more. Except for a tentative fifth point, possibly: 5) If by any chance magic starts to happen, get out of the way and let it.

Another Early Start

Ah Seng came round yesterday afternoon with one of his workers to help us move the furniture back into place at ground level. So now the house looks like the house should look. Which is highly satisfactory and something of a relief. I thought I'd miss the old flooring but Noi's clever searching for the right kind of tiles for the floor resulted in us finding exactly the right kind of tiles.

There are still quite a few jobs left to do, though, to make everything shipshape. One such task being to get the ground floor windows, of which there are more than a few, looking reasonably clean. And I'm about to get started on that. Noi normally would have set about this manfully, if not womanfully, on arrival, but the poor girl has been suffering from quite a nasty ache down her left arm for some days now and isn't really one hundred percent, though still managing to get most things that need to be done, done.

We're putting the purchase of a new telly for the house on hold for the moment. The previous chunky set gave up the ghost a few months back after a couple of decades of good service. But we've got so much to entertain ourselves with that we're not exactly missing the goggle box. Which obliquely reminds me that I must accompany my work on the windows with something from the Bobster, now the CD player is back in place. Probably The Basement Tapes - Raw. With that and the ferocious birdsong from the trees opposite there's more than enough to listen to as I work. 

Greeting The Day

The thing about arriving in good time of an evening after a long journey is that it sets you up for the day ahead. The luxury of a good night's sleep is not something I take for granted, and I'm celebrating my good fortune this morning with the sweet sounds of the Standards Trio at their considerable sweetest. (Surely the wonderful Gary Peacock at his peak! There's a great comment BTL concerning his daily routine for practising the bass. Much food for thought for musicians and non-musicians alike.)