Saturday, October 31, 2015
From Place To Place
We're now in Melaka, at Mak's house, but not for long. The whole gang are about to set off for KL in a big bus to attend the wedding of nephew Afiq. And after that we'll be coming back here. I, for one, am looking forward to sleeping and reading - not necessarily in that order - on the bus. It's nice to be driven, but not too hard.
Friday, October 30, 2015
A Period Of Adjustment
Just back from Friday Prayers at the mosque, having fortunately not been rained upon. I mention this non-event since getting wet-through seemed a distinct possibility at the point the sermon began and simultaneously the heavens opened outside. To my surprise the deluge had ceased just twenty-five minutes later and I walked out to cross the cark park to the car through a world refreshingly damp, but not overwhelmingly so.
But even as the rains came down (and down) I was aware of not feeling terribly perturbed. There was a time, many years ago, when going to the mosque on a busy school day - even on a not-busy holiday - seemed a chore. These days I just enjoy being there regardless of any minor inconvenience involved. This is not because I am in any way saintly, I hasten to add. At the simplest of levels attending prayers is a soothing, welcome break from other routines. I find I've made a similar kind of adjustment to the need to do the five prayers daily. The first time I realized this was a requirement of the faith, and saw what was involved in terms of preparation of actual performance, I seriously wondered how anyone ever could do it just for one day, never mind a lifetime. Even nowadays there are times a particular prayer can seem a bit of a chore, if not an actual burden. But the remarkable truth is that you do adjust, and feel all the better for it.
The notion that we need a discipline at the centre of our lives to give our lives a centre is deeply unfashionable, and, as usual, the fashionable way of seeing the world is deeply wrong.
But even as the rains came down (and down) I was aware of not feeling terribly perturbed. There was a time, many years ago, when going to the mosque on a busy school day - even on a not-busy holiday - seemed a chore. These days I just enjoy being there regardless of any minor inconvenience involved. This is not because I am in any way saintly, I hasten to add. At the simplest of levels attending prayers is a soothing, welcome break from other routines. I find I've made a similar kind of adjustment to the need to do the five prayers daily. The first time I realized this was a requirement of the faith, and saw what was involved in terms of preparation of actual performance, I seriously wondered how anyone ever could do it just for one day, never mind a lifetime. Even nowadays there are times a particular prayer can seem a bit of a chore, if not an actual burden. But the remarkable truth is that you do adjust, and feel all the better for it.
The notion that we need a discipline at the centre of our lives to give our lives a centre is deeply unfashionable, and, as usual, the fashionable way of seeing the world is deeply wrong.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Out Of Control
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Splendid Ignorance
Teachers are frequently reminded these days that just about any minor issue they're dealing with has the potential to 'go viral' on social media. And it's only reasonable to point out this simple, sad truth. (It cropped up in a meeting today, by the by.) The question then is what you do with it. Actually there's a sort of positive side to the notion of continual vulnerability: it's a useful way of checking yourself as to whether what you're up to is reasonably professional.
But beyond that there's not a lot more to think about. If I found myself in the middle of some kind of media storm for some silly reason it wouldn't bother me because I wouldn't know about it. Having zero interest in social media has its uses. (To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what this social media thingy is, but I think something called Facebook is involved.) And just in case you're thinking I'd have to read it if it got in the printed press, not really. I make it a rule never to read anything about myself on the grounds it's always wrong.
It's amazing just how effective it is simply to ignore things.
But beyond that there's not a lot more to think about. If I found myself in the middle of some kind of media storm for some silly reason it wouldn't bother me because I wouldn't know about it. Having zero interest in social media has its uses. (To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what this social media thingy is, but I think something called Facebook is involved.) And just in case you're thinking I'd have to read it if it got in the printed press, not really. I make it a rule never to read anything about myself on the grounds it's always wrong.
It's amazing just how effective it is simply to ignore things.
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
The Biographer's Art
I suppose I should be reading Jan Swafford's biography of Brahms at the moment. It sits highly invitingly on the part of the book shelves reserved for on-going reading, and I've perused the first few pages with delight, knowing it's going to be something special - but such has been the busyness of my little world of late, and the demands of Prof Pinker's latest magisterial tome, that I've deliberately delayed getting to grips with Swafford, knowing I'm not going to do his work any justice if I read it in a head-long rush.
Another factor that's been involved in this delay links to my reading of the Ian Bell biography of Bob Dylan I mentioned earlier this month. I completed it a couple of weeks ago - or, rather, I completed the first volume, the only one I've got, of the full two-volume biography - and my reading of it resulted in my doing a lot of thinking about biographies in general. Unfortunately the thinking I did, and, I suppose, am still doing, is not of the clear and lucid variety that makes for the well-balanced mind, but is of the impressively hazy kind with which I so often baffle myself. And this muddlement (my coinage, don't look it up) factored into my hesitation over the Brahms bio, despite the author's impressive clarity as to what he's doing writing the thing in his introductory pages.
Basically, whilst I read Bell's book with gusto and a sense of learning something about the Bobster, at times I felt something close to guilt about my intrusion into the great man's life via the rather gossipy content (but, then, what biography isn't simply a kind of heightened form of gossip when all is said and done?) and even more frequently a distinct sense of irritation manifested itself upon my reading some of Bell's more superficial judgements upon Dylan's work.
Bell is obviously a pretty intelligent bloke but he suffers from the syndrome that plagues, indeed almost defines writers who see themselves as 'critics' of various genres of popular music: he cannot stop himself, perhaps even sees his function as, standing in judgement over the work of the subject he seeks to anatomise, failing to recognise that what he is doing is nothing more than a kind of parasitical growth feeding on that subject's creativity. Almost as a matter of routine he evaluates each album, often picking his hits and misses therefrom. But what's the point of telling the reader that Ballad in Plain D is some kind of disaster of a song that presumably he thinks Dylan should never have written?
Indeed, it becomes clear after the first half of his book, which actually has got some genuinely interesting and insightful stuff on Dylan's youth, that we're going to get the life of the artist sequenced through the albums, as if they somehow constitute the life. In the case of Dylan this is particularly off the point, of course, since even in his earliest days the albums were not central to how he saw his work, paradoxical as that may sound.
So now I'm thinking, in my confused way, that I just might not pick up the second volume of Bell's work (but, then again, I probably will) and that maybe biography in general is such a sullen art that a sensible reader ought to bypass it completely (but, of course, that's not going to happen in my case) and that Mr Swafford may resolve these dilemmas for me and I've really got to get round to picking up his Johannes Brahms pronto.
Another factor that's been involved in this delay links to my reading of the Ian Bell biography of Bob Dylan I mentioned earlier this month. I completed it a couple of weeks ago - or, rather, I completed the first volume, the only one I've got, of the full two-volume biography - and my reading of it resulted in my doing a lot of thinking about biographies in general. Unfortunately the thinking I did, and, I suppose, am still doing, is not of the clear and lucid variety that makes for the well-balanced mind, but is of the impressively hazy kind with which I so often baffle myself. And this muddlement (my coinage, don't look it up) factored into my hesitation over the Brahms bio, despite the author's impressive clarity as to what he's doing writing the thing in his introductory pages.
Basically, whilst I read Bell's book with gusto and a sense of learning something about the Bobster, at times I felt something close to guilt about my intrusion into the great man's life via the rather gossipy content (but, then, what biography isn't simply a kind of heightened form of gossip when all is said and done?) and even more frequently a distinct sense of irritation manifested itself upon my reading some of Bell's more superficial judgements upon Dylan's work.
Bell is obviously a pretty intelligent bloke but he suffers from the syndrome that plagues, indeed almost defines writers who see themselves as 'critics' of various genres of popular music: he cannot stop himself, perhaps even sees his function as, standing in judgement over the work of the subject he seeks to anatomise, failing to recognise that what he is doing is nothing more than a kind of parasitical growth feeding on that subject's creativity. Almost as a matter of routine he evaluates each album, often picking his hits and misses therefrom. But what's the point of telling the reader that Ballad in Plain D is some kind of disaster of a song that presumably he thinks Dylan should never have written?
Indeed, it becomes clear after the first half of his book, which actually has got some genuinely interesting and insightful stuff on Dylan's youth, that we're going to get the life of the artist sequenced through the albums, as if they somehow constitute the life. In the case of Dylan this is particularly off the point, of course, since even in his earliest days the albums were not central to how he saw his work, paradoxical as that may sound.
So now I'm thinking, in my confused way, that I just might not pick up the second volume of Bell's work (but, then again, I probably will) and that maybe biography in general is such a sullen art that a sensible reader ought to bypass it completely (but, of course, that's not going to happen in my case) and that Mr Swafford may resolve these dilemmas for me and I've really got to get round to picking up his Johannes Brahms pronto.
Monday, October 26, 2015
Points Of Entry
I was talking yesterday about the difficulty of engaging in genuinely sustained reading lately, but, as so often is the case these days, reading individual collections of poems has been a way for me of sustaining encounters with individual writers despite being time-starved. In fact, I've now completed the collections I picked with the book tokens I got from this year's Lit Seminar.
I mentioned a few posts ago that I was reading Julia Copus's The World's Two Smallest Humans with some enjoyment (at least, I think that's what I said) and it just kept getting better for me. Wonderful variations of style and content in a single slim volume. The short sequence that concludes the volume, a series of poems about the writer's unsuccessful IVF treatment going under the overall title Ghost, was beautifully modulated and very touching. I'm keen to read more of her stuff.
But perhaps not quite as keen as I am to read more from Owen Sheers, because his verse-drama Pink Mist knocked me sideways, upside-down and every which way. It's about three guys, lads really, who enlist and find themselves in Afghanistan. The language is their language and convincingly so, despite the verse. That in itself is quite an achievement. I suppose you might see this as Owen (Wilfred) up-dated since, amazingly, it's absolutely his equivalent in terms of its evocation of the pity of war - in this case a harsh, unsentimental, deeply moving pity. It's got the WOW factor big-time.
After I'd put that to one side (but not out of mind) I moved on to Mary Oliver's A Thousand Mornings. I read another collection by her last year and was impressed with individual poems, though a bit puzzled by a few others, but my experience of reading this one was entirely different. I seemed to sweep effortlessly through half the volume, finding the poet an amiable companion until the feeling that this was all a bit light-weight, a bit samey, a bit too positive in its unremitting sense of wonder derailed me. The blurb on the back mentions being, open to the teachings contained in the smallest of moments, and I think that captures something of the flavour of the poems. I suddenly didn't trust them, in the way I don't quite trust anyone who's trying to teach me something. And I'm still not sure I do, though I completed the book the other day, and still enjoyed it. I really can't place this one, and have to remind myself that we read poems not to place them (despite what the critics would have us believe) but to enter into them and let them enter into us.
I mentioned a few posts ago that I was reading Julia Copus's The World's Two Smallest Humans with some enjoyment (at least, I think that's what I said) and it just kept getting better for me. Wonderful variations of style and content in a single slim volume. The short sequence that concludes the volume, a series of poems about the writer's unsuccessful IVF treatment going under the overall title Ghost, was beautifully modulated and very touching. I'm keen to read more of her stuff.
But perhaps not quite as keen as I am to read more from Owen Sheers, because his verse-drama Pink Mist knocked me sideways, upside-down and every which way. It's about three guys, lads really, who enlist and find themselves in Afghanistan. The language is their language and convincingly so, despite the verse. That in itself is quite an achievement. I suppose you might see this as Owen (Wilfred) up-dated since, amazingly, it's absolutely his equivalent in terms of its evocation of the pity of war - in this case a harsh, unsentimental, deeply moving pity. It's got the WOW factor big-time.
After I'd put that to one side (but not out of mind) I moved on to Mary Oliver's A Thousand Mornings. I read another collection by her last year and was impressed with individual poems, though a bit puzzled by a few others, but my experience of reading this one was entirely different. I seemed to sweep effortlessly through half the volume, finding the poet an amiable companion until the feeling that this was all a bit light-weight, a bit samey, a bit too positive in its unremitting sense of wonder derailed me. The blurb on the back mentions being, open to the teachings contained in the smallest of moments, and I think that captures something of the flavour of the poems. I suddenly didn't trust them, in the way I don't quite trust anyone who's trying to teach me something. And I'm still not sure I do, though I completed the book the other day, and still enjoyed it. I really can't place this one, and have to remind myself that we read poems not to place them (despite what the critics would have us believe) but to enter into them and let them enter into us.
Sunday, October 25, 2015
Good Sense
It's been difficult getting any serious sustained reading done lately, but I've been making fitful progress through a variety of tomes, tending, for the last few days, to focus mainly on Steven Pinker's The Better Angels of Our Nature. I'm now at the three quarters mark and have enjoyed getting there. Interesting insights abound, though the sheer ambition of the book in terms of its historical sweep leaves a fair few hostages to fortune in terms of contentious points being made.
Most of all I find myself appreciating Pinker's deep fund of basic good sense - which finds plenty of outlets in his trademark humour. Just two examples will have to do for now. The first relates to his analysis of the motivations for rape and the current received 'wisdom' that rape is essentially an expression of power with no direct sexual content. As he points out this now leads to counsellors at universities - in the States, at least, but I suspect elsewhere - refusing to give female students the elementary advice that I hope their parents are drilling into them: like don't get drunk wearing provocative clothing and end up in compromising situations with young men.. It seems that this is construed as blaming the victims and so no one wants to say it anymore.
The second relates to the abduction of children in the US, and came as news to me. It seems that the incidence of child abduction is wildly exaggerated in the media and in cold, hard terms the chances of a child being abducted are remarkably low and getting lower. The ever-sensible prof argues that children are now ridiculously over-protected from perceived threats and simply don't need, for example, to be driven to school every day on the grounds that taking public transport poses a risk.
This reminded me of the days when the eleven-year-old version of myself took three buses to get to school, travelling half-way across south Manchester. Taking the 127, the 210 and the 53 counted amongst the most fun I ever had. Thank goodness no one took it into their heads to protect me.
Most of all I find myself appreciating Pinker's deep fund of basic good sense - which finds plenty of outlets in his trademark humour. Just two examples will have to do for now. The first relates to his analysis of the motivations for rape and the current received 'wisdom' that rape is essentially an expression of power with no direct sexual content. As he points out this now leads to counsellors at universities - in the States, at least, but I suspect elsewhere - refusing to give female students the elementary advice that I hope their parents are drilling into them: like don't get drunk wearing provocative clothing and end up in compromising situations with young men.. It seems that this is construed as blaming the victims and so no one wants to say it anymore.
The second relates to the abduction of children in the US, and came as news to me. It seems that the incidence of child abduction is wildly exaggerated in the media and in cold, hard terms the chances of a child being abducted are remarkably low and getting lower. The ever-sensible prof argues that children are now ridiculously over-protected from perceived threats and simply don't need, for example, to be driven to school every day on the grounds that taking public transport poses a risk.
This reminded me of the days when the eleven-year-old version of myself took three buses to get to school, travelling half-way across south Manchester. Taking the 127, the 210 and the 53 counted amongst the most fun I ever had. Thank goodness no one took it into their heads to protect me.
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Swept Away
I was taking a break between marking essays in the middle of the afternoon when I thought it might be a good wheeze to listen to a bit of the altogether wonderful Richard Hawley. I duly put on Coles Corner, a firm favourite, and abandoned myself to the title track, the first on the album. It's probably the most romantically yearning song I know, not least because of its associations with the actual Coles Corner, a spot familiar to me from the years I spent in the great city of steel. (There's a gorgeous live version of the tune here, if it's not familiar to you.)
Now I'm not exactly the most nostalgic person I know; generally I'd regard myself as wary of over-much luxuriating in the past. You can't go back, even if you go back. But I spent the remaining running time of the CD trying to deal with memory after intense memory - initially of Sheffield and then places beyond, and the friends associated with them. It was both comforting and sad.
It's not often I go back to my marking with a sense of relief.
Now I'm not exactly the most nostalgic person I know; generally I'd regard myself as wary of over-much luxuriating in the past. You can't go back, even if you go back. But I spent the remaining running time of the CD trying to deal with memory after intense memory - initially of Sheffield and then places beyond, and the friends associated with them. It was both comforting and sad.
It's not often I go back to my marking with a sense of relief.
Friday, October 23, 2015
Brightening Up
Serangoon Road and environs can generally be relied upon to add more than a splash of colour to life, and in the run-up to Deepavali you can multiply that by ten. Noi and I were down there this evening to buy some cards for Hindu friends celebrating the festival of light, coming away with a wonderfully garish one for our favourite gardener Devan. As soon as we set eyes on it we both knew it was for him.
Then it was off to the Mustapha Centre where Noi was looking for various sundries in a place that offers just about every sundry you can think of plus a few more in at least ten varieties of each. I heard one Chinese guy expostulate to his lady friend, This is sooo Asian... I love it. I knew exactly what he meant.
Surprisingly the crowds we half expected didn't show up, so for once we weren't pushing our way through to get to the check-out. My guess is that the haze was keeping sensible people indoors, the air quality having moved into the distinctly unhealthy. It's been particularly worrying seeing pictures of how bad the situation is in Indonesia, whence the foul air originates. They're now evacuating those at risk, children and the like, from the worst areas - and about time too. Perhaps those companies responsible for the land clearances might now consider refraining from setting their country on fire.
Then it was off to the Mustapha Centre where Noi was looking for various sundries in a place that offers just about every sundry you can think of plus a few more in at least ten varieties of each. I heard one Chinese guy expostulate to his lady friend, This is sooo Asian... I love it. I knew exactly what he meant.
Surprisingly the crowds we half expected didn't show up, so for once we weren't pushing our way through to get to the check-out. My guess is that the haze was keeping sensible people indoors, the air quality having moved into the distinctly unhealthy. It's been particularly worrying seeing pictures of how bad the situation is in Indonesia, whence the foul air originates. They're now evacuating those at risk, children and the like, from the worst areas - and about time too. Perhaps those companies responsible for the land clearances might now consider refraining from setting their country on fire.
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Nearly There
Almost at the top of the particular hill I've been climbing of late and hoping to enjoy a bit more freedom when I get there. Mind you, I can guarantee that the view ahead will comprise plenty more hills and maybe a couple of mountains.
Fare forward, voyager: but take short steps, and don't look around too often.
Fare forward, voyager: but take short steps, and don't look around too often.
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