Still Useless

Back in 2013 I posted something related to the great Japanese composer Toru Takemitsu. Today I happened to be introducing a Japanese novel (Kawabata's luscious Snow Country) to a class and it seemed like a good idea to goof off ahead of the lesson, in a spare 30 minutes, into the piece I referred to back then, From me flows what you call Time. And a good idea it most certainly was.

I'm trying to think of something as hypnotically beautiful and, in this frozen moment in the flow of time, I just can't.

Good Judgment

Reading my journal from a decade and a half ago made me realise it's exactly fifteen years to the day that we got rid of the guy who was supposed to be looking after our little garden in KL - he was quite happy to give up the job, by the way - and hired Devan who'd been treating the house for termites but seemed keen to do whatever work came his way. I noted then that he seemed a reliable sort, and how right I was. The fact we've had him keeping an eye on the place for us for all these years, and doing a great job keeping the garden in order to boot, has considerably reduced our anxieties about owning a place that's so far away. A reminder, if we needed one, of just how reliant on others we are, no matter how independent we think ourselves.

Something Old, Something New

In a quiet sort of way I suppose I regard myself as a bit of an expert on the progressive music scene of the early 70's. So why is it that, whilst having heard of Magma and having some sense of what kind of band they were (and are) I'd never actually heard any music from them until today? I suppose the fact that I didn't have much money at that time in my life played some part in the formation of this rather alarming gap - it certainly limited the range of what I could afford to purchase. And possibly the way in which my tastes turned away from the weirder edges of the music scene as I grew out of adolescence, such that by the time I did have a bit of spare cash I wasn't going to spend it on anything quite so arcane.

But listening to the band in question performing one of their most well-regarded pieces today, I have to say I feel a bit of fool for not listening to them before. Weird, yes, but in the best of ways. They're simply brilliant.

Odd to be discovering something that was always there for me, at my age.

The Way Things Are

There's been some excellent reporting in The Guardian of late regarding the exploitation of low-paid workers in the construction industry in Qatar. It's going to be difficult to watch the World Cup scheduled for that country in 2022 knowing of the extraordinary number of deaths related to heat exhaustion suffered by the migrant workers employed to build the stadiums, roads and hotels needed. And it comes as no real surprise to read of how the fatalities are being covered up.

I grew up with some understanding of the need for unions to protect workers. It puzzles me enormously that perfectly decent people are sometimes blind to this necessity, seeming to believe that a laissez-faire approach to labour relations will somehow produce fair systems in which workers are decently treated. What's going on in Qatar seems to me related to a simple truth of history, of the human condition: Those at the bottom will be ruthlessly exploited if their rights are not firmly protected; it's criminally naïve to assume otherwise.

A Step In The Wrong Direction

Went to a wedding today and stepped on a fork. Yes really. Now feeling the discomfort in my left foot where the prong went in. Don't ask me how; frankly, I don't know. Other than that it was a lovely do.

A Bit Of Cheer

It's strange how location can change one's perspective on what one is reading. Case in point: this morning, in a break to grab a coffee I was reading a paragraph or two of Nietzsche - Twilight of the Idols - with the old chap waxing lyrical on the greatness of Rome & Venice: Those large hothouses for the strong - for the strongest kind of human being that has so far been known - and all that kind of thing. Now, I suppose if I'd been reading this somewhere alone in the mountains, or in some dire accommodation in Manchester or New York or Moscow, it might have possessed some resonance for me. But there I was in a nice little café in Jurong Regional Library on a sunny weekend morning, and it all just seemed a bit sad.

I reckon it would have cheered FN considerably if he'd have had the chance to come and see the one and only performance of our No Parking v2, which took place this very morning in the Programme Zone of the afore-mentioned library. Apart from enjoying a few good gags and the obvious enjoyment of those performing (a strange, almost magical, thing theatrical reciprocity) he'd have been forced to empathise with the little man, for once. I think it would have done him a lot of good.

It certainly made for a splendid morning for myself. Everything felt just so right, if you know what I mean. Oddly enough, the piece actually looked as if it had been planned for the performing space, it fitted so neatly and looked so good. 

Mending

Made up for the mistakes of yesterday, getting all yesterday evening's intended tasks done in the course of the day. Also got to the gym in the evening and somehow kept going when I didn't really want to. Still avoiding doing anything with weights due to my aching neck, but the debilitating pain I had to deal with last week has largely faded. So, all in all, I'm on the mend. Always a good place to be.

Messing Up

I was busy in a happily productive sort of way this morning at work, actually doing some real teaching for the first time for quite a while. It certainly beats invigilating exams and marking scripts. And then in the late afternoon Noi and I visited Intan's mum who's not been too well lately. In fact, she was admitted to ICU just last weekend, but we didn't try to see her then since we knew she'd be deluged with visitors. It was good to see her looking a lot better than you might expect of someone just out of hospital. So, all in all, it was a good day up until around 7.30 pm.

After that point nothing went well - on the work front, that is. I came back intending to get on and force myself to do three different admin tasks. The first I had to abandon, losing a recommendation I'd written for a colleague, as the on-line form was one of those all or nothing types where if you didn't submit the whole thing it couldn't be kept  as a draft anywhere. Since I was lacking some necessary info for the final box, I lost the lot. The second involved uploading stuff already written to a website that resolutely refused to let me upload anything. And then, to put the tin hat on it, (as they say, or, at least, used to say, in Manchester) I managed to delete and lose an entire document I'd worked on for a good three hours a few weeks back before uploading it to where it needed to go in yet another system. 

That last one was the really painful one. It actually created a lot more work for no reason, which meant that all my efforts to get things done had achieved genuinely negative results. And worse, my own stupidity was entirely to blame, so I didn't even get moaning rights about other people's stupid systems. Funnily enough, I thought writing about this might make me feel better. But it doesn't. Grrgh.

The Real Thing

It's been quite a dramatic week so far. Monday and Tuesday were largely occupied with a Camp for our drama guys, centred around rehearsing for a performance coming this Saturday at Jurong Library. We're doing a sort of repeat of No Parking On Odd Days, which comprised half of our July show, but with quite a few changes in the ensemble. We're also dumbing it down somewhat, aiming for a sort of children-friendly version since we often get kids in our Library audiences.

Rehearsals continued this afternoon and we'll be putting the finishing touches to No Parking v2 on Friday afternoon. And here's the thing: wouldn't you think you'd get a bit bored of working on something like this for as long as we have? Yet I find myself utterly engrossed in every run of the piece we do, despite knowing exactly what to expect.

But there's the rub, of course. It's never the same. The differences are not necessarily particularly marked ones, and casual viewers might feel it is the same, time after time. But when you're as close to the play as we are, in a kind of absolute focus, a difference in intonation, a new rhythm to a line, a gesture that wasn't there before, a facial expression that's somehow more right than what you've become used to, and it all seems to change.

Much as I enjoy watching great acting in movies or on the telly, it seems so limited compared to the real, live, vulnerable, thing.

Not Quite Good Enough

Read of someone describing himself as a personal optimisation advisor the other day. Nice work, if you can get it.

Must say, I'm doubtful of the good sense of anyone striving for personal optimisation. Sounds like a recipe for a life undercut by a permanent sense of anxiety. Not what I'd call optimal.