The Measure of a Man

I have measured out my life with post-it notes. Yikes.

Not So Nice

Every time I read one of those ghastly predictions regarding what will be happening to the planet around 2050 as a result of our idiocy I find myself thinking something along these lines: Well, I'll most likely be long gone by then, with an attendant sense of relief. The utter selfishness of this is staggering. I can't help wondering though if a number of world leaders are thinking something similar. It would explain a lot.

There are times it's difficult to feel even mildly comfortable about oneself, never mind ascending to the dizzy heights of righteous pride.

Eye Candy

Came home from work to put on an episode of The Blue Planet - the one about coral reefs. Realised half-way though that I was almost entirely oblivious to the commentary. I was simply luxuriating in the flow of images - usually gorgeous, occasionally grotesque, sometimes just plain funny, always compelling. A kind of drug, I suppose - wholly benign.

If the Almighty enjoys creation in some similar fashion I suppose it would explain a lot - not least the urgent, remorseless fecundity of it all.

The Bright Side

Just finished marking for the day unless, that is, three essays I was promised on Friday arrive in my e-mail. Unlikely at this stage, I think. Sacrificing most of the weekend means I should be able to survive the early part of the working week - but there are no guarantees even of such small mercies. Unfortunately I'm still left one or two work-related tasks so this is no time for celebration.

On the brighter side, I've got a bit of reading (and listening) done in between essays so not all has been lost. In fact, I think I've gained more than a fair bit from Dylan on Dylan - a compilation of interviews with the great man from 1962 almost to the present. One of my EE students from last year, Lisa, gave me this on Teachers' Day and I sort of wish she hadn't, as gifts like this are way too expensive, but I'm also glad she did, as it's a really good book. (But if any of my students are reading this who also happen to be generous types, when it comes to Teachers' Day, a little card is more than enough!)

The compilation works on several levels and I'll mention just two. Reading the interviews in sequence gives a fascinating sense of the development yet curious consistency of Dylan's extraordinarily individual way of looking at things. At first I tended to dip into the book here and there, but a sequenced reading is highly recommended. Above all such a reading gives a powerful sense of the scarring experience of celebrity. The second thing has been the emphatic realisation of just how interesting the Bobster is and has been over his entire career - a word he doesn't care for, by the way. I'm not saying he's interesting all the time - there are dull stretches, as you might expect, usually the result of dull questions. But barely a page passes without at least one dazzling shard of insight.

And having completed the interviews I'm now onto Alan Bennett's Writing Home, so there's guaranteed joy in store. I was laughing out loud by page 2, and that was just the introduction.

And on the very brightest of sides, I'm confident Arsene's boys will do the business tonight against a wobbly Chelsea and leave United in pole position at just the right moment in the season. At least, I think I am.

Losing It

I had to go into work early this afternoon just to pick up some papers I foolishly left behind yesterday. Having decided it was necessary to ruin the weekend with some non-stop marking I wasn't going to let my idiotic forgetfulness of the day before stop me. And idiotic it certainly was. Far from leaving in a mad rush I'd had a good twenty minutes or so of relaxed gazing over my desk as I was waiting for some keys to get back to me. Yet I managed to overlook a fairly obvious pile of material that had been right there in front of me.

Since this wasn't my first major error of the week - I overlooked something substantial on Wednesday, something that's part of my daily routine - it raises the interesting question not so much of whether my brain is deteriorating, which it fairly obviously is, but at what rate I'm losing my various marbles. I reckon it's pretty quick, but not in the major problem category - as yet. The tsunami of in-coming stuff one needs to remember on a daily basis is so overwhelming that mistakes, big ones, are pretty much inevitable. Which raises the interesting question of why we are so keen to create systems that no one can really cope with. It didn't use to be this way: that's something I definitely remember.

Anyway, we turned the journey to work - the missus gamely coming along - into something of a jaunt, culminating in tea and samosas at the Kampong Glam Cafe. And then it was back to the ranch to deal with what must be dealt with. Which is what I'm doing now. Sort of.

Theft and Love

Puzzled to read today about the Aussie band Men At Work being successfully sued for nicking a bit of the melody of Kookaburra Sits In The Old Gum Tree (a song I quite used to like until Fifi and Fafa sung it to death as kids) and giving it to the flute bit in the irritating Down Under. Actually finding out the tune was in there increased my limited appreciation for Men At Work's ditty. But I just don't get what the judge thought he was up to. Doesn't he know that songwriters and musicians in general purloin stuff all the time, consciously or unconsciously? (Just imagine what old Handel would have to pay out in royalties if he were alive today.) It wouldn't be so bad if the lady who wrote the piece (I must admit, I'd assumed it was some old folk tune) hadn't passed on in the late eighties. At last then it would have been nice to know the shekels were going to an old lady rather than to what I imagine is the faceless publishing company doing the suing.

Let's hope those publishing johnnies don't start listening too hard to the greatest album of the last decade. Dylan didn't call it 'Love And Theft' for nothing.

Casting

People can be funny. I asked the missus earlier who she thought might play us in a movie, and she just couldn't take the question seriously. When I suggested Mel Gibson (for me, not her) she seemed to find this hilarious.

To be honest, for me the real problem lay in figuring out who might have the range to play Noi. I plumped for Meryl Streep on the grounds she can play anyone. But maybe she doesn't quite have the look of a little Malay girl.

We sort of agreed on Julia Roberts and Richard Gere in the end. But Noi, for some obscure reason, was still laughing. Odd.

A Sort of Relief

Came home to the news of a robbery at Mak & Abah's house in Melaka. Early morning: five guys with parangs. They tied up Rachid and told the others to keep quiet, or stay sleeping. Time taken: thirty minutes. The losses: a fair amount of cash from various members of the family in residence and ten handphones. The relief: nobody was hurt, including Rachid. His take on matters - the money doesn't matter as long as no one got themselves killed. Sensible as ever.

As someone who was burgled twice back in England (once when asleep, to wake up when all was over; once coming home to the break-in) I can tell you it leaves you with a dreadful sense of vulnerability. And a deep hatred of thieves. I'm not so sensible about these matters. I'm all for getting even, but the relief afforded by good old-fashioned vengeance appears to have gone out of fashion. A pity.

In Judgment

I was a little uncharitable yesterday towards Mr Terry methinks. After all, I don't really know what has been going on his life (& I don't want to know) and he's not the first gentleman, and certainly won't be the last, who seems to have a problem keeping it in his trousers. It's not so much the individual case that irritated, and my tone clearly was one of irritation, as the general point concerning the misapplication of the notion of 'character' - and, I suppose, further down the road, the baffling application of the positive idea of reputation to those who are highly likely to mislay theirs over the course of time.

In fact, when you really consider it, it's difficult to imagine how we might sincerely talk of anyone possessing 'character' who happens to be particularly talented in a certain area, gains from that and has the good fortune to be born in the developed world. I don't begrudge those who can sell their talents at a high price the money they get. But I can't understand why I'm expected to admire them for some excellence of personality at one and the same time. Similarly, I can see why those who work hard and make a contribution to society deserve to prosper, and I hope they do, but it seems to me there's nothing terribly special about hard work - it is clearly the lot of a fair proportion of humanity who fail to prosper and they get on with it without claiming to be anything too special.

I think I'll reserve my sense of those who possess this mysterious thing called 'character' for those who persevere against impossible odds just to keep going in impossible circumstances and somehow get through. And you know what? There are plenty of those folk around, usually in those places we don't too much care to look.

Over

Surprised and puzzled (but somewhat gratified) that the Arse didn't bother to turn up for yesterday's game. Let's hope they decide to do something serious at Stamford Bridge - they're well capable of it. It ain't over until it's over.

Though it looks all over for what's left of John Terry's reputation. It's odd how the notion of character is often applied to those who clearly don't have it.

And, on a more domestic note, it's all over for Tim Winton's Dirt Music. Except for what will live on in memory - which is plenty.