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