Spinning Plates Again

Spent the day lurching from task to minor crisis to task, etc... But had a welcome break for Prayers followed by a cuppa with The Missus. Thought I'd kept all in spin until twenty minutes ago when I suddenly realised I had completely forgotten the need to reply to a pretty important email and did so. Just a bit too late. Well, a lot too late in truth.

As recently as, say, five years back I think the plate crashing to the stage would have sort of spoiled the performance. Nowadays it just seems to add to the entertainment value. A spot of spontaneous comic relief.

Just A Thought

Words of a sort of wisdom from a Far Place: If it's worth doing well, it's worth doing slowly.

(Not sure if that's original to me, but that's true of all my thoughts. Also, can't help but wonder if I articulated this before and simply forgot.)

(Great excuse for missing a deadline. Sounds vaguely plausible and vapid all at the same time.)

Thoreau's Indian

Emerged tired but happy from The Maine Woods at 7.45 pm. Thoreau was a great companion to have on the way, but a bit heavy-going in places, providing a bit too much detail. Mind you, of the three different expeditions he made through the wilderness, it was the third and final, The Allagash and East Branch, I found the most readably fascinating, but not on account of the richly vivid descriptions of the forests, lakes & rivers therein.

What really held me was Thoreau's descriptions of and relationship with his native American guide, his Indian. (Nothing too woke about Henry David, at least on the surface, that is.) The guide's name is given in full one time only, in the penultimate sentence of the account: This was the last that I saw of Joe Polis. Before that the Indian is very occasionally Polis, but usually the Indian. So what is Thoreau up to at the end? Is he subtly referencing the full humanity of his companion in giving his name and ending the narrative at the point they separate forever? Or does he remain the oddly eccentric sort of servant to the superior, civilised white guys. The Other.

It's a puzzle. But what is clear is that, consciously or unconsciously, the writer is fascinated by the man. He, his presence, dominates the account such that it becomes a narrative in a deeper sense than just a travel guide. But as to what Thoreau really thinks of Joe Polis, I don't know. And I suspect he doesn't or didn't and needed to write it out of himself. 

Glad I got to read it.

Eyes Wide Open

Started watching the recently made film of Macbeth featuring Denzel Washington as the homicidal thane a couple of weeks back with some reluctance. The reluctance had nothing to do with Mr Washington, by the way. He was the reason I felt I should watch the movie. Rather, I felt maxed out on the great drama, having taught it more than one time too many and seen two too many productions. It's the only play by WS I thought of in that way, but the feeling was very real.

And now it's gone completely, melted as breath into the wind.

As my viewing began I could watch a few minutes at a time, sceptically, finding reasons to question every directorial decision. By the mid-point the questions stopped. By the end - the Act 5 stuff - I realised I was watching a brilliant movie, chock-full of great performances, and a towering Macbeth and Mrs. Started watching again from the beginning as soon as the end credits played, relishing every moment. 

Sometimes it pays to keep both mind and eyes open.

Looking Up

Felt pretty perky this evening, the day having gone satisfyingly smoothly. Then, as I was wandering outside to accomplish one final task, I happened to look up to catch a full moon looming overhead. And things got even better.

On The Peak

Thought I might just record a strong session at the gym this evening, but it wasn't to be. It wasn't a disaster in that I managed a full sixty minutes on the elliptical trainer and got through all of my routines with the weights. But I didn't enjoy any of it and never felt free of the need to concentrate just to keep going. No sense of of ease at all.

And it now strikes me that I've probably peaked in terms of improving my numbers on the trainer. I'm not intending to try and extend the length of sessions simply because what I do is enough, and it's more than a bit boring. The future lies in maintaining the number of sessions I manage in each week, and trying not to slow down. 

But I do wonder if I can genuinely improve in terms of strength from working on the weights. Maybe that's something to push for?

In Celebration

Spent a memorable few hours this afternoon at 'Celebration of a Life', a gathering designed to recall the life of our friend Boon. It did so richly. Felt much sadness; but considerably more joy & gratitude. The sign of a deeply generous life well-lived. 

Almost As Usual

After a fruitfully busy morning it was back to Masjid Tentara for Friday Prayers today with Noi on driving duty. Not quite the mad rush to get there as last week, and actually got inside. But a slight disappointment as it wasn't the open prayer hall I'd expected. The space was subdivided into separate rooms, so all very ordinary, but comfortable.

And after we went off to return a modem to the Starhub outlet at Jurong Point since we've cancelled our subscription to their service. In fact we'd returned the set-box & wires & stuff a few days back, but didn't know we had a modem from them since we never asked for it and we've never used it. (Complicated story, of the Modern Life is Rubbish variety.) And then we eased our troubles at the Aiman Cafe and life was good again.

And what made all this not quite usual? Well, the masjid is a variation on my usual routine in itself, but the original plan for the day had been for me to get directly back to work after prayers to get a few tasks out of the way and for Noi to have a chummy afternoon with old friend Nosiah; but that needed to be cancelled on account of Children's Day, which meant that Nosiah had to look after her grand-kids.

What complicated lives we lead, eh? Anyway, the undone stuff will get done come next week, and the afternoon proved highly satisfactory and I'm happy to leave the edgy interesting aspects of life to others whilst things go by in our small corner of the big world pretty much as usual.

Away Again

Spent some time back in England today, in some woods in Northamptonshire, transported there via John Clare's The Shepherd's Calendar. Read October to celebrate the arrival of the month with much delight. The Peasant Poet is a master of particularities and his list of what he observes in the poets solitary way as the month begins brings a vanished world wonderfully to bustling life.

I have to hold myself back from quoting the whole thing, and will settle for six lines centred on falling acorns:

Crows from the oak trees qawking as they spring / Dashing the acorns down wi beating wing / Waking the woodlands sleep in noises low / Pattring on crimpt brakes withering brown below / While from their hollow nest the squirrels pop / Adown the tree to pick them as they drop

What music, eh? Yet the poem met with little success in Clare's lifetime in terms of sales. Fortunately for us it lives in eternity.

A Brief Getaway

Spent an enchanted five minutes this morning, between marking examination scripts, on the shores of Lake Apmoojenegamook in The Maine Woods. I was in the company of Henry David Thoreau and we were listening to the voice of the loon, loud and distinct, from far over the lake. Well, old Thoreau was listening and describing it so vividly that I heard it loud and distinct in SAC, just by the window looking out on our little bit of landscape.

The magic of inhabiting two places and two times at once. Aren't words strange things? Especially from the pen of a master