Something Gained

Had an appointment at NUH today related to a scan of my lungs undertaken back in November and had my weight checked. I've put on 3 kg since the start of January, I'm happy to report, which means I'm now back at my fighting weight. Ever since I finished the medication I was on intended to prevent epileptic seizures I've generally felt a lot more 'normal' and that's involved an improvement in appetite, which has obviously translated to the gain in weight. The thing is though, that I'm not exactly sure how the neurology people at the hospital will react to the fact I'm no longer on that medication as there's a bit of confusion as to how long I was supposed to take it for. I've got an appointment with them next week and this is something I'll need to clarify, my position being that I'm very happy not to take any more pills and don't feel in the slightest bit vulnerable to further seizures.

Got to the gym again this evening to confirm my general sense of wellness. It felt good. I consider myself 100% recovered. Hope my various doctors think the same way.

Spellbound

You understand I am piecing here bits of disconnected statements. Thus Marlow to the unnamed (so far) interlocuter/narrator who introduces Chance, and listens to Marlow's account of Floral de Barral's isolation and despair - and love affair with Captain Anthony (along with lots of other associated stuff.) And, approaching the end of Part 1 of the two part text, I'm beginning to grasp, I think, why this curious novel was a popular success.

I reckon Conrad's first readers found themselves beguiled by the mystery of Flora - the result of the disconnectedness of the writer's approach to her - and the emotional power of her predicament. He invests the unashamedly romantic centre of the novel with a sense, a suggestion, of some kind of depth that is never quite defined, as if defying clarification.

Part of me suspects that the depth is essentially illusory, that Conrad's magic is that of misdirection. But another part is more than happy to surrender to his spell.

What The Future Holds

I'd been wondering when schools would need to address developments associated with artificial intelligence. In a meeting today it was clear that time had arrived as we found ourselves discussing exactly what students' access to ChatGPT will mean for our practice in the classroom and in more general terms. The simple answer, by the way, is that it will mean a lot, given what the AI involved is now capable of.

I must say, I couldn't help wonder what lies ahead. Colleagues who seemed to know most about the technology involved appeared fairly sanguine as to what we are likely to have to deal with in the near future. But given my understanding of AI I couldn't help but privately entertain some fairly apocalyptic scenarios in educational terms and the real possibility that many current assessment practices won't be able to deal with what ChatGPT v 3 (coming very soon!) will be able to offer. Whether the system (or variety of systems in relation to assessment) will be nimble enough to deal with this strikes me as doubtful.

Hope I'm wrong, otherwise some intense headaches lie ahead before I get to retire!

(I wonder whether I'm being influenced in all this by a key motif involved in my protracted visit to my personal Fantasyland back in the ICU in September last year. I'm not terribly keen on remembering the details of my various delusions, but one I will mention here is that when I was trapped in the alternative reality my fevered brain conjured up I was convinced that the 'real' world I had somehow fallen out of had been taken over by the superior intelligence of AI technology and, therefore, was no longer available for me to return to. Very odd, eh?)

Staying Positive

Got to the gym this evening. Somewhat surprised that, as on Saturday, the session went well - better, in fact. Given the severity of the relatively recent problems with my health, I didn't expect that resuming exercise would go as smoothly as this. But happy indeed to be proved wrong.

Minor Triumphs

I managed to figure out how to make that PayNow thing work on my phone the other day. And I've just set up my first ever Zoom meeting (to take place on Wednesday.) If my invitation to the other participants in the meeting works and I find myself zooming away at the designated hour I shall be well chuffed.

Just saying. 

(I know the rest of the world finds this stuff easy, but, frankly speaking, I don't. Though you've probably guessed that by now, Gentle Reader.)

Staying Power

I started reading Joseph Conrad's Chance last November, but made little progress and considered myself as having abandoned the attempt by early January when I returned the text to the library. I had been okay with the first chapter, revolving around a narrative concerning one Charles Powell recalling getting a berth aboard a ship as its first mate in his youth, but couldn't get hold of the fact that the second chapter took off in a completely different direction, with Mr Powell being nowhere in sight. Indeed, I struggled to grasp any of the relations of the new characters to each other or to the narrator, Marlow, (with that narration itself being mediated by an unknown interlocuter with Marlow, prone to comment on Marlow as a character.)

However, I didn't care for the feeling of a text defeating me - something I was only too familiar with as a teenager - and decided a week ago to have another go at reading the novel. This time I managed to overcome the confusions of Chapter 2 and I've now made reasonable progress in the story, with the halfway point coming up soon.

This isn't vintage Conrad. It has nothing of the mesmeric power of the three novels immediately preceding it - Nostromo, The Secret Agent and Under Western Eyes - but there's a degree of fascination in seeing Conrad place a female character, Flora de Barral, at the centre of his concerns. The problem is though that the indirectness of his approach to her in terms of narrative focus demands a good deal of patience from the reader.

But the really odd thing is that Chance was Conrad's first big success as a writer in terms of sales. In many ways it established his reputation as a major novelist. Presumably ordinary readers had a good deal more staying power back in the first decade of the twentieth century.

Back On The Treadmill

Got to the gym this afternoon for the first time since I was hospitalised last year. Quite surprised to find I could manage 40 minutes on my machine of choice (one with pedals, so not exactly a treadmill, despite the heading above) without undue strain. Couldn't help but think of how difficult it had been to walk a single round of the hospital ward when I was first out of the ICU - and that with Noi at my side in case I fell over. So quite some progress there.

I was intending to get back to real exercise gently, just a couple of sessions a week at first, but if there are no obvious ill-effects on this old body of mine on the morrow I might just try and get back to my previous routine. Funnily enough by the end of today's session I'd got back a feeling of familiarity suggestive of routine whereas on arrival at the gym everything seemed that little bit novel. It's good to sense an adjustment of sorts has been made.

No Excuses

Came across some of Ry Cooder's more recent work in the last few days and am stunned by the fact he sounds better than he did in his long ago youth, especially considering just how good he sounded then. Bit unfair on other old chaps like me, though. Leaves no excuse for declining powers.

Embarrassed though that this is from four years ago and I've only just found it. Really no excuse for losing touch.

In Passing

One of the grimmer aspects of old age is the seeming regularity with which the musical heroes of one's long ago youth leave this world for their long homes. The recent death of Tom Verlaine came as a particular surprise, I suppose because I still thought of him as being quite young. The fact that he was actually 73 was a bit difficult to grasp since I had the vague impression he was younger than myself.

Good to see some genuinely appreciative and well-informed articles about him, and his band Television. The Graun alone recently featured no fewer than three excellent pieces about him, with one by a guitarist named Chris Forsythe being especially worth reading.

In fact the tributes have made me realise just how limited my exposure to Verlaine's work has been. For some reason I never got beyond Marquee Moon. Odd to think that I failed to follow up on the work of a player I knew was so abundantly gifted and loved listening to - though I've been attending to the gaps in my listening over the last few days. A bit late, I suppose, but got there in the end.

Getting It Wrong

I've come to realise over the last couple of days that I might well have developed an entirely false picture of the personality of one of my colleagues. Time was I think I would have been quite disturbed as to just how wrong I've been. But after years of similar experiences I now enjoy the belated sense of discovery involved. Must say though, it's a good thing I never considered a career as a detective.