Heartening

10 Ramadhan, 1447

Spent some time today looking over to the land of my birth - indeed, the actual town. Denton is a fair distance from this Far Place, but it occupies a small place in my heart. I'm so much out of touch these days that I didn't know it is now combined with Gorton - where Dad hailed from - as a parliamentary constituency. And I didn't realise there was a feeling it is now vulnerable to Reform until I read that the egregious Farage and his dumb chums thought they were in with a chance of winning the by-election held on Thursday.

So it was with some relief when I saw that Reform was well out-voted into second place. But I really didn't know what to make of the victory for the Green Party, being a Labour-for-life sort of chap, even when disapproving of what the party occasionally gets up to.

Then today I watched the victory speech of the new MP, one Hannah Spencer, and found myself thoroughly enjoying it. Indeed, even thinking I might have voted for the lass had I been there myself, based on just how well she came across. I suppose the warmth of her local accent played a part (though she comes from Bolton, I believe, rather than Tameside) but it was the common sense of her content that did it for me.

That and the pained expression on the face of the defeated Reform guy. I really shouldn't enjoy witnessing the misfortunes of others in Fasting Month, but I just can't help it.

Hard Work

9 Ramadhan, 1447

It's still crowded at Masjid Tentera for Friday Prayers, and will undoubtedly remain so throughout this Holy Month. Today I was able to get there quite early though, so getting a reasonable place wasn't too difficult. And just for a change I didn't need to make my way back to work in the afternoon, so I was able to relax after all was concluded.

I'm guessing I was a fortunate exception. Today I noticed for the first time just how many of the jama'ah were wearing overalls, clearly having made their way directly from work, and most likely in a rush to get back, judging from the speed at which many left. As we were driving away, Noi noticed one guy wearing overalls that she recognised as those of someone working at the port - which makes sense considering the proximity of the mosque to the port entrance at the bottom of Clementi Road.

I hope that these guys did not have to face demanding physical labour in the hot afternoon. But I suspect that more than a few did. The spiritual dedication of so many of them in relation to real physical struggling in his month is one of the quiet astonishments of Ramadhan.

A Good Thing

8 Ramadhan, 1447

Just polished off a plateful of bangers & mash & gravy. Not exactly a traditional meal for Ramadhan, but deeply good all the same. Food tastes better in Fasting Month. Not sure why, but it does, and there's no need to think about it too deeply. Just enjoy it in the moment.

Low Points

7 Ramadhan, 1447

I'd half-forgotten, but now vividly, vitally remember, how often the demands of Fasting Month confront me with my numerous inadequacies. The funny thing is that this process sort of makes me feel good - relieved from heavier duties to deal with simple realities and then just get on with the important thing. The fast and its demands.

And whilst I'm on the subject of my less-than-impressive characteristics, it occurs to me that I've never genuinely managed to identify in any real sense with the more 'heroic' figures in literature. The three that spring to mind, that I automatically identified with from first reading, that I'm painfully aware reflect significant bits of me are King Lear, Estragon (from Godot) and Mr Leopold Bloom. Not exactly an impressive triumvirate, eh?

A Low Point

6 Ramadhan, 1447

Life decided to be desperately unfair to me this afternoon, around 5.30. There we were at the basketball court with the session going well, when the natural light began to fade. The solution was simple. Access the controls for the over-hanging lights and just switch them on. But someone had padlocked the doors to the panel, so a call to our Security was necessary. Still simple, except that it had started to rain ferociously and the doors were out in the open. Along came the helpful guard, umbrella in hand, to open the doors and try and switch on the lights. But he was new to the job and, understandably, not at all sure which switches to hit. So he passed the brolly to me and I stepped out heroically into the storm to do the necessary. Simple.

Except doing the necessary involved getting my trousers wet through up to the knees.  In which state I needed to deal with the ensuing two hours. Poor me, eh?

Well, not exactly. The low point was pretty much the solitary blip in a good day. So, facing up to reality, lucky me really. It's nice to wallow in a bit of self-pity, but five minutes' worth was more than enough. 

Looking In

5 Ramadhan, 1447

I wouldn't claim that Seyyed Hossein Nasr's The Garden of Truth is easy reading. At times the prose is dense and the reader needs to tune into quite a number of technical terms, predominantly in Arabic. But after an encounter with the daily news there's something refreshing about a voice providing a quiet, calm sense of authority. 

This reader is more than happy to surrender to the demands involved, just to catch a glimpse of the beauties of the garden.

A Challenge

4 Ramadhan, 1447

19.02

Got myself to the gym just now. I wasn't at all sure this would be a good idea but decided to take the risk, and I'm not feeling any obvious ill effects in the aftermath of my hour on the elliptical trainer. I am, however, feeling astonishingly thirsty and suspect that the next twenty minutes will take several hours to pass.

20.10

It turned out that the twenty minutes that passed between my posting the above and sipping on a class of water took just twenty minutes after all. There's something about fasting that can distort perceptions but the bedrock reality of the fast remains a sort of comforting constant. Each day is a real challenge in its way, and every challenge turns out to be negotiable, with the requisite patience. 

Now feeling happily at ease, able to eat and drink whenever. And mostly choosing not to.

Inching Along

3 Ramadhan, 1447

18.17

Roughly an hour left before we break our fast and everything is moving slowly on this seemingly slowest of days.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, especially for those who can embrace the stillness.

23.30

Just got back from a jolly evening spent in the company of Pete & Lia and Kishor. Excellent grub & plenty of catching up. Quite unusual to be socialising so early in the Fasting Month but good to be reminded of a world elsewhere. outside the boundaries of the self.

Still Beginning

2 Ramadhan, 1447

06.32

So consumed by myself yesterday evening that I completely forgot to wish all those holding fast: Selamat Berpuasa! (Also including Christian friends & family in that as they embark on the Lenten season.)

14.20

Just back from a crowded Friday Prayers. I'd forgotten that part of the excitement of Ramadhan is trying to find a decent spot to pray if you're latish arriving at the masjid.

21.00

A quiet evening, just me and The Missus, along with the basics of food & drink. Plus a book and the telly if we want to watch something. A tiny echo of paradise.

Beginning

1 Ramadhan, 1447

06.35

The way to work awash with birdsong just now. Not a bad way to start the working day.

15.16

Just finished teaching for the day. Feeling a bit weak and light-headed, but only a 'bit' fortunately. Am keenly aware of adjustments being made somewhere, possibly at a cellular level?

18.10

Negotiating the final countdown to the first buka of the month. Feel reasonably fresh after an afternoon snooze. Hope my brothers & sisters in Islam have something of the same sense of ease as we begin again.

21.17

Now very much at ease, and happily expectant of the porridge to come. Savouring the sense of achieving something. Also aware of the happy illusion involved. Achieving something means genuinely extending the possibilities of self and doing so for others. A big ask, as they say. But a question worth posing.

In Preparation

Sometimes I'm a bit of a puzzle to myself. In fact, you can make that most of the time. And here's a pressing example. We start fasting for Ramadhan tomorrow and experience shows it's wise to be mentally prepared. Now for some reason I can't grasp, that preparation for me centres upon deciding what special reading I'll do for the month. This really shouldn't work, but it has done in the past and I'm hoping this year will follow a similar pattern.

It's also oddly important that I complete whatever 'secular' reading I'm doing to ensure my head is in the right place, which is why I'd been pushing on with Dostoevsky and the big Jazz book - and fortunately deeply enjoying both. I had been hoping to complete the great Henry Vaughan Collected Poems read-through, but that hasn't been possible. However, since that's been going forever (more than a year now) it wasn't exactly urgent reading.

Anyway, I've figured out what I intend to engage with in the days ahead. A re-read of Seyyed Hossein Nasr's The Garden of Truth: The Vision and Promise of Sufism, Islam's Mystical Tradition has been on my mind for ages, and now's the right time for a deeper dive that my original encounter (or so I'm hoping.) That's the central text as commentary on the faith, as it were. At the same time I'm intending to really apply myself to key sections of The Study Qur'an, a volume I've hardly begun to do justice to. I'm hoping to engage in very close reading of a number of surahs and at least three of the excellent scholarly essays at the back end of the weighty tome. And since most of the surahs I have in mind are the shorter ones after al-Takwir, I'm looking forwarding to cross-referencing my readings with Michael Sells's interesting versions and commentaries in Approaching The Qur'an, especially for the surahs that he provides a lively analysis of the 'hearing' of. 

So that's it. Do wish me luck, Gentle Reader.

A Bit Special

Jazz - A History of America's Music, the companion volume to Ken Burns's PBS documentary, has been on my bookshelves for almost two decades now. It was a very generous present from Peter and Iris on my fiftieth birthday, chosen, I'm guessing, because Peter had picked up on my particular enthusiasm for the work of Wynton Marsalis and the great trumpeter had his name all over the documentary. 

For some reason I didn't see any real need to read the handsome volume all the way through initially. It seemed more like the kind of coffee table book that was worth browsing occasionally for the wonderful pictures, and dipping into now and then for specific bits - looking up what it had to say about classic albums, for example.

Gosh, was I wrong about that. Fortunately I elected to give the book the cover-to-cover treatment a couple of months back and discovered that whilst its engaging anecdotes made for enjoyable reading as individual 'bits', its main writer, Geoffrey C. Ward, had captured in the sweep of the narrative a deeply engaging and insightful history not just of jazz as a genre, but of the US itself, especially, though by no means exclusively, the experience of black Americans in the face of grim oppression.

Of necessity there are some deeply sad sections of the text. Many of the stories about Charlie Parker, to take but one example, are perplexing and almost heart-breaking. But the sense of often astounding creativity is ultimately life-enhancing. Ken Burns identifies Louis Armstrong as the central figure in all this, and it's easy to see his point, but Duke Ellington, already something of a musical hero in my eyes prior to reading the tome, emerged as the most heroic of all in his unmatched elegance and humour in the face of all that life could throw at him. And being a genius in his field helped.

I'm now seriously thinking of getting hold of the authors' book on the Civil War. If it's half as good as this one it will be something special.

Stunned x 100

Didn't want The Brothers Karamazov to end, but it did for me yesterday. My assumption that Dostoevsky would somehow sustain the brilliance of his final novel to the last page was borne out. I'm not sure about the circumstances of its composition, but, like Dickens, the impression of astonishing spontaneity within a capacious frame dominated my reading. And, as with Dickens at his best (Little Dorrit, Bleak House, Our Mutual Friend) Dostoevsky seemed to know exactly how to put his magical jigsaw of meaning together.

In truth, the Russian Master's superiority over The Inimitable, in this novel at least, was wonderfully obvious. To take a single example: both writers are unafraid to deal with the unashamedly sentimental, but in Dickens's case this can topple over into something so blatantly manipulative that even in his greatest fiction there's the danger of unintended bathos. In contrast, Dostoevsky's sentimentality is so vividly sincere that it overwhelms.

The ending of The Brothers Karamazov, focused on a child's funeral, in a sub-plot entirely distinct from the central thrust of the novel really shouldn't work. But it's a triumph. Completely unexpected yet perfect in its evocation of grief and suffering and resilience. 

I'm still rearranging my head over all this.

In Action

Was pleased, but not surprised, over the news of the British High Court's decision that Palestine Action cannot be banned under the UK government's anti-terrorism laws. It'll be good news, to say the least, for the more than 2500 brave souls (lots of my advanced age and older) who've been arrested for supporting the organisation since its proscription. It seems that Yvette Cooper has been on the telly today defending the legislation and insisting there are good reasons for the ban, yet as far as I'm aware she yet again failed to give any solid indication of what the authorities know about Palestine Action that leads them to think the group is nefarious enough to warrant singling out in this way. I reckon I might have half-believed Ms Cooper, a politician for whom I have some respect, two decades ago, but the track record of every UK govt since Blair's in terms of their transparency apropos dealings in the Middle East has led me towards a position of intensely healthy scepticism regarding what they claim to be their honest dealings.

I think the news might come as a bit of relief to The Missus since I've made it very clear that if we happen to find ourselves in the UK when marches related to the situation in Gaza are on-going, then I'll make sure I'm there declaring my support for the proscribed group. It isn't that I'm keen to serve time in one of His Majesty's prisons (especially not Strangeways, thank you) but if necessary I will. And getting sent down for holding up a cartoon has a real appeal about it.

True Romance

For me it's been a day spent getting up close and personal with Fyodor Dostoevsky. Meanwhile Noi has been a good deal more productive in her ironing and biscuiting. All built on the solid base of an exchange of suitably slushy cards this morning and a flower or two in the afternoon. None of this setting the world on fire, I suppose, but keeping it nicely warm.

Embracing The Peace

Didn't need to rush back to work after Friday Prayers for once, so we enjoyed teh & vadai & samosas at the Al Rayyan eatery at the back of Masjid Darussalam as the early afternoon flowed gently around us. Nice to conclude a week spent running around, sometimes enjoyably, sometimes in a mild panic, with three hours of distinct peace. The younger version of myself seemed to need to be active & involved, if memory serves me well; the older version, not so much. A lesson learned there somewhere.

The Human Touch

Found myself back at the National University Hospital for a couple of hours this afternoon, fulfilling my final scheduled appointment with my brain doctor. We reached agreement that my grey matter is functioning effectively, I'm happy to say, which means I have no further appointments scheduled related to my mental & physical breakdown of late 2022, which means I'm a very happy soldier indeed.

Funnily enough I enjoy being around the hospital, and I think Noi does too, so in a way I'll miss popping up there now and again. In truth, since I owe my life to the care of their excellent doctors, nurses and ancillary staff I harbour a genuine affection for the place such that I find it difficult to criticise the organisation on any level. Which is why I've felt severely conflicted regarding my irritation over their records department - and manfully avoided expressing that irritation in this Far Place. But today I'm going to say something.

And that something is this: I reckon it was a big mistake for the hospital administrators to close down the actual office where people could go to in order to ask for their records and put the whole shebang online. The app they provide to enhance communications in general terms is fine, but not in relation to trying to get one's records. I know this for sure since I've been trying to get hold of material that I need to apply for medical insurance in Malaysia and I just couldn't navigate the system (for a full three months). This wasn't due to my sometimes wilful inadequacy in relation to the wonders of tech. Take my word for it, it was genuinely impossible.

But here's the thing. Today, I triumphed and finally got access to what I needed (fairly desperately as I have an application deadline to negotiate) but this wasn't through the help of the app. The doctor I went to see actually listened to the problem I faced sympathetically and went to considerable trouble to contact an amazing lady, Ms Jessica Ko from the records department, who literally ran around initially to find us and then assist us in completing the necessary paperwork to get what we needed, and somehow remained smiling throughout.

So wobbly human stuff once again out-performs the super-efficient and probably expensive system that most likely has put a fair few folk out of work in the interests of cost savings. Could there be a lesson in all this?

A Strong Start

After an eventfully fun-packed day we got back in time to catch the first episode of the second series of Cuci on Suria TV. This is the show based on the unlikely premise of the dealings of a post-traumatic cleaning company (hope I phrased that correctly) based in this Far Place. It's a genuinely excellent programme, and, based on this first episode, it looks as if the quality of the first series is going to be maintained.

By its very nature the content veers towards the potentially melodramatic - tonight's episode opened with a brutal murder - but the writers somehow keep it grounded in the realities of day-to-day life. There was a typically thought-provoking sequence based around the stress and strain of being in a fairly low-income occupation just now that genuinely furrowed the brow without any strained emoting.

Sometimes it's enough to just quietly become the character without doing much at all of anything.

Stunned

If anyone had told me before today that it was possible for me to be utterly stunned by the depiction of an act of violence in a work of fiction I would told them that that was next to impossible. After all, this is a reader who took Blood Meridian in his stride and that's about as extreme as it's possible to get. (Actually, I found McCarthy's great novel extremely disturbing, but I could cope without physically shuddering.)

And then today I read the conclusion of Chapter 3, Book 11 of The Brothers Karamazov. To say my reaction to Dostoevsky's penultimate paragraph was visceral is an understatement. To add to the impact, I happened to be reading it in a very public place and had to hide my state of disturbance. Fortunately I was able to cover up. Just.

A Sense Of Accomplishment

Saddened by the recent news that the Pangs are winding up their company Pangdemonium. I can't say I've seen a huge amount of what they've put on stage, but every show I've seen has been obviously first rate. In fact, I'm feeling a tad guilty I wasn't able to give them more support than I did in terms of watching their stuff. But that's something of a sort of systemic problem here. Productions have short runs and schedules are unforgiving. (I know that sounds like a weak excuse, but it's actually a strong one. Case in point: I was intending to attend the two most recent SSO concerts, but on both the nights in question it was absolutely impossible that I could have got to the concert hall. Grrgh!) 

Must say though, I reckon that Mr & Mrs Pang must feel a remarkable sense of accomplishment given the quantity and quality of work they've somehow managed to get up on those stages across the decades. I've long been of the opinion that much as producing great drama, poetry, prose, music, painting, sculpture and all that arty stuff depends on talented individuals, the sense of a supportive 'arts scene' is a necessity. And the contribution of those who put in the hard labour to carve out that scene can be curiously over-looked. Happily, it seems the Pangs are being genuinely celebrated for their achievements.

I hope they've made a ship-load of money, but rather suspect they haven't.

Eyes Wide Open

Over the last year or so I've learned one heck of a lot from James Payne's Great Art Explained videos on YouTube. Watching them (usually more than once) has been a reminder of what a boon it is to sit at the feet of a great and enthusiastic teacher.

Yesterday I was blown away by his account of Mark Rothko's Seagram Murals. I've had the great good fortune to have visited the room in The Tate with nine of the murals exhibited and that was quite an experience, but I wish I'd known then what I know now through Mr Payne's brilliant commentary.

I've never really been able to 'see' visual art through my own limited eyes. It's quite something to have the privilege of the vision of others.

Zonked

Somehow got myself to the gym after winding up the afternoon's training session with my Basketball guys. It was hard work on that elliptical trainer, I can tell you. But I'm glad I went - though I'm paying the price now. Will pour myself into bed some time soon, when I find the energy to do so. Digging deep for traces now.

Another Reason To Be Cheerful

Noi set off early for Jakarta this morning and is now happily ensconced with her chums, having a jolly good time. I'm surviving on her signature shepherd's pie, cunningly prepared amidst all our rushing round yesterday. So no need to worry about me, thank you. Enough goodies surround me to see me through the empty weekend. And I'm playing Prince's Emancipation at a satisfying volume to fill the space.

The big highlight yesterday was not the frantic packing for the Indonesian capital as you may have falsely assumed. Rather it was our making the acquaintance of the little chap featured below, who's just a week old. Not sure what it is about babies that makes even an old cynic like me cheerful, but the magic always works.

A Minor Challenge

We're planning to rise extra early tomorrow. Noi has an early flight to Jakarta; she's off with her chums on a sort of sewing holiday. I'm not exactly looking forward to rising in advance of the Dawn Prayer, but it's not a bad way of gearing up to the challenges of Ramadhan. In truth, the whole day has been a bit of a rush, but since that's true of every day at this time of year I can't honestly claim it's been exceptional.

True Greatness

Now enmeshed in Book 8 of The Brothers Karamazov, with the focus on Mitya. There's still a way to go in the novel, which makes me very happy indeed as I don't really want it to end. Will FD sustain this level of brilliance? I'll be surprised if he doesn't as everything so far has had the air of effortless spontaneity, as if the book is simply an improvisation of sheer genius, which can't possibly go wrong as it doesn't quite know where it's going.

I've previously rated, for more than a few years, Anna Karenina and Madam Bovary as the two greatest novels of the 19C in any language but I suspect I'll soon be changing my mind.

Every episode of The Brothers K seems to achieve a kind of perfection, but I'd rate the Gold Mines chapter, in which Mitya tries to borrow 3000 roubles from Madame Khokhlakov the funniest pages of any prose I've ever read. Better than Dickens at his considerable best. And I'm not even sure that Dostoevsky intends to be funny.

By Moonlight

Exceptionally beautiful full moon last night, illuminating us as we made painfully slow progress along the North-South Highway to this Far Place. The irony was sweet and bitter all at once. Arrived late, but happily in one piece, ready to fight another day. That day being today. 

Not sure I actually won the fight, mind you. But another gorgeous moon this evening made all my struggles irrelevant. 

Side By Side

Conscious of the gaps, some quite substantial, in my exposure to the works of musicians I hugely admire, I've been experimenting of late with playing stuff in the background, usually via Spotify on my laptop, without trying too hard to take it in. In some ways this goes completely against my philosophy that it grossly undervalues music not to give it reasonably full attention, but consistency has never been my strong point. That's how I'd come to play the full three hours of Prince's (wonderful) Emancipation (which is now receiving the treatment for the second time even as I type this.)

Earlier today I happened upon a rather tasty commentary on George Harrison's 1974 album Dark Horse, which reminded me of just how good the ex-Beatle's solo stuff could be (obviously I'm thinking All Things Must Pass here) and just how little I really knew of it. So I interrupted my second run of Emancipation (getting hooked, obviously) and banged on George's third solo album.

The result of the juxtaposition was disorientating, to say the least. To say that initially I found Dark Horse plodding would be an understatement. Four tracks in and I thought it unlistenable and put a merciful, decisive halt to the proceedings. Every song from His Purple Majesty I'd felt as so casually funky that it was impossible to stop listening even when I wasn't actually listening - if you see what I mean. And that experience seemed to have coloured my consciouness.

But I felt a bit guilty over all this. The guy commenting on Dark Horse was very much a fan, yes, but a sensible, well-informed one, and he'd had some very positive things to say about most of the tracks. It felt necessary somehow, to resume playing the album through, and I did just that a couple of hours later. At which point it began to sound okay, if not downright promising. I still couldn't get on with the Xmas song Ding Dong, but charitably recalled that I'd quite liked it as a single when it came out. Indeed, I reckon I'm ready to give it all another listen in the near-ish future, though I don't feel compelled to do so (in contrast to my reactions to Prince's 3 CD epic.) 

Not sure what I've learnt from this, except being reminded not to rush too readily to judgement of any music that aspires to a degree of seriousness. Oh, and not to juxtapose anything less than brilliant next to Prince once seduced by his inimitable groove.