From A Far Place

Uncertainties

2012-02-01T22:11:00.003+08:00

Preparing a lecture on Shakespeare, a sort of general introduction to the Bard, and struck by just how much I don't know and how fascinating it all is. What exactly was the style of acting like in 1600? How did those first audiences in the Globe behave? Just how pervasive, or otherwise, was music in performance?

I'm often puzzled by how some people really can't stand not knowing with absolute certainty. The grey areas are the places in which I seem to see most clearly.

The Bright Side

2012-01-31T20:22:00.003+08:00

So there I was thinking the day had been distinctly ropey overall and quite disastrous in patches when I thought of those motivational chappies and how you should always seek to unravel the old silver lining from the louring clouds of discontent. Or something like that.

Which led me to consider what might be reasonably regarded as the highlight of the day. And I immediately had the answer! How could I fail on a day when the Missus had cooked up a stash of her cranberry muffins - the mini ones that fit so conveniently into their nifty cups, and the mouth?

So there you have it: living proof of the power of positive thinking. Or cranberry muffins. Whichever.

Something Cheerful

2012-01-30T18:40:00.002+08:00

Feeling ever so slightly at a bit of a loss this afternoon, around the 5.30 pm mark, I shoved the first disk from Jeeves and Wooster, The Complete Collection into the DVD player and wallowed. A wonderfully utterly pointless way to lose an hour doing nothing of value to anyone, except oneself. I'm tempted to say I'd forgotten how good the series is, but I hadn't, in truth. That's why it makes such a good refuge in those times when you feel you're slightly losing it.

Why So Angry?

2012-01-29T18:26:00.004+08:00

Everywhere we go these days the birds seem to be angry. Even on my niece's birthday cake. But, happy to say, they didn't spoil the festive mood.

More Words

2012-01-28T22:08:00.003+08:00

We went down to Books Actually again the other day. I bought a number of books and magazines featuring local writers on the rather spurious grounds that: a) I would put them on the shelves round my desk at work rather than finding space at home, where there is no space to find; and b) that it's important to support any kind of local arts scene, no matter where you are. I'm not quite sure why I believe the last statement, but I do - working on intuition rather than strict rationality.

Must say, I'm impressed with the architecture in the area around the shop, and the abundance of trees. Which makes me worry that someone, somewhere is likely to be planning to knock it all down to improve the area. I feel a bit the same way about liking the bookshop. That's usually a sign a business won't last too long.

Voices

2012-01-27T20:28:00.003+08:00

Since we moved into our current quarters (just over a year ago!) I've been storing my cassette tapes at Maison KL. There aren't that many of them, I generally wasn't a great user of tapes, and the ones that survive are for the most part in a woebegone condition, but there are a few spoken word tapes that I still have a high regard for. These include Seamus Heaney reading his collection Electric Light, and that's now gone into temporary residence in the car for those occasions when I get a chance to listen - like on the way to the mosque today.

I don't really think of Heaney as being so demonstrably a magical reader of his work in the same obvious way that applies to Ted Hughes. (Funnily enough, the Electric Light collection replaced Hughes's reading of Tales From Ovid in the car stereo.) But I've been struck this time round by just how much the poems spring to giddy life through that wonderful Irish brogue. The elegy for Brodsky - Audenesque I think it's called, I haven't got the book with me to check - sounded particularly strong today with its strangely rollicking yet restrained rhythms and gorgeous half rhymes. (Surely no living writer does them better than our Irish wizard.)

In fact, I'm now at the point at which I keenly feel I'm not getting the real poem somehow if I'm not listening to Heaney, at least as far as this collection is concerned.

And this, for some reason, puts me in mind of how keenly I find myself these days listening to the prayers at the mosque in terms of the quality of the vocal delivery. Read beautifully, as they so often are, they seem to gain a kind of weight and majesty from that alone, though there's also a strong sense that this is inherent in the fibres of the language itself, of course.

In Print

2012-01-26T21:10:00.004+08:00

Pleased to read in today's paper that Alfian Sa'at is publishing a new collection of fiction soon. Slightly disappointed it's not a new collection of poems though. Despite all he's done as a dramatist and short story writer, I feel that's where his gift is most telling, and I mean 'gift'. I don't pretend to be any great judge of these things, but I know what I like and there's no poet here I've liked more than this young man. On his day, and he's had quite a few of them, more than capable of making the sparks fly.

22.33

Also pleased to notice, when I'd read a bit more of the Life section, that Shooshie's Photo Gambar installation at Art Stage, the piece that Noi's sister Rozana was involved in, got a more than honourable mention in a retrospective column on the fair. Finally proof that a reviewer for Life has got good taste.

Home

2012-01-25T15:41:00.003+08:00

We'll be heading home in an hour or so as I must face the Toad work on the morrow.

Which raises the question, in our case, as to where home actually is. Like Willy Loman we are always sort of temporary, but unlike Willy I don't think either of us quite feel that way.

This puts me in mind of an old fellow at a job interview I endured more than 30 years ago - I think he was some kind of parent-governor - who challenged my desire to teach in a place far from where I was born (Rotherham!) telling me I needed roots. It's difficult to represent the astonishing avidity he managed to inject into the vowel sound of that little word, but let me tell you he almost bit it in two, such was his enthusiasm for it/them. I remember thinking that if such roots held me back as surely as they had done to him, I would choose to avoid them. Of course, in those days I didn't have the courage to say that aloud, more's the pity.

These ramblings have been prompted in part by my reading of Flannery O'Connor's essay The Regional Writer. It was clearly of some importance to her to be seen as a Georgia writer, which is particularly ironic considering her Catholic affiliations. But then, possibly not so. One of the odd benefits of a Catholic upbringing is a peculiar sense of internationalism which never seems to get in the way of where you actually are. We had a picture of Pope Paul VI on the wall when I was a little lad, and there was never any doubt he outranked Queen Elizabeth by quite a distance. Mind you, the royals were pretty low on any league table of those we regarded as our betters, so that's not saying much.

I suppose any writing worth its salt will have a sense of the local, otherwise it will feel like the unanchored observations of a tourist. Even when Shakespeare's in Illyria he's really pottering around on the south bank of the Thames, or gazing into the Avon.

Back Pages

2012-01-24T15:48:00.005+08:00

Spent a lazy morning reading Jared Diamond (Guns, Germs and Steel) and Flannery O'Connor (Everything That Rises Must Converge), though not necessarily in that order. Found both rewarding, in their very different ways. Diamond gives one a wonderful sense of distance from it all; O'Connor shoves one's face in it. Both useful places to occupy.

Joyous Noise

2012-01-23T15:45:00.009+08:00

One of the jollier aspects of being in KL for Chinese New Year is getting to hear the fire crackers going off through the night. I should probably disapprove of them being let off, for various grim-visaged civic-minded reasons, but I'm afraid I just can't bring myself to do so.

Another equally joyous noise accompanied us as we drove down to Alor Gajah this afternoon. I'd dug out an old Deutsche Grammophon tape of Christmas Music (bits of Bach's Christmas Oratorio for one) from the baroque earlier in the day and duly gave it an airing, unseasonal as that may have been. It put Noi to sleep but kept me happily alert. Now if only they played this kind of thing in the malls in December I might just enjoy Christmas shopping.

23.00

Got to enjoy more noise - and colourful visuals - from fireworks going off in the distance as we enjoyed a late night cuppa at Aziz's place at Rembia. Highly satisfactory as an end to the day.

Fine Listening

2012-01-22T18:29:00.004+08:00

Now luxuriating in Procol Harum Live At The Union Chapel, a DVD I just don't play often enough. Mind you this is true of all the concert DVDs I own - Mr Brooker and the boys are not being singled out for any specifically targeted neglect on my part. The truth is I am fortunate enough to own a mighty surplus of music-related media and must strive to do it justice. Not that I need a lot of encouragement to do so.

By the way, this 2003 concert features one of the best, if not the best performing versions of the band. I've been focusing this listening on Geoff Whitehorn's guitar and he is unselfishly impeccable. Oh, and Gary Brooker's voice sounds in better nick than ever. I'm tempted to proclaim him the best English blues voice of his generation, but the term 'blues' seems so limited in this context.

And earlier today I was giving a spin to Elvis Costello's Momofuku and realised I'd forgotten how many great songs are on it. He did My Three Sons when we saw him in his solo concert over here to powerful effect yet if you'd named the song for me yesterday I'd have forgotten I owned a version of it. This put me in mind of what a massive body of work Elvis has now built up (and is still assiduously adding to) and how much of it I still haven't actually purchased - about a quarter as an off-hand estimate.

Which all adds up to the simple truth that I am an extremely lucky chap. And now Procol are playing the lovely Weisselklenzenacht and deserve my full attention.

An End To Life

2012-01-21T18:36:00.004+08:00

Just watched the last episode of the Life series that Noi bought for me a birthday or so ago. More than well worth waiting for.

The focus was on Primates and the antics of our closest relatives made for rewarding viewing. Clever old Attenborough built the series to a wonderful ending - a simple act of generosity from one chimp to another in the lending of a tool for cracking open a nut. Everything was kept beautifully low-key, with the overwhelming implications of what we might understand by the idea of the higher nature of some animals being left to itself. A nice contrast was created with the first sequence of the episode, in which we saw the sometimes ruthless discipline employed within groups of hamadryads, and conflict between their 'tribes'. (Fabulous visuals there, by the way - but then you can apply that comment to any sequence at all in the series.)

I suspect the final episode was all a touch more teleological in its implications than the makers may have bargained for, but I also suspect that's something written into the nature of things that we can't get away from.

OnThe Road

2012-01-20T19:30:00.004+08:00

19.31

Now roughly mid-way through a journey north to Maison KL. Sitting outside Rachid's ARAB cafe at the Ayer Keroh rest-stop enjoying a jolly nice cup of teh tarik and his famous toasted bread.

23.25

I was feeling quite pleased with myself back at Ayer Keroh, thinking we'd made smooth progress, but that was before hitting the capital itself. Up to the toll at Sungai Besi it remained an unexceptional journey, and then we hit a swamp of tail lights as KL turned into its own traffic jam. The last 40 km across the city took more than two hours involving a number of exciting situations - and we're not quite home yet. We're now in the cafe at Wangsa Maju and I'm imbibing a restoring cuppa.

The most darkly ironic moment of our little quest occurred just fifteen minutes ago when having finally got to the road running round the back of our Bukit we were very surprised to find yet another jam. In general we'd been puzzled as to what exactly had brought out all the cars late on a Friday when it's not yet Chinese New Year's eve, though I suppose we're seeing part of the exodus from city to kampong that's a feature of life here. But this road is usually clear and doesn't lead anywhere obviously significant enough to deserve a jam. The answer became apparent when we reached the completely pointless police roadblock cleverly installed to add to the mayhem on the roads. And this after not seeing a single copper doing anything about the chaos at any number of junctions along our way.

Brainless

2012-01-19T18:52:00.003+08:00

Was cheered up by an e-mail I received today inviting me to consider attending a wokshop on 'brain-based learning.' Spent some happy moments considering which other organs or body parts might be fundamental to an education.

Looking Ahead

2012-01-18T22:11:00.003+08:00

Today we registered places for the Haj with MUIS. But our pilgrimage won't take place any time soon, assuming it takes place at all. The waiting list from Singapore stretches, we believe, to 2016. It seems strange to be thinking so far ahead but, given the quota system which is the only sensible way to arrange the Haj in these times, necessary.

A Muslim will automatically utter, or at least think, Insh'allah (God willing) regarding any event posited for the ever uncertain future. Our Insh'allah for this one comes with a very definite sense of yearning.

Flaming Away

2012-01-17T19:37:00.004+08:00

Sometimes I find myself looking at the comments columns on various websites and blogs with a kind of fascinated horror at just how extraordinarily rude/unpleasant/nasty/gratuitously obtuse people can be - especially clever people. Youtube provides numerous striking examples. Ever since I discovered just how easy it is to access material by musicians I admire, I also discovered what astonishing drivel gets posted under the clips. The other day I was luxuriating in the sounds of the masterful Bill Frisell, but also enduring the sometimes pointlessly random clueless criticism that somehow accompanies the wonderful material that the fans post.

Today I sort of trapped myself in viewing an extraordinarily bitter set of exchanges within some of the blog pages managed by folk who see themselves as part of the skeptic/atheist community. (Before, gentle reader, you assume that as a theist I'm just having a go here, let me say that I'm certain I could unearth the same sort of stuff within various 'theist communities' if I looked hard enough. This kind of stupidity is hard-wired into our species at every level.) It was like witnessing a pile-up on the highway - horrible, but fascinatingly horrible. I admit, by the way, that it doesn't say much for my character that I stuck around to read the stuff.

And so much of it! I'm talking about single blog entries followed by 300+ comments. That's almost the full extent of this Far Place for a year. Whilst it's true there are sane, conciliatory voices in there, they just get overwhelmed by the mounds of vituperation. (Awful mixed metaphor there, but it sort of conveys my distress, so I'll let it stand.)

And the nastiest ones often seem to think they are so much in the right that the vituperation is not merely justified but somehow represents a positive and necessary moral good. (A bit like signs of The Elect.) I really don't want to have too much to do with a world in which straightforward decency, kindness, politeness, tolerance, compassion have become moral failings.

Maybe I'm just unenlightened. Thankfully.

Slowing Down

2012-01-16T19:50:00.004+08:00

I have these moments sometimes when my brain seems to be telling me something on the lines of Scotty's immortal lines in Star Trek: It's the engines. They just canna take it captain. In my case recognition that I can no longer ask of this old frame the kind of things that were once fairly routine. Case in point: at the end of the first couple of days of work this year I found the muscles on the insides of my thighs aching just from the effort of getting around - especially climbing steps. By this time I thought I had got over the initial shock, only to find the same thing today after a weekend away from the heavy action - and this despite remaining fairly active on Saturday and Sunday.

And, of course, things are not likely to get better.

Yet the odd thing is I can't honestly say I find myself terribly upset about this state of affairs. Almost the reverse. I'm coming to regard each day as a kind of raid into some kind of semi-forbidden territory, where surviving successfully is a massive unlikely plus.

Not dark yet but (sort of cheerfully) getting there. (According to Alex Ross's essay on Dylan in Listen To This you could actually pick up a bumper sticker with the Bobster's immortal line on it at Dylan gigs in the late 1990's. Wish I'd been there to do so.)

And Still Going

2012-01-15T11:11:00.004+08:00

11.13

We're off to the musical Wicked at Marina Bay Sands in a few minutes, and then it's on to Art Stage Singapore at the same place. Fifi and Fafa accompanying - but they're not out of bed yet. The day is young.

20.50

The day has aged, and so, inevitably, have I.

Wicked was highly enjoyable: excellent staging, excellent performances - especially the two leads. I didn't know too much about it as a show before today, and it sort of met my expectations, being tuneful, clever and well thought through as a piece. Felt the ending didn't quite work though, and my companions were in agreement on this. It wasn't that we felt there was anything terribly wrong, and I quite liked the notion of a somewhat downbeat conclusion, but the reasons for the wicked witch character and scarecrow not being able to remain in Oz with Glinda the Good were not all that obvious, though you could figure something logical out, and I felt they needed to feel obvious, nay inevitable, for it really to work.

Noi also felt it was all a bit for teenagers, though not in a harsh way. I knew what she meant. The songs were ripe for the Glee treatment. Not that's there's anything awfully wrong about that. But Sondheim it wasn't.

The art fair also felt very young. And I liked that enormously. Buzzing with energy. Brash. Inventive. Often in-your-face. Asked lots of questions about art without giving any answers. And that suits me.

All Go

2012-01-14T18:32:00.002+08:00

We found ourselves in the wilds of Bishan earlier today, tending to the needs of our motor vehicle and arranging matters financial with enormous help from a nice lady from the DBS Bank. And soon we'll be off to Fuad's mother's to celebrate various birthdays and distribute largesse in the shape of 3 books for teenagers concerning how to study. I'm sure as a teenager I'd have been thrilled to be given such a tome. Not, as they say.

In the middle of all this I found myself in Bishan Library where I happened to pick up Alex Ross's Listen To This, a book I was sorely tempted to buy when last in Kuala Lumpur but didn't - for complex reasons involving lack of shelf space and a puritan bout of conscience. I couldn't actually borrow the book as I no longer hold a library card for the National Library. But I did read the chapter on Dylan which was full of insights making me even more tempted to break my own sanctions.

In the essay, written around when Time Out Of Mind came out, Ross notes that Dylan was irritating lots of folk by simply not going away and providing closure and a neatly packaged obituary. Imagine how annoyed they'll feel now with his last decade or so to process.

Yet Again Misunderstood

2012-01-13T20:15:00.003+08:00

Thinking yesterday of Yusuf's take on Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood inevitably brought to mind my favourite version of the song, the one by Elvis Costello. I believe this was released as a single, which promptly got nowhere. Fortunately it appears on King of America and I had a good old wallow in the album this afternoon. One of the wonderful things about following the work of top-rate musicians with extensive back catalogues is that you forget just how utterly great those albums are until you give them a spin and realise what you've been missing simply by not playing them.

Elvis's take on Misunderstood is blistering. He sounds like a guy who really is on some kind of personal edge in this pressingly intimate, one-to-one, claustrophobic version of the song. When I first heard the version, as a single, I actually had the impression the band were not quite in tune, or that something was off somewhere. In fact it's the voice - so hurt it sounds discordant when it's not. When Elvis sings with this much passion you know it's no fun to fail to make your intentions clear.

I read one reviewer somewhere once, saying the vocal was overly dramatic. Idiot.

More Misunderstanding

2012-01-12T20:00:00.004+08:00

I've always found Yusuf Islam's performance of Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood, on his fine 'comeback' album Another Cup, a bit of an anomaly. For starters, it's the only track that features an all out orchestral accompaniment, rather than the usual guitar, keyboards, bass, drums - sort of as expected - on the other material. And the strings themselves sound oddly synthetic, making me wonder if, in fact, it's all synthesised. Much as I like the song and Yusuf's voice on it I can't say I like the sound. The live version featured on the Yusuf's Cafe DVD, with a proper band, is a lot better in that regard.

And then there's the fact that this is not one of the singer-songwriter's own songs. Now I know he's done covers before, in his Cat Stevens incarnation, but these were few and far between, and it seems odd to give space to this admitted classic when he obviously had a lot of new material up his sleeve. (At least, I assume so. The Roadsinger CD followed Another Cup pretty closely.)

Obviously the song meant something pretty important to him for him to record it and perform it - though there's a serenity, almost a blandness in his vocals that suggests a measure of restraint involved. His is not an anguished version. But I suspect there's deep anguish behind it, given the public beatings he has had to endure on occasion related to the faith he found in his second life. This is clearly a man who finds being misunderstood extremely painful and my heart, for one, goes out to him in that regard. And to others who feel the same way.

But my advice is to find a way not to care.

On Being Misunderstood

2012-01-10T19:33:00.003+08:00

When I was younger - so much younger than today - I hated being misunderstood. Teaching has cured me of that. One of my life's happy discoveries has been how deeply rooted into the fabric of things is the likelihood of people not simply not quite understanding my words or actions but taking them to mean the complete opposite of what I intended.

My favourite example comes from around ten years ago when I told a class, several classes in fact, that the only really good question is one that can't be answered. I'm not quite sure what I meant, but it sounded good. Quite by accident I discovered that one very bright student incorporated this apercu into a speech, telling the world that Mr Connor had told everyone that the only really good question is one that has an answer. I wasn't really all that miffed as I quite liked the sound of that - and began to offer it occasionally in lessons, immediately following a lesson in which my original comment had been let loose for contemplation.

Marking essays, of course, provides a wonderful window onto the capacity of the mind to distort any in-coming data in weird and woeful ways. Except once you come to accept this the woe sort of evaporates to be replaced by a wary respect for the wrongheadedness central to our species. If nothing else it's highly entertaining once you get beyond the anguish of failing to connect. And there's something endearing about people only hearing what they want to hear.

Old Faces

2012-01-09T20:20:00.003+08:00

Whenever channel-hopping I pop in on the Granada channel available on cable, not so much because it broadcasts engaging programmes - though there are a few goodies now and again - but because the frequent filler items can cast up some real gems. Last night, for example, I suddenly found myself watching Roy Harper playing and singing Highway Blues with more than a little passion to an audience who looked well passed their sell-by date. Rather like myself, of course. Mr Harper looked like the kind of grandfather you don't want your grandchildren to get too close to. Long, though carefully groomed, white hair and beard: a ringer for Bad Santa. The voice a shade lower in register, but essentially still there. Great acoustic guitar. A bit of unexpected banshee wailing. Wonderful.

The corner of the screen informed us the clip was from Musical Legends - and, for once, that's no lie. In fact I caught a full version of the programme, again without meaning to, back in November (I think) featuring the latest three-man version of Van Der Graff Generator. Peter Hammill looked even more disreputable than the mighty Roy, if that's possible, and also was in excellent incisive voice - teaching all those goths a thing or two. And I've also seen a bit of Caravan on a clip from the same source. (In truth, the one time I saw them live in Manchester I was bored to tears - but I was only fifteen then, a bit too young for the Canterbury sound methinks.)

I'm not really sure that what I'm talking about here is actually nostalgia, you know. As far as I can tell the music is more alive and invigorating than a fair amount of what younger and more 'current' musos are doing. Life in the old dog yet, indeed.

Hot Stuff

2012-01-08T21:38:00.003+08:00

We had Fuad and family round this afternoon as Fuad needed to heat his cycling shoes in our oven.

That's the kind of sentence I never thought I'd get to type. The wonders of modern technology, eh?

Staying Alive, Still

2012-01-07T22:03:00.004+08:00

Didn't get all that many opportunities to view my Life DVDs in Kuala Lumpur back in December as the girls pretty much took possession of the telly. However, I have managed to reach the eighth episode, Creatures of the Deep, which I have watched twice in the course of the weekend so far, and which may well get another airing tomorrow. (Noi hasn't seen any of it so that in itself is an excuse for a re-run.)

I'm inclined to say it's the most visually ravishing nature documentary I've ever seen, but since I tend to think that way about almost every Attenborough programme I see it's a bit of an exaggeration. But not much of one.

Human Kindness

2012-01-06T22:32:00.003+08:00

In the past week I've come home everyday carrying some sort of present or other - a bar of chocolate, a box of teabags, a carton of dates, that sort of thing - from colleagues and students, the occasion being simply that it's the start of our year.

Yesterday I was carrying a little load of booklets across a couple of corridors, which were weighing me down a little, and was offered help by no fewer than five kids, in the space of three minutes, one of whom I'd never seen before.

Today I found myself avoiding crowds to escape the embarrassment of being thanked rather too fulsomely just for doing what I'm paid to do.

It's sometimes difficult to be cynical as one might like to be.

Changing Places

2012-01-05T21:49:00.003+08:00

Ever since we've been able to get Sky News on Cable - about a year now - I've felt a lot more connected with what's going on in the UK. I generally watch it for ten or fifteen minutes of a morning on weekdays, whilst imbibing a cuppa, and quite often give it a glance in an evening.

So that's why I'm more aware than I normally would have been of a confluence of stories in the news there circling, one way or another, around issues connected with race: the Suarez mess, ditto for Terry, the Stephen Lawrence case, M.P. Diane Abbott getting into trouble with her comments on Twitter, and the like. The connecting feature of all these (without passing particular judgements on the various actors therein) is the extremely wonderful fact that it's now absolutely, entirely, unequivocally impossible to get away with any kind of public racism without a deluge of opprobrium descending upon your head. And this from even the most reactionary elements of the media.

Sadly this was not the case even twenty-five years ago. I know, because I was there. I remember vowing not to attend football matches in certain parts of the country because of the appalling open racism of crowds towards black players particularly. (Unless you've seen middle-aged fathers, their young sons at their sides, making monkey noises and doing 'funny' things with bananas because a black player has touched the ball, you won't really know what I mean.) Now, as far as I can tell, that's gone. Impossible to imagine - as it rightly should be.

Proof that with determination the moral climate of a society can change for the better. If there is such a thing as progress in human affairs - and I'm something of a nay-sayer on this one - this is it.

A Real Weepie

2012-01-04T22:20:00.004+08:00

Was inveigled, by the Missus and four nieces, into watching the Malay blockbuster Ombak Rindu (means something like waves of longing, I think) at the cinema when we were in Kuala Lumpur last month. Spent the last forty minutes shedding tears - of frustration, provoked by the horrible feeling that the darn thing was never going to end. Hah!

And why am I thinking of this now? Dealing with the kind of ludicrous 'documentation' that has, somehow, become central to my work I realise there are far worse frustrations that should elicit even more bitter tears. Fortunately I'm manfully holding mine back.

Transcendence

2012-01-03T22:30:00.003+08:00

Came home to listen to Brahms's 2nd Symphony. This proved a remarkably sensible thing to do. A reminder of a world elsewhere. Something outside myself. Bigger and better.

And I didn't even listen particularly well. Imagine if I were able to. Complete escape. Blimey.

Blow By Blow

2012-01-02T19:53:00.003+08:00

Spent a fair amount of yesterday evening having various muscles subjected to a pummelling by Noi's massage lady & general guru Kak Sabariah. Spent a fair amount of today enjoying the ache in the pummelled muscles and feeling that, somehow or other, the mauling had done me good. Not too sure of the psychology involved, but the whole experience has been oddly, deeply relaxing.

Finally Resolved

2012-01-01T13:06:00.007+08:00

It's with a decent measure of chagrin and a shot of despair that I find I was resolved, back in January 2008, to improve my Malay to the point where I am reasonably functional and not just an embarrassing Englishman. I failed. My proficiency in my wife's mother tongue has, in all essentials, stood still since that time.

Aware as I was of the commitment, and its failure, I didn't seek for remedy in 2009, 2010 or 2011, though not completely neglecting some study of the language, as I reached the conclusion that there was an element of futility behind the resolution. Put simply: I was too busy at work to allow the time necessary for improvement in the language. And writing this I recognise a truth in the excuse. But it is an excuse, rather like the one I hear from colleagues who can't find the time to read as they are too busy. The answer is, of course, to make the time, even when it's almost impossible to do so, through something akin to habit.

Which means, in some sense, re-thinking one's life. Difficult in the extreme, but not quite impossible, something I discovered a long time ago - and which I am resolved to rediscover in a small (though trust me, this won't feel small) but important manner.

A (Very) Minor Achievement

2011-12-31T20:32:00.004+08:00

My resolution for 2011 was NOT TO PANIC. Broadly achieved, with some doubtful moments.

Now thinking of something suitable for the year in view, over the horizon - though there's always mileage in the above, of course.

My Back Pages

2011-12-30T20:24:00.007+08:00

I'm about to complete my appointments diary for the year, with the new one for the year ahead also operational, as this week overlaps, being covered by both editions. Creature of habit that I am, I use the same type of diary (week to a view) each year, and have done so for thirty-something years.

Glancing through the contents for 2011 I am, as usual, faintly surprised by just how much got done. Looking at the generally blank pages for 2012 I am, as usual, mildly unnerved by the thought of just how full they're likely to become.

Rising Damp

2011-12-29T18:42:00.009+08:00

In the car, on the way to the supermarket this afternoon, Noi suddenly brought to my attention the fact that my shoes were unsightly - to say the least. I wasn't able to look down at that moment, driving as I was, but at the supermarket I realised what she meant. Faint patches of whitish mould embellished the surface of each of the pair so that they looked for all the world like something a tramp might have picked up from a bin, thinking they might last a couple more months. A quick rub with one of the Missus's wonderful all-purpose damp cloth thingees solved the problem, showing that, appearances notwithstanding, the sort-of-mould didn't go very deep. But it was a reminder of the penetrating nature of the climate here.

You see the shoes were my back-up pair, left outside our place in Singapore, and left there clean I assure you, one month ago. That's all it took for the damp humidity to get to them - this being the rainy season - and how! In fact, on entering the apartment yesterday you didn't need a particularly strong nose to gain an immediate awareness of the fact it had not been lived in for almost a month and there had been a lot of rain. It smelt wet, a sort of woody wet. This is a smell I first encountered in the August of 1988, on arriving in Singapore. It permeated my room at the Garden Hotel, where I stayed for a couple of weeks, and that wasn't a particularly run-down room - but it had some old wooden furniture that was suffused with the odour. The sweet decay of the tropics.

Funnily enough Noi has been talking quite a bit in the last month about how much she misses the English winter, specifically, I think the cold clear frostiness you get at sub-zero temperatures. A couple of nights of that would certainly do something to our warm tropical damp, though I'm not quite sure what that something is. But I don't miss the winter at all. I sort of enjoy our warm damp.

Further Consideration

2011-12-28T12:24:00.005+08:00

Was thinking of the nature of art the other day, partly prompted by my sudden realisation that I might have to lecture on this very topic for our Year 6 students quite early in the new year, but also due to two strands of my reading.

I completed Joyce's Portrait and was reminded of just how good that stretch of dialogue is in Chapter 5 between Stephen and Lynch - though dominated, of course, by Stephen - on art and beauty. I think Stephen's definition of beauty, through Aquinas, is the single most insightful set of ideas I've ever come across regarding aesthetic experience, and this is given even greater resonance by being given a semi-ironic placing and presentation in the novel.

And then later in the day, idly browsing some blogs related to philosophical concerns, I came across this post by Mike LaBossiere with its attendant comments. In truth this all seemed a bit second rate after the electricity of Joyce at his brilliant best, but it served as a reminder of some basic, not terribly well thought through, positions people tend to take in this area.

Whenever I give myself over to consideration of these matters I get a sense that I'm dealing with something of huge importance - possibly crucial to our lives - and something that everyone knows is important. And yet somehow this area of human experience and endeavour forever lies beyond our ability to adequately conceptualise it.

Something Lasting

2011-12-27T15:58:00.010+08:00

The proggy music I bought the other day - Yes, Genesis, Jethro Tull - still sounds fresh to me, but then a significant part of that self is still aged seventeen and loves this kind of thing. I imagine material like this is still getting issued due to the fact there are enough old geezers like myself around who've never quite grown up, prepared to shell out the readies in order to live again their misspent youths.

That seems to me true, but in a limited way. I also think the material genuinely lives because it is of worth. And I would guess that it's picking up listeners a good deal younger than myself, some a long way from being born when it was originally recorded. Just as I more than happily listen to, say, recordings by Duke Ellington and hear them as something new. In fact, a quick look at reviews of albums at amazon.com and the comments sections under various proggy items uploaded to youtube.com reveals the degree to which younger listeners are a distinct part of the audience with an ear out for these oldies.

So the question I'm asking myself is how long albums produced in the sixties and seventies, to pick out the two decades in which the recording process had become sophisticated enough to routinely ensure first rate recording of a diverse range of talent, are going to be made fairly easily available and have an audience ready to listen to them, and, of course, this goes beyond the rather narrow confines of what was once termed progressive rock. If the answer is forever, or as long as there is a forever, then this will constitute an important cultural shift. The past will always be close behind, nudging up to the present in consoling and depressing ways, telling us that nothing ever ever ever really changes. I suppose that's always been the case, but one never made with quite the kind of immediacy that can get imprinted on a CD.

(And it's just occurred to me - pardon my obtuseness in failing to see the obvious - that we now no longer even need the physical CDs for the music to be readily available. Can it ever go away? Will its lastingness confirm some kind of value being inherent within it?)

Playing Catch-up

2011-12-26T16:07:00.007+08:00

I bought two issues of the New York Review of Books this year - from the magazine stall at Holland Village, the one on the corner near the MRT, where they sell a good deal cheaper than at Borders - and it's taken me until now to read them cover to cover. The younger me would have bought more and built up an impossible backlog, and ended up feeling guilty, so I've obviously learnt something over the years, though not very much all told. I thoroughly enjoyed reading both and hope to increase the number of issues I get to buy and read next year, but I'm not banking on doing so.

The problem is there's so much I'm keen to read in terms of actual books that reading articles feels like a bit of a cop out, a sort of undeserved holiday. And reading one book inevitably leads to just having to read something linked to it. Case in point: I'd no sooner put Dubliners down the other day than I just had to dive into A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, reading the first chapter in a couple of hours, even though I originally had no intention of doing so. At the same time I was also caught up in a fast read of Hamlet, the latest Arden edition which is based solely on the second quarto. At least reading the new Arden was not exactly a reread as it is a new edition. (I've also been dipping into my older edition, the one edited by Harold Jenkins, which I've always thought of as the single best Arden edition. In light of the newer edition it now seems a bit dated, inevitably.)

Oh, and I've been reacquainting myself with Whitman's Song of Myself as one of my students is doing her Extended Essay on old Walt and it occurred to me that it's been a heck of a time since I opened my Collected Whitman - I'd forgotten that I'd relocated it to the shelves at Maison KL and was pleased to see it again when we got there in early December.

The wonderful and intimidating thing about having an interest in books is that there's never any shortage of things to be read and no chance at all that you'll ever actually catch up on your reading.

A Green Christmas

2011-12-25T13:05:00.011+08:00

Whatever the colour of your Christmas, may it be merry and bright.

Dancing Out

2011-12-24T13:52:00.007+08:00

I have resisted buying any books at all in our time here, despite having spent some time in a fair few bookshops - except, that is, for the books bought for the kids. So in this respect I feel virtuous, which helps balance a slight degree of guilt over having somewhat impulsively purchased no fewer than four CDs. The impulse was provoked by my surprise at seeing quite a decent range of 1970's proggy type material in what was otherwise an entirely run of the mill DVD/CD store in the Mid Valley Megamall. I assume someone involved in running the store has some kind of special interest in the period, resulting in a tasty selection from the likes of Genesis, Pink Floyd, Jethro Tull, Yes, Barclay James Harvest et al. (But with some odd lacunae - no Crimson, for instance.)

Anyway, duly tempted I walked out with Tull's Heavy Horses, Yes's Drama and Tormato, and Selling England By the Pound from the classic Genesis line-up. Of the four I'm familiar only with the Genesis, which I had on vinyl in the early seventies, so it was interesting exposing myself to material that I should know, have heard plenty about second hand, but have never in fact listened to.

The one with which I am familiar inevitably brought back memories of a time when I considered Messers Gabriel, Rutherford, Banks, Collins & Hackett as quite the coolest dudes on the planet - except nobody said dudes then. And then trawling the wilds of youtube I discovered this video of them doing what I think is the best track off the album live - which I think proves the point that they were (extremely cool) for any reader not around at the time. Click on Dancing With The Moonlit Night and enjoy a bit of a dance, do.

Relocation

2011-12-23T18:00:00.004+08:00

We're now in Alor Gajah, Melaka having delivered our various erstwhile houseguests back to the loving arms of their parents. I always feel a mild sense of relief in returning them safely, considering all the things that can go wrong in the big, bad world. It's an oddly timorous attitude but I know that such timidity lurks in my character - which is why I strive to hide it and get on with life reasonably fearlessly.

Mind you, I would suggest that when driving in this land a reasonably fearful attitude is, well, reasonable.

Making A Connection

2011-12-22T23:11:00.003+08:00

The stint of rereading some of the texts I'm teaching next year is having an odd effect on me. I got through The Great Gatsby feeling entirely detached from the characters, though relishing the precision of the writing. This was quite a different experience from my previous reading of the novel, I think around about a year ago, when I found myself deeply involved in the enigmatic Jimmy Gatz in a way I'd never managed before.

Then it was on to Dubliners, and a similar sense of detachment. I read story after story with an unpitying eye, though feeling deeply involved at the level of style. This may have had something to do with the fact I will have to teach the stories - whatever that means.

Then I arrived at The Dead and something happened. Joyce's polished looking glass somehow evoked that simple sense of compassionate fellowship with his deeply flawed, deeply human citizens of dear dirty Dublin that I think many academic critics miss. I suppose it's because something in me identifies with Gabriel Conroy in a way that is the opposite of reassuring, and yet affords access to some troubling truths. Gabriel is trying to be a good man and in some important ways succeeding. If you are dead to the fact his speech at dinner is genuinely touching it seems to me you don't stand a chance of grasping what Joyce is up to. Yet that speech is, at the same time, deeply self-serving. Not either/or: both. So we are invited to judge him, yet the complexity of what we must deal with resists easy judgement. Like life. And all along we are judging ourselves.

When I got to the reference to Aunt Julia probably dying in the year ahead that comes just before the end of the story I suddenly realised just how much of a tribute to the two rather foolish sisters at its centre the story is, once you shift your attention from Gabriel and his concerns. My own eyes momentarily filled with the kind of generous tears that Gabriel becomes prey to in the final sequence. But, of course, Joyce alerts us to our capacity for ultimately selfish sentimentalising so we can feel that we have somehow learnt something, moved forward through his art.

I think Joyce takes us as far as fiction can go in an awareness of its powers and its real limitations. If not here, then certainly in what follows.

Shining Brightly

2011-12-21T17:46:00.010+08:00

Our haven at night, last night specifically.

Christmas Past

2011-12-20T13:29:00.003+08:00

Yesterday we took our little team to The Curve, the new(ish) shopping centre adjacent to the big IKEA store out at Demansara. Whilst imbibing a particularly fine mug of teh tarik at the appropriately named Teh Tarik Place there I found myself in a reverie centring on our old Christmas tree - that is, the Christmas tree I grew up with at various Manchester addresses, in the 1960's and early 1970's. The catalyst for the reverie was a little tree endeavouring to be appropriately festive standing a little forlornly against the wall just behind the table at which we'd chosen to sit. It was a fake tree, curiously reminiscent of the one I grew up with and memories of our tree sort of ganged up on me as a result.

Our tree wasn't real, except it was for me, in that it was the only Christmas tree we ever had and so was the only real tree at Christmas. I remember that I felt a little sad for those poor souls who didn't have the benefit of our perfect tree. It was perfect because it never changed, so it really was Christmas. Unpacking it (we stored in in a little sort of suitcase) was predictably joyful and exciting in equal measures. The ornaments never changed - now it occurs to me that these must have been bought when I was baby, or even earlier, because we never bought any new ones that I can remember, ever. I could see those ornaments with stunning clarity yesterday, not quite what you expect to be looking at in a shopping mall in the capital of Malaysia. I could almost feel myself holding again the two tiny toy trees we used to stand at the base of the tree, unfurling their wire branches, and placing between them the plastic pointed crib, dusted with plastic snow, with the baby Jesus and Mary and Joseph inside.

The year Dad died we didn't unpack the tree, and never did again. It remained in its case in the shed in the backyard at Gresham Street disregarded for years and I don't know what became of it. It was Mum who didn't want it out, and we never put up a Christmas tree again, though we enjoyed the real big ones that Maureen had every year. That was enough. I never questioned Mum as to why she didn't want it out, assuming we were on rather dangerous emotional ground, and I was too old to be unduly bothered. In fact, it was the right thing to do, in retrospect. A wonderful part of life was over, couldn't be brought back, and it would have been foolish to do so. And there were to be some fine old times to be lived out ahead of us.

Touchingly the next time I saw a tree at Christmas in Mum's place was in the flat in Hyde when we took Fifi there in December a few years ago. A tiny one appeared in the living room, just in front of the electric fire. I think Mum thought that with a kid in the house some sort of tree was a necessity, though with this child the tree was, of course, quite pointless.

I don't get sentimental about Christmases long gone. They were wonderful, and I am deeply grateful for them, but they are over and there is too much to celebrate about living today to feel any sense of yearning. I was incredibly lucky to have had that tree though.

Moments

2011-12-19T15:18:00.016+08:00

Fuad & Rozita & family took off this morning for the south, leaving us slightly depleted, slightly quieter. Memories of the past few days above. What larks, eh?

Togetherness

2011-12-18T21:01:00.007+08:00

With Fuad, Rozita & Fifi joining us over the weekend and Hamzah coming across yesterday with Sabrina & Aiman it's been a full house - the way we like it. Major celebration of such at the Bom Corner yesterday simply served to confirm this.

Up To Speed

2011-12-17T16:30:00.003+08:00

Racing through Duong Thu Huong's Paradise of the Blind the narrator's (or is it the writer's) obsession with food seems at times the most obvious surface feature of the text. I suppose it represents a deep reality of Vietnamese culture, but I do wonder if there isn't something very personal going on here. Assuming Mdm Duong can get cable tv under house arrest (I think that's her situation at this time) I reckon she's an obvious candidate for an addiction to Masterchef.

By the way, the strong women in the novels of Duong Thu Huong and Arundhati Roy shred to little pieces simplistic stereotypes of submissive Asian females - as do the writers themselves, of course. There's something more than a little intimidating reading the work of ladies whose moral courage in standing against oppression sort of puts one's own rather skulking little life to shame.

Slowing Down

2011-12-16T16:56:00.004+08:00

It's not all been speed reading at this address in recent days, though I may have given impressions to the contrary of late.

For example, I've been lingering over Seamus Heaney's The Haw Lantern in a most rewarding fashion, though I did read the poems in the 'correct' order. In this case I would read a single poem several times before moving on, but once I'd moved forward there was no looking back. Thus I got the benefit of being able to muse over the placing of the pieces in a larger whole (possibly illusory, of course - a bit like the sequencing of an album) whilst never feeing that I was unduly rushing through.

Also I took my time over a reading of As You Like It, using two editions at the same time, these being the last two Ardens - the second and third series. There's some good material around the business attending upon gender in the most recent edition and I found that refreshing. I doubt that I would have taken it terribly seriously thirty years ago, but times, and readers, change. I'd love to see an all male cast version of the play: a boy playing a girl pretending to be a man pretending to be a girl. And what viewer does not fall in love with fair Rosaline?

As a way of getting going on the Shakespeare I reread James Shapiro's 1599 - he has much to say about As You Like It and Hamlet, among others, since he reckons this was the year of composition for both. What he says is stimulating, though I wouldn't necessarily take it as gospel. These are texts I'm teaching next year, by the way, so I feel I'm being quite the good boy for working so hard, when I'm not really working at all, of course.

Not Knowing

2011-12-15T22:47:00.003+08:00

Completed my dash through Doyle's Booker Prize winner this morning. What stood out for me on this reading is the degree to which the novel is concerned with how much we don't know about what's going on around us, especially, though not exclusively, as far as children are concerned. Paddy's world is a poorly constructed patchwork of silly stories, legends - those that children so fruitfully generate, misunderstandings and downright untruths, often comically so. But since we generally only know what we know through him, we're not in much of a better position.

An odd comparison struck me just now. The narrative voice in Ray's The God of Small Things trades in a kind of knowingness, yet equally strongly conjures the essential anxiety that is the centre of childhood. The novels really couldn't be much more different in this regard, and yet are so alike.

Fringe Benefits

2011-12-14T18:26:00.003+08:00

Almost everything I'm reading at the moment is related to stuff I'll be teaching next year. And that's more than fine by me. In fact, since all the reading involves re-reading, strictly speaking none of it is necessary. Essentially this is all for pleasure.

I'm now racing through Roddy Doyle's Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha having completed Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things in double-quick time yesterday. Keeping up the pace is my way of grasping the totality of novels that I know too well from close analysis - which is, in turn, a way of staying fresh. It works for me, though given the imaginative verve of each of these novels it'd be difficult to conceive of any kind of reading not working.

Just as a matter of interest, Ms Roy's novel seems to me the most extraordinary one-off. Assuming she never writes another we'll be left to wonder how everything came together so perfectly this one time. I'm puzzled over the way she seems to be regarded as some kind of derivative Rushdie-clone in certain quarters. Her single novel is so obviously superior to anything he's done, partly, though not simply, because it has heart as well as intelligence.

Kids' Stuff

2011-12-13T22:46:00.002+08:00

A little reminder of the realities of life yesterday when one of our house-guests (no names, no pack-drill) decorated the floor of the car with the contents of her stomach. In our over-confidence we'd forgotten to provide the usual quota of plastic bags in front of the back seat, so we were partly to blame.

I must admit to experiencing a flash of irritation following the event, but then memories set in of my own indiscretions in this area as a child, and these, being reinforced by the obvious feelings of guilt of the unfortunate culprit, brought home the common sense realisation that sympathy was the necessary response. It helped that, as always, Noi dealt with the mess and the messer with extraordinary aplomb and oodles of tact. An honorary degree in Child Psychology for that lady would not go amiss, believe me.

Cry Freedom

2011-12-12T21:55:00.003+08:00

Took the team to the Central Market yesterday, where there are all sorts of art shops, it being a very arty location. We got some rather colourful batik painting done. But the real highlight of the day for me was an exhibition/fund-raiser by Amnesty International (Malaysia) occupying the top floor of the annex to the market building.

The girls bought quite a few little badges there, reminding me of the great punk years of the late-seventies, at which time I was myself a member of Amnesty. There was a table provided for those who wanted to write letters to various governments asking for consideration for particular prisoners of conscience. I got one done, reminding me of efforts in those earlier years.

I walked out full of admiration for the drive of the organisers. I don't think it can be all that easy getting political in this way, in this part of the world. Oh, and feeling pretty guilty that somehow I've managed to let this side of myself lapse.

Deep Sea

2011-12-11T12:05:00.004+08:00

When I first read Jean Rhys's Wide Sargasso Sea, quite some years ago, I remember thinking that I didn't really grasp the novel in the way I felt I should. But I also felt its power.

Fast forward a few years, and my response is eerily similar. Somehow I don't quite get the central story. Antoinette remains a mystery to me. Possibly necessarily so? I feel this is another one of those novels I'm failing to live up to.

Though I could not help but wonder if Ms Rhys was completely in control of her material. The initial shifting of perspective in the Rochester section (back to Antoinette) seems ungainly somehow. And Rochester's voice is never that of a nineteenth century gentleman, depite the general strength and insight of the characterisation here. But this is to split hairs over a novel that transcends any limitations (real or imaginary) it might have through the truth at its core.

Hilarity

2011-12-10T12:14:00.003+08:00

Quite what it is that makes almost anything anybody says hilariously funny when you are twelve years old, or thereabouts, I have forgotten. But I am reminded that such is the case by the laughter of the four young ladies in our care at present.

Actually Mak Ndak and I are quite supernumerary as things stand - we function simply as providers of the necessities upon which the general hilarity of the household is built. I'm all in favour of this arrangement as it requires little from me other than to drive the transport and open the wallet. Mak Ndak takes care of the sustenance, of course.

The only problem is figuring out where to take the troops so they can entertain themselves. We're working on solving that one for today before our charges surface from their sleep. Yes, it's early afternoon and they still haven't emerged., which is proving par for the course. The hilarious nature of life makes it particularly exhausting, I suppose.

13.00

Update on the delayed surfacing of four young ladies in this household. It turns out that they stayed up talking about stuff until 0530. I didn't know there was so much stuff in the world to talk about.

On The Outside

2011-12-08T22:11:00.003+08:00

Read Camus's The Outsider today. I'd forgotten how strange a novel it is. The lack of affect on behalf of the narrator, as psychiatrists would say, is the whole point of the tale, and how curiously appropriate for our times that is.

And then there's Camus's curious afterword - he sees Meursault as characterised by an inability to lie - and that, of course, would make him an outsider in any age.

Panicking

2011-12-07T23:18:00.002+08:00

Squad strength standing at four - Aleen, Ayu, Nurul and Fafa - we're now resident in Maison KL, experiencing the usual problems with phone-lines and getting connected. Fafa particularly bemoans the situation, telling us that three days without Facebook means she'll die. We're now taking steps to access a broadband service, with Hamzah's inestimable assistance, this being the reason I'm able to post this at this ungodly hour.

I'm still recovering from an unpleasant moment undergone at the Starbucks at Times Square the other day. We'd let the kids loose on the indoor theme park and gone to the afore-mentioned coffee house to avail ourselves of their free wifi. I got out the old laptop and fired it up, only to find it didn't fire at all (or, rather, boot up, as I think the jargon goes) despite four attempts to achieve this fairly mundane state of affairs. This strongly suggested to me that there was a major problem with the hard disk thingee, and I spent the next few hours considering life without all the vital data on said disk, which I haven't, I'm afraid to say, regularly backed up.

When we got back in the evening I tried the laptop again and it did the business effortlessly, to my enormous relief. What had gone wrong, I have no idea, and the relief compensated for the anguish of those few hours of uncertainty. And I promise to be a good boy in future and do all the necessary backing-up, having been let off the hook this time.

How on earth and when in history did I ever get to be so utterly dependent on this machine?

Staying Alive

2011-12-05T12:49:00.004+08:00

Read Death of a Salesman yesterday. Not sure exactly how many times I've read the play cover to cover - or watched it in performance - but Miller's tragedy just grows in its power for me, to the point where it's become close to unbearable in its truth.

This time round I was struck by just how despicable Willy is in his treatment of Linda, and how far Linda goes to deserve that treatment. (How exactly does she come to admire her husband? That's the word that Miller gives us.) As to how I'd managed previously to somehow ignore this pretty obvious aspect of the drama, I really don't have much of an explanation. This is very, very uncomfortable territory.

Something similar happens with The Crucible. In each case what might have been a thesis-play is transformed by the subterranean concerns of the dramatist and explodes into uncomfortable, uncontrollable life.

Oh, and something else that hit me hard this time. In a world obsessed with telling people, especially young people, to live their dreams, where does Miller's dreaming Salesman sit?

This Is The Life

2011-12-04T22:12:00.003+08:00

We're now in Melaka, having made our way north yesterday. Noi provided a typically succinct summary of our progress here so far earlier in the evening: Eat, eat, eat and sleep, sleep, sleep. Nothing since has served to alter this pleasing pattern. Long may it continue.

Rather Too Cool

2011-12-02T23:13:00.004+08:00

For the last three years we've found ourselves in not-so-sunny Manchester at this time of year. I suppose this is why Noi has spent much of the day saying, Normally we'd be going into Ashton this afternoon, and the like. I must say that far from finding myself missing the dark satanic mills of Lancashire, my verdict is that it's nice not to be dealing with the cold weather.

Except that I found myself freezing just now on a bus we took over to the east coast. We were on the top deck and whoever determines the settings for these things had obviously decided that all on board were secretly yearning for a frost with regard to how strong the air-conditioning needed to be. So that's what we got. The condensation created on the windows made it impossible to see out. In fact, it looked for all the world like a drab day in Hyde out there.

Brrrhhhh. As they usually don't say in this place.

Darkness Visible

2011-12-01T23:26:00.002+08:00

Got hold of a copy of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: Black Dossier the other day. Since I had no idea the volume had been published the acquisition came as a pleasant surprise. It's obviously handsomely produced promising hours of not so innocent fun.

But I must say I'm taken aback at just how many layers of narrative Alan Moore plays around with. Fortunately I like this kind of thing, so it's more than okay with me. But a glance at some reviews on amazon suggests I'm in a minority. Which fills me with a kind of delight - that Messers Moore & O'Neill get away with this.

I can't imagine the Hollywood execs will consider a movie of this one, so we are guaranteed safety in that direction.

Having

2011-11-30T22:41:00.002+08:00

Cleaned my books, the ones in the Hall, the other day. A reminder of just how much I have at hand (which isn't really mine, of course), and how rich I am as a result.

The problem presented by possessions is living up to them.

Some Life

2011-11-29T23:01:00.004+08:00

I had been hoping to watch some of the DVDs from Attenborough's Life series during fasting month, but things just didn't work out. So now I'm putting that right. Two episodes in two days constitutes a good start, and has left me wondering how I left off watching for so long.

As usual watching this kind of documentary (Life on Earth - The Blue Planet - Planet Earth) raises the fascinating question - for me, at least - of how to classify the experience. If this isn't art I don't know what is. Visually exquisite, sonically powerful.

Today I was struck by the perfection of Sir David's commentary. Direct, unfussy, insightful. And moving. The pictures speak for themselves in terms of the wonder and grandeur (even in minute particulars) of the natural world but he invests it with, paradoxically, a sense of humanity. The sequence of the octopus mother inevitably dying (from lack of food) after tending her brood in the first episode, The Challenges of Life, achieved an archetypal power through its very reticence.

And eight more episodes to go!

Imperious

2011-11-28T22:11:00.003+08:00

Trying to get up to speed with my reading of fiction. In broad terms I'm all for slow reading, but I think I've tended to take this to extremes of late. So I treated myself to Robert Harris's Imperium, of which I'd heard great things from reviewers relating to pace and readability. They were not wrong. Hardly put it down in the day and a half it took me to read it. Who'd have thought the rise to power of one Marcus Tullius Cicero could have been rendered quite so gripping? Well, I would, for one. Let's face it, the Romans were such nasty types that pretty much everything they got up to makes for a lurid read. But the fact that Mr Harris actually gets the job done with such vigour and insight is to be applauded loudly.

Popular fiction at its best.

Actually Books

2011-11-27T20:39:00.002+08:00

Popped down to Books Actually in Tiong Bahru this afternoon. It's a sort of indie bookshop I've read about a few times but never got round to visiting. Rather glad I did today. It was worth it for the more than decent range of local lit on display - especially the poetry. Of course, since I've vowed not to buy any more real books but go virtual I found myself in a bit of a quandary. I resolved this by deciding to make an exception for local material and find a way of getting it shelved at work. But abstinence has become such a habit that I came away with only one publication (other than something else as a present for someone) this being the fourth edition of Ceriph, a sort of magazine of current writing - and very handsomely produced it is too. One of my ex-students, Daryl, has a couple of pieces in it and I am keen to see how they look in print.

By a sort of coincidence being able to see Daryl's stuff (a poem and short prose piece) in print has followed hard on the heels of spotting some poems by other talented young writers of my acquaintance in a volume entitled Roots and Wings - a collection of material generated through the Creative Arts Programme, a project for young writers undertaken annually by the Ministry of Education here. I was given the volume as a freebie following my contribution to a conference last week and have been thoroughly enjoying dipping into it. Oh, and I should say the same of the rather thinner (but equally rich) Though Roach Eyes, a collection of stories from kids in primary schools here based on the splendid notion of a cockroach in a hawker centre as narrator.

I'm always concerned about sounding patronising about students' creative work. I don't fake enthusiasm for what I read, ever, and in the case of students' work I've never had to. The stuff these guys are producing more than repays attention.

Wanting

2011-11-26T20:11:00.002+08:00

My instincts for acquisition, which broadly speaking rarely feature with undue prominence in life's comedy, well not in recent years anyway, came fiercely to life this week on my being exposed to two instances of seeing a kindle - the e-reader thingee from amazon - in action. I got really close up to one belonging to my Yankee colleague Greg, and seriously considered purloining the little beauty until I figured I couldn't download anything on it.

Which leads to the big question: why won't those good people at my favourite on-line retailer (actually the only one I've ever bought anything from, I think, other than airline and concert tickets) allow us to use the darn things here on this fine little island? It's not as if this is cowboy territory when it comes to issues of copyright, well not in recent years at least. Maybe they think we're part of China?

Well-meaning folks, by the way, have informed me of all sorts of ways of getting around the ban (if that's what it is) involving arranging addresses for credit cards in the US & UK and buying gift vouchers from amazon itself, but I haven't got the energy. I just want one of those pretty devices, and I want it now.

(Actually I don't want it now really as I've got loads of real books still to read, but I'm feeling infantile, I'm feeling like a real consumer, for once.)

Star Quality

2011-11-25T20:26:00.003+08:00

One of my favourite productions of Richard III is the one done by the BBC, sometime in the 1980's, in their series encompassing all the plays. This placed RIII in context as the companion to Henry VI Parts 1, 2 and 3. We first see Richard, played by Ron Cook, as just another of the many nobles relentlessly pursuing the complex course of British history, in HVI, Part 3, and there's nothing terribly outstanding about him until we get towards the end of the play. And then Shakespeare seems to discover the great villain who is set to dominate the final play in the series through his explosive, demonic energy. In this context Richard is outstanding, yes, but he's also part of the fabric of the sequence as a whole and can't be entirely understood outside the patterns within that sequence.

Ron Cook's performance isn't that of a star, but of a fine ensemble player who is still part of the world around him. The comedy is there, but restrained, never really breaking the frame. He looms large, but not larger than life.

But there's another way of looking at the play and the character, not more valid, but equally valid, I think. This is to see the role as a vehicle for a star, a Burbage who will eat up the stage; this calls for a Richard who wrenches the conceptual frame containing him so out of shape that we know it cannot hold him. Even in his defeat he is thrillingly alive in a way those around him are not. I'm not talking here of psychological depth, though. I'm talking of dramatic possibilities - Richard has no depth, he is all actor, all surface, personifying something of the demonic power of the stage itself.

This is the Richard that Kevin Spacey brilliantly rendered last night. He blew everyone else off the stage, such that sturdy performances were made to seem wooden. I say this not in any spirit of criticism of those performances. The (im)balance felt right. Our Hollywood star wasn't upstaging anyone. The sense of ensemble playing was still there, and Sam Mendes in his direction played scrupulous attention to the full world of the play - rightly showing that that world is never truly alive other than when Richard is bustling within it.

Great show.

It's Not All Discontent

2011-11-24T18:49:00.003+08:00

Busy day seeing some students about on-going work, preparing to give a presentation at some conference or other tomorrow, and listening to The Who's Quadrophenia - and not necessarily in that order.

Now prettyfying myself enough to be seen in public as we're off to watch Kevin Spacey in Richard III. Double Yowza!!

Into The Light

2011-11-23T22:04:00.004+08:00

When we were in Paris with the girls the Musee D'Orsay was shut due to the 'culture workers' strike which was disappointing to say the least. But it was some compensation that we were able to take Fafa this afternoon to a travelling exhibition of key art-works from the museum from the late nineteenth century entitled Dreams & Reality. This was handsomely mounted at the National Museum of Singapore. Featuring such luminaries as Cezanne, Manet, Monet, Degas, Renoir, Gauguin and Toulouse-Lautrec, with Van Gogh's Starry Night as a sort of centrepiece, it's a case of What's not to like? - the answer being, nothing; it's all utterly splendid.

But I must say, I came out with a particularly enhanced appreciation of Degas. There was only one ballerinas piece, which was lovely, but what knocked me sideways were three drawings by the Master, each of which represented a sort of perfection through their transparent simplicity. The one of his younger brother achieved a kind of radiance. (And just using a pencil!)

And by the way, if you've ever thought the ubiquity of Van Gogh and the whole Vincent thing undercuts him as a great, great artist, you're completely wrong. He continues to blaze forth.

History Lessons

2011-11-22T14:41:00.008+08:00

History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

I found myself thinking of young Dedalus's conversation with Mr Deasy in the National Museum in Beijing recently. Worried I'm turning into Mr Deasy though.

Coming Into View

2011-11-21T19:20:00.003+08:00

Something very unusual for me: I watched three films, or rather one film and two film-length telly programmes in a twenty-four hour period recently. Considering I'm often pressed to manage watching a single film from one end to the other in a year, this was quite a departure. My viewing binge began on the flight back from Beijing. Having watched nothing on the way over I felt obliged to indulge in some form of in-flight entertainment. The music wasn't great so I opted for Rise of the Planet of the Apes based on the fact I found the expression on the lead ape from the publicity stills intriguing. Quite enjoyed the piece, partcularly the characterisation of Caesar, the ape in question. It seems that somehow or other this was Andy Serkis in camouflage. The only problem was that I found myself completely on the side of the simians and I'm not sure this was what the film-makers required of me.

Next day, having woken unusually early and dragged myself to the living room, I watched in succession an episode each of Wire In The Blood and Wallender on the BBC Entertainment channel. Both dealt with that obsessive plague of recent British culture, serial killers. I found the first routine, a bit thin, but watchable, and the second utterly compelling. In fact the Missus got to see the end of the Wallender episode and it was clear she was getting hooked despite having missed most of it. But do I intend to watch other episodes? No, not necessarily. The morning's experience felt like a one-off; a holiday from my usual concerns, and precious as a holiday rather than any kind of routine. Mind you, I might just treat myself to a Wallender novel and see how I get on.

Laughing, Forgetting

2011-11-20T15:43:00.003+08:00

Didn't get a vast amount of reading done in China, but enjoyed the to-ing and fro-ing of ideas between agile minds as a compensation. Like to think I threw a few thought-bombs in there myself. Hope the casualties benefit from their wounds.

But this is not to say I didn't accomplish anything in terms of grappling with the printed page. I reread the Lu Xun stories I'd put up for discussion just so I wouldn't get completely lost and, to my deep gratification, Medicine came stunningly alive for me as it had never done before. Actually got goose bumps on the last page.

I also made a start on Walden, which I've been meaning to do for ages, but this was only on the last couple of days. Still on the Economy chapter, but enjoying a slow, appreciative read - the only kind that really works with Thoreau, I suspect.

Fortunately I found the perfect read for this trip in Milan Kundera's The Art of the Novel, a short book comprising seven pieces - interviews, addresses, that sort of thing - centring on the nature of fiction. This was given to me by Natalie as a present for Teachers' Day and I'm glad she did because I would never have thought to read it otherwise. (Worried Disclaimer: Any of my students reading this, please don't take it that it's a good idea to give me books, if you happen to be feeling generous - and there's no reason to think you should be. I'm more than happy with your simple good wishes.)

Kundera's little book has more dazzling, disturbing ideas per page than it's wise for any man (or woman) to expose himself (or herself) to. Perfect reading for the dissident in any repressive republic. Thought bombs to shake all varieties of walls.

From Behind The Great Wall

2011-11-19T18:00:00.002+08:00

Got back from Beijing late last night. A fulfilling trip in a variety of ways, but it's good to be back. Apart from anything else, it's nice to be able to write from this Far Place, access to which was denied in the people's republic, as I discovered on my first evening there. Fortunately, or otherwise, I was able to access e-mail so I didn't feel entirely out of touch with concerns related to the Toad, work. And sites like Soccernet were available - but Blogger, Wordpress, Facebook and their like were obviously deemed a threat to public order (as they wonderfully are) so I was unable to engineer the downfall of the state by telling the world how foggy it is in Tianjin.

Puzzling

2011-11-11T21:24:00.003+08:00

Finally put the not-so-great Dictator's life behind me a couple of days back and would heartily recommend Ian Kershaw's biography to anyone wanting to learn about the extraordinary mechanisms of self-deception. I say this not simply with the egregious Adolf in mind but the whole cast of the cess-pit Reich that came to surround him. The puzzle is not so much the man himself, a randomly unhappily fortunate crazy man, as the society that made him, let him, happen.

How on earth could so many of these people be so stupidly, mindlessly, barmily, unfathomably, unthinkingly anti-Semitic? (In passing, it's worth noting that a lot of support for the maniac came from teachers.)

Hitler's complete divorce from reality in the later years, though, springs from a simple and all-too-familiar source. This is Kershaw describing the origin of the illusions about pretty much every aspect of life in the Reich that dominated policy by 1942: It was a problem that afflicted the entire dictatorship - up to and including Hitler himself. Only positive messages were acceptable. Pessimism (which usually meant realism) was a sign of failure. Distortions of the truth were built into the communications system of the Third Reich at every level - most of all in the top echelons of the regime.

Every organisation should find something worth considering there, especially those who come to believe their own publicity.

Pastures New

2011-11-10T16:41:00.003+08:00

Not had time to get terribly excited about going to Beijing on Saturday, but beginning to register just how personally momentous this visit is for someone who thought Nixon going there was something quite amazing. (Note to self: must listen to Adams's Nixon In China again, soon.) I'm accompanying a class comprising students on the Humanities scholarship, so I'm there representing Literature, with another two colleagues going as History & Economics respectively. Should be enlightening to piggy-back on their expertise. We'll be taking in the Great Wall, Tiananmen Square, and the Forbidden City, amongst other fabled - and not-so-fabled - places. (A visit to the Lenovo Group doesn't stir quite as much anticipation in me.)

I should have been looking at the Lonely Planet guide or something, but reading Lu Xun has been the full extent of my preparation. We'll be going to the Luxun Museum, it seems, and I'm intrigued to find out what the authorities there make of him. Not easy to tame, I would have thought. Rather too angular for that. Should be fun.

Noi, rather more pragmatic than myself, thank goodness, tells me it was just two degrees centigrade in Beijing yesterday. So perhaps not so much fun.

The Other IB

2011-11-09T21:10:00.002+08:00

For most of the young people of my acquaintance IB stands for one thing only (International Baccalaureate, for any readers innocent of educational affairs.) However, I recently discovered another usage of those friendly initials in a musical context. I've known for a little while of a Swedish band known as Isilidurs Bane and resolutely avoided anything to do with them on the grounds that any group taking their name from Tolkien should necessarily be avoided. I was mistaken in doing so, as exposure to a recent podcast from the inimitable Sid Smith revealed.

Just follow the link above to discover musical riches related to the recent IB Expo, at least one piece sounding like the great Frank Zappa at his greatest. Oh, and Jakko Jakszyk's Catley's Ashes which also features, I rate as my favourite not-Crimson Crimson instrumental.

Just Dreaming

2011-11-08T20:24:00.003+08:00

Had an odd dream the other night. In it I was talking to Mum, having quite a normal, mundane conversation. Suddenly I realised how normal she was and wondered when the great improvement had taken place. Then I must have awoken.

I didn't feel any sense of disappointment on awaking, or any euphoria in the dream at her being restored to normal. In fact, I think I felt something almost the opposite: a feeling of things not being quite right. Sometimes an acceptance of the way things are is best, well, accepted.

I'll be ringing Maureen & John tonight though.

With A Vengeance

2011-11-07T16:26:00.003+08:00

Got the end in sight with regard to Ian Kershaw's Hitler. Hoped to finish it here in Melaka, but got a bit held up by some stuff I needed to prepare for work, and making a start on reading a few of Lu Xun's stories with an upcoming trip to Beijing in mind (of which more anon.)

One unlooked for source of pleasure in reading these final pages is being able to enjoy reading of the various horrors Herr Hitler and his cronies brought on themselves in terms of the personal suffering they underwent. It's not very noble of me to get a kick out of the suffering of others, but I'm afraid I did. So there you are.

Unfortunately they didn't suffer enough - not even close - for their sins. In this world, anyway.

Contrasts

2011-11-06T14:52:00.002+08:00

Something else regarding the Springsteen Promise set, specifically relating to the experience of the song The Promise itself. The track following, City of Night, works in wonderful contrast to the melancholy invoked by The Promise, this despite the sombre overtones of its title. Springsteen adopts a persona familiar from many other songs - the fecklessly engaging guy out for a good time with his girl - and convinces you that the stolen moments of simple delight in just having a good old time more than compensate for whatever else life may bring. And it's so well done that as long as you're in the song you believe it.

So the juxtaposition of the songs is in itself part of the (greater?) meaning of the whole.

The decline of the physical album, first in its vinyl lp form (with two sides) and then as compact disk, means that the possibility of such meaningful juxtapositions will inevitably be reduced. We'll be the poorer for it.

Broken Promises

2011-11-05T08:10:00.004+08:00

Listened yesterday to both CDs in Springsteen's The Promise (aka The Lost Sessions: Darkness on the Edge of Town.) Struck as ever by the incendiary talent of the guy. I mean, this is largely stuff that didn't make it to official release and it's obviously classic. Having said that, it's taken me several months to grow accustomed enough to the songs to assimilate the big choruses, big melodies, rich arrangements that the Boss accurately characterises this work as possessing in his liner notes.

As so often with the work of a writer who's been in any one's terms a stunning success, it's Springsteen's ability to deal with failure and the broken lives of those who've faced it that seems to come from a place beyond mere talent. He gets inside ordinary lives to explore territory we usually avoid. The brilliant song from which the set takes its title is an example: When the promise is broken you go on living / But it steals something from down in your soul. It's saying something obvious, that we all know, but of which we need reminding when so much of what we encounter in popular culture talks of having it all - and going into a hissy fit when we don't get it.

Come to think of it, that's what seems to go on in schools so much of the time. It's amazing the number of kids who are told they'll be the leaders of tomorrow when they won't. Preparing people for inevitable disappointment still serves some use, I think.

On The Way

2011-11-04T18:28:00.002+08:00

Thinking of the pilgrims at Mina now, soon to be moving to 'Arafah, and praying for their safety. Sort of wishing to be there, at the still centre of things, but I suppose that's a place in the heart at the end of all things.

We're off to Melaka ourselves tomorrow. We journey to keep from standing still.

Systems Down

2011-11-03T23:24:00.003+08:00

After getting home I put on Chopin's Nocturnes (the Baremboin set) and crashed out halfway through the first. Revived enough to get through the early part of the evening and then it was back to the land of nod as we were watching tv - the rather grimly overly-glamourised X-Factor USA. Now struggling to stay awake long enough to get to bed and crash again.

Good night, sleep tight.

Something To Love

2011-11-02T20:36:00.003+08:00

It's a day late, but still worth thinking about the opening of John Clare's November in his inimitable The Shepherd's Calendar: The village sleeps in mist from morn till noon /And if the sun wades thro tis wi a face / Beamless and pale and round as if the moon / When done the journey of its nightly race / Had found him sleeping and supplyed his place...

And why worth thinking about? Because Clare, poor mad Clare, is a writer not to like, but to love. This is England. The real England, of the mind. Of Blake. Of Vaughan Williams. Of Dickens. My England. Gone.

Something Lyrical

2011-11-01T21:59:00.002+08:00

Been preparing recently for a lesson involving looking at the lyrics of a few songs. Difficult to narrow down the choice of what to use, but Shakespeare, Coward, Sondheim, Lennon, McCartney, Dylan, Reid, Belew, and Meloy feature. Odd that I've got nothing by a lady - or possibly uncomfortably revealing. Did consider Ms Mitchell v. seriously though. Couldn't use any rap because I was uncomfortable printing the swearing involved in the booklet for the course, but I didn't want to stoop to censorship either, or misrepresent the genre by looking for something 'clean'.

Struck by the fact that for the later songs I cover it's proved almost essential to feature the accompanying video. I was intending to try and show the class how the lyrics don't stand alone from the accompanying music, but I realise how far behind the times I am. It's the total experience that counts, sort of moving beyond literature - and I must say I consider that no bad thing.

True Horror

2011-10-31T22:55:00.002+08:00

Watched a programme tonight dealing in part with the kind of low level teasing-cum-bullying that can leave youngsters isolated, vulnerable, alone, depressed. It was hard to take simply because it's so common, so unexceptional. You see it as a teacher sometimes and, awfully, there's precious little you can do about it.

I kept thinking of a girl in the school in which I taught before my current one, who was around eleven, twelve, thirteen when I was there. I didn't actually teach her, but I know that in the time I was there I didn't once see her smile. Never. It was easy to guess there was no reason to.

This kind of thing can make you debilitatingly sad, so it's important not to let that happen. And who knows, she might have risen above it all and been better for it. The resilience you see in the most unlikely places is cause for hope.

The world's too big to throw your arms around it. But that's no excuse for making excuses.

False Alarm

2011-10-30T20:31:00.002+08:00

Came around suddenly circa 0630 to the sound of Noi's alarm. A muddy glance at the trusty watch on the table at the side of my bed and I announce that I've forgotten to set my alarm (for 0605) and I am late. I stagger to the bathroom trying to figure out if I should do the dawn prayer prior to brushing my teeth and showering, in order to make up for lost time. It's not a terrible crisis as I'm not due at work until 0725, but things will still take a bit of figuring. Since I can't think straight I just start brushing my teeth, thinking I'd better get on with something.

Then, four minutes into the brushing, it occurs to me that this is Sunday and all the fuss has been completely unnecessary.

Chastened I go back to Noi and confess my error. She is amused and not amused, and advises me to just do the prayer and shut up. I do so, feeling relieved and stupid in roughly equal measures.

A Little Bit Down

2011-10-29T22:09:00.003+08:00

For some reason I can't quite get hold of, my reading has been distinctly skittish of late. From maintaining a disciplined approach to having just a couple of books on the go I've been jumping haphazardly from tome to tome with just one big read to hold the whole thing together - and it's Kershaw's biography of der Fuhrer that's been playing that role of late.

Adding to my mild sense of dissatisfaction is the fact that I'm not exactly enjoying Kershaw's magnum opus. Oh, it's a fine work and extremely gripping with some powerful insights. The problem is, I'm finding it casts a bit of a pall on life in general. This is extreme stuff and tends to colour one's views of just about everything. The sense of low-lying anger at the culture that let it all happen is vaguely debilitating - and there's a worrying feeling attendant upon that of being somehow unfair to the participants and over-judgemental. In the same situation would I have done any better?

God, I hope so.

A Question Of Style

2011-10-28T22:55:00.002+08:00

A tv presenter chappie who goes by the unlikely name of Gok Wan has become quite a favourite of Noi's. Even as I write she's watching one of the many programmes in which he features on one of the 'lifestyle' channels - How To Look Good Naked. The very title suggests the tele at its most vulgar and pointless, and Gok himself is a sort of high powered fashionista, full of gushing advice about personal style and gushing enthusiasm for the most unlikely garments and accessories (as it seems that the pointless odd bits and pieces that ladies wear or carry are known.)

On paper I should detest the guy, but I find him oddly engaging and really quite likeable. I can actually watch an entire programme without undue irritation. As to why this is the case, I suppose two factors help explain the mystery. First of all he comes across as essentially generous, genuinely liking the very, very ordinary folks he helps dress up and appreciating the most ordinary, unpromising of bodies. (There's nothing in the slightest bit salacious about the Naked programme. It could be family viewing.) Secondly he's very good at what he does, and he does a lot of it with cheap affordable clothing which in itself sends a very important message.

So here am I, going back in the living room to watch the action on the catwalk - something I could never have imagined myself saying a year ago, and which remains deeply uncharacteristic, I hasten to add.

Shelter From The Storm

2011-10-27T19:29:00.005+08:00

A wonderful storm engulfed us around 2.40 this afternoon. Enjoyed it hugely. Then thought of the floods in Bangkok and reconsidered. It's my good fortune to be in a place where being engulfed does not involve being engulfed.

Breakthrough

2011-10-26T20:08:00.003+08:00

I'm extremely dubious regarding my ability to point anyone in the right direction for listening to classical music. I mention this as Rei asked me something along these lines the other day and I've been thinking about what I might usefully say since then. The problem is that not only am I no expert, I am so lacking in anything close to expertise in this area as to be painfully inadequate.

However, I suppose it is of some relevance and potential helpfulness that I've managed to go from being almost completely unable to apply myself to listening to such music to actually being able to apply myself to reasonably sustained appreciative listening. And it's of interest (to me, anyway) to note that this came about largely after a very intense experience in my middle-twenties.

I borrowed some recordings, old fashioned lps, mostly of the music of Ralph Vaughan Williams from a friend and suddenly, gloriously understood exactly the appeal of what I was listening to. The excitement of realising there was all this wonderful stuff waiting to be experienced was extraordinarily powerful, such that even at a remove of almost thirty years I can more than remember it, I can taste it, touch it. And once I'd 'got' VW so much else followed naturally, as it were, though perhaps not with quite the same intensity: Holst, Bax, Elgar, Britten (the more obvious Brits); Ravel, Debussy, Messiaen, Sibelius, Ives, Copeland, Gershwin, Bartok. And all these Moderns gave me a kind of access to the past.

So I guess I'd recommend listening pretty much to anything by VW as a starting point for someone looking for the same kind of breakthrough. But I have some reservations about this. Just because it worked for me, I'm not sure that would generally translate into instant understanding for others. In fact, VW seems to me so fundamentally wrapped up with a sense of Englishness that I'm very unsure he would work for anyone beyond those shores. But for anyone who's interested I'd suggest starting with The Lark Ascending and Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis. After that, you'd know.

Another composer who I seemed to 'get' effortlessly was Copeland. Appalachian Spring is a useful test piece. Again, if it works you're in.

In both cases, by the way, I made no real effort at the time to listen. I didn't need to. I think that was important to the experience, though I'm now keen to make sure I actively listen to any kind of music. That's oddly contradictory, but there it is.

Nothingman

2011-10-25T20:57:00.002+08:00

I've been reading Ian Kershaw's biography of Adolf Hitler, the single volume version, and have reached the later part of the 1920's. Struck by the strange nullity of the man - partly a product of his deliberate remoteness, a strategy for fostering the cult of the Fuhrer, but also somehow integral to who he was, or wasn't. As if he lost whatever self he had, possessed by the demons that drove him to his final nowhere world.

Anyone who believes in leaders and leadership, and the following thereof, needs to read this, Kershaw's biography I mean, and think.

Whatever else he knew he'd certainly figured out the mechanisms of projection. The men around him were not all fools, yet somehow they fell for the cheap theatrical tricks.

Never trust a man with an intense gaze and a firm handshake.

In The Crowd

2011-10-24T22:16:00.002+08:00

Yesterday's Little India experience was a rich one in many ways, one of those ways being its reminder of just many people it's possible to cram into quite a small area of a city and keep in what seems to be continuous movement. Everyone was going somewhere, very determinedly, but no one appeared to be arriving.

At one point I mentioned to Noi that a good eighty percent of those around us were male, and this alone made the experience rather different than that of the Geylang crowds in Ramadhan. We guessed that the majority of the guys were 'foreign workers', as they are designated, out for bargains and companionship. What I didn't say was that a similarly constituted crowd in the UK would feel threatening. This one felt busy, a little giddy, but fundamentally welcoming.

It was fascinating to look at the little groups hunkered down on empty patches of ground wherever they could find them. Plastic bags of the bits and pieces they'd picked up to mark their territory, plastic cups to drink out of, a bottle or two shared between them Sometimes alcohol, but not necessarily so. Making the best of (not many) things. No one is going to go looking for role models in these places - which is a pity as I reckon you'd probably find more than a few.

A Bit Of Luck

2011-10-23T23:08:00.002+08:00

Two pieces of good fortune this evening.

One: I am not in Manchester.

Two: I honoured my promise to take the Missus to Serangoon Road for our annual Deepavali experience and so wasn't watching the events of the evening from the Theatre of Dreams. I'll probably be able to watch the replay in a month or so (when we're back on top and all this is behind us.)

Coming Alive

2011-10-22T18:12:00.002+08:00

Took our Humanities scholars to see, or rather listen to, the SSO playing Mahler 7 last night. I'd talked to the students in advance of the need to put effort into listening, bearing in mind that for some of them eighty minutes of Mahler at one go might be some seventy-five minutes too many. But it looked as if they felt it was time well spent. It'll be interesting to harvest some frank views next week.

I'd prepared for the event by listening to the Seventh three or four times over the last couple of weeks. I first heard it live as performed by the Halle some twenty-five years ago and hadn't been terribly impressed then. But that was a case of thwarted expectations. Learning that it had two 'nocturnes' I assumed it was going to be ethereally swoony, and it wasn't because it isn't. But I remember thinking it would be well worth listening to it again (and again) just to get hold of what Mahler was up to. And since I've now made the effort (a little late, but never mind) I rather think I have managed to grasp the essence of what's going on here.

I reckon Mahler was very conscious of a sense of defeating expectations, and that each movement is an approach to a kind of convention of music that he then deconstructs. So there's lots of parody, but this blurs into genuine expressions of feelings in ways that are destabilising, but fascinatingly so.

Anyway, whatever old Gustav was up to, the SSO did him proud. They really sparkled last night.

Not Overly Comfortable

2011-10-21T16:33:00.002+08:00

About half an hour before I was due to set off for prayers the heavens opened and, unfortunately, forgot to close, at least until prayers were over. Thus I found myself making my way across the open car park to get in through the back entrance of the mosque in a considerable downpour. Of course, I had my brolly with me, but with the winds gusting around, this did not afford much protection for my lower legs.

Thus I had to sit in thoroughly sodden trousers, at least for the lower part of the old limbs, throughout the proceedings. Ugh. Fortunately the brolly was still where I left it on the way out, and the rain had abated somewhat by the end of prayers, so the way back to work wasn't quite so bad. And I'd almost dried off for my afternoon meeting. But generally the experience was not to be recommended.

Oddly though, living in a place that has its fair share of sudden storms I can't remember an experience quite as wet and since I survived this one with little more than some unpleasant irritation that's not a bad record all told.

A Genuine Experience

2011-10-19T22:55:00.003+08:00

You sometimes hear complaints about how the education system here stifles creativity, and very understandable they are, as anyone who's been part of that system will testify, assuming they are ready to be honest about what goes on in many, if not most, if not all, schools here. But the assumption that somehow teenagers' creatvity is stifled is entirely false.

How do I know this? Through direct experience. And today I enjoyed a further twenty-five minutes such experience as I goofed off for that amount of time to make the acquaintance of the work(s) on display of our graduating class from the Visual Arts class. I wished I could have stayed a lot longer than that.

It was striking how the work of each individual in the display had a sort of unitary quality, a sense of growing from concerns genuinely central to that individual. Even now I can remember at least one piece from each student that struck me as genuinely powerful. Above all, it was all so genuine, and you don't get more artful than that.

Not Found Wanting

2011-10-18T21:14:00.003+08:00

It occurred to me just now, sharing a massive bowl of the Missus's chicken porridge with my favourite dining partner, the aforementioned chef, that I have reason to envy no man. But they have reason to envy me. And if that sounds hideously complacent, it was meant to.

Thank you, and good night.

Pure Envy

2011-10-17T17:30:00.004+08:00

It's fascinating to watch the latest round of protests against the monstrous (but possibly benign) forces of Capitalism played out on the streets of various capitals and the sheets of various media. (Yes, I know 'sheets' doesn't really work here, but I like the rhyme. And notice my attempts at balance with the bit in brackets.) I've been particularly struck by the accusation that the protests are fuelled by envy, especially when this is levelled by commentators such as those on the Fox News Channel who know this for an absolute, undeniable certainty. For how does anyone actually know for sure what the motives of the protesters are? And is it reasonable to assume that all of them are spurred on by exactly the same motivation?

My guess is that those who level the accusation are aware that they themselves are envy-driven individuals and assume that this is a common feature of our fallen human nature. And who's to say they are wrong? Certainly it's not difficult to think of lots of supporting evidence regarding the roots of our motivations. Personally I honestly can't figure out if my envy of their 'success' lies at that the heart of my fairly obvious animus against the kind of bankers who precipitated the latest crisis in our markets.

But even if it is pure envy on my part, and that of all the protesters, I also can't see how this makes any difference regarding what is happening. If envy is a reasonable motive for trying to out-do your fellow man in the marketplace, and as far as I can tell the world of Capital thrives on that notion, why would it somehow undercut people's protests against other people having cornered far too many of the world's resources just because they are envious of them? I suppose the argument then would be for 'good envy' - the type that drives you to work hard and succeed in the marketplace - as opposed to 'bad envy' - the type that leads you to stick a metaphorical bomb under said marketplace. But the problem is that if the marketplace is seen to have failed the vast majority of those in it - and we seem to be looking at a storyline with this worrying ending tacked onto it - then it doesn't seem to matter which species of envy is operational.

Not So Equal

2011-10-16T21:21:00.003+08:00

On the way to watch the game yesterday evening we got behind a lorry/van carrying some workers. Not sure if it would have been to or from work at that time. Hope they were on their way home for a rest since conditions on, or rather in, the vehicle couldn't have been conducive to preparing for a stretch of hard labour. (I'm assuming that's what the inmates would have been in for, or returning from, and I don't think I'm wrong.)

Inmates is the right word. We were able to see three or four of the guys gazing out of two smallish windows/openings covered with bars at the bottom end of the closed-in covering of the van. Caged. I asked Noi whether she thought they had a fan in there but she thought this unlikely. We looked for signs of decent ventilation as we came alongside the vehicle. There weren't any.

My guess is that none of the guys on-board would have thought there was anything to really complain about. They'll consider themselves fortunate to have found work here. So that makes it okay to treat people like animals, I suppose. Nothing exceptionable here.

Drawn

2011-10-15T22:51:00.004+08:00

Just back from watching the Big Game over at Moghan's with a highly excited crowd of highly excitable supporters of both sets of reds. I'd forgotten how much fun the beautiful game can be. And how much you can age over ninety minutes.

And just what did Giggsy think he was doing in that wall? If I had a kid in a school team who got himself out of the way of the ball in that manner I'd roast him.

Simply Educational

2011-10-14T22:59:00.003+08:00

Today I was listening to a radio station here which goes by the name of Symphony FM. It's a sort of Singaporean Radio 3, I suppose, playing what might broadly be termed classical music. Its existence clearly represents a golden opportunity to educate the youth of the nation, well those few likely to be interested, and folks like myself who know a little and would like to find out more, in such music.

The fact that it fails to do so almost wilfully astonishes me. Simple point: wouldn't you think it would be useful to let listeners know what it is that they've just been listening to? The name of the composer? The opus number, movement, that sort of thing? With a spectacular indifference to such niceties whoever's in charge as a matter of course just plays a few jumbled pieces back-to-back, unannounced, and follows them with a couple of adverts for the station itself.

I was particularly narked today when I recognised a movement as being one I knew from my listening at home but couldn't pin down the actual composer. I thought at first it was from a Mozart piano concerto, but then there was no piano. So it then seemed more likely to me to be something from a Beethoven symphony, a slow movement, yet it sounded more Mozartian, but I was inclined to rule this out as I don't own that much Mozart outside of the piano concerti, and I knew I owned it and had played it recently (in the last year or so, I mean.)

Now I know I sound incredibly dim in that last paragraph, not knowing something that should be obvious to me. But that's my point. I am incredibly dim in these matters and would like to have my dimness illuminated, and learn something. But with this radio station that just doesn't happen. Incidentally, I found it fascinating that what I was listening to seemed to me to be extraordinarily beautiful, yet despite knowing it well I was aware I had never recognised its beauty before. One of the benefits of being as obtuse as I am regarding music is that you get moments like that.

Well Documented

2011-10-13T21:23:00.003+08:00

Felt a strong sense of relief today at the arrival of a new passport from the UK. My old one hadn't expired, I'd simply run out of pages, almost, and since I'm off to Beijing in early November, accompanying a class on an educational tour (whatever that is), and it's possible the Chinese authorities will require a full page for a visa, I thought I'd better get something with the necessary room. The problem is though that due to cost-cutting exercises on behalf of Her Majesty's government as it manifests itself abroad, you can no longer renew your passport over here.

It felt strange sending off the old one to Hong Kong (why the new one then had to come back from the UK remains a mystery to me) and being passport-less for a month. No impulse visits to Malaysia, as a result. A sense of not being quite complete.

And now I have a new number to remember: a sort of bureaucratic rebirth. Certainly the old man in the picture looks nothing like me.