Mr Teh Tarik - 7

We were roaming our old stomping grounds out on the East Coast early this afternoon and decided on a snack at the Al-Azhar Cafe at Geylang Serai - located on the premises which housed the estimable Mr Teh Tarik Cafe at one time, before Mr T.T. shifted across the road to the market. The teh tarik gajah was happily excellent: hot & sweet in the appropriate proportions. The curry puffs weren't bad at all, either, being genuinely that little bit hot.

I must say, it felt good to sit there, awaiting the Chinese New Year in our own way. But I have to confess I found myself viewing my surrounds to some degree through the lens provided by Meira Chand's A Different Sky, specifically relating to her account of the war years and the Japanese Occupation, the section I reached in my reading yesterday. Of course, I was aware of this dark background to our Far Place prior to reading the novel, and I've sometimes thought of locations in which I've found myself as they were in relation to the events of that time, but she does such a good job of conjuring the sense of everyday details of the period that it was difficult not to reminisce about a past in no real way my own. The magic of fiction, eh?

Except that A Different Sky isn't especially magical, to be honest, though very worthy and extremely well researched. As I think I mentioned before, it's a solid read, but there's something predictable about it, something conventional, something limited - at least, that's how I feel at the halfway point. But perhaps Ms Chand will surprise me. 

I was thinking about this in relation to one of her characters. His nickname is Wee Jack and he's the main communist (so far.) And so far it looks like he's going to be the type of the unreasonable fanatic. I'm wondering if she'll do more with him than trade in that stereotype, but I'm not terribly hopeful. It's a pity, I suppose, he didn't discover the joys of teh tarik (well, not yet, he hasn't); it might have inculcated an unexpected tolerance.

All Too Human

After uploading my shot yesterday referencing our spidery encounter at Labrador Park, I thought I'd better provide a few of pics of the bigger and messier creatures undertaking the walk there, and the earlier outing to East Coast Park in the middle of the month. If we look fairly jolly, it's because we were.

Unmoved

We kept ourselves moving at Labrador Park this morning. Lots to admire in our surroundings, but the gorgeous spider above was the highlight for me. Perfectly still in the perfection of its web. Impressive as it was, I don't think the fellow thought too much of the big messy creatures dropping by for the photo-opportunity.

Still Not Stopping

I began posting from this Far Place pretty much fifteen years ago to the day, and conducted a sort of minor review of proceedings at the end of its first decade. Five years on I'm happy to report that my readership hasn't grown at all. I'd be seriously worried about my bad influence on the world if lots of folk were dropping in on my intemperate ruminations, but, other than yourself Gentle Reader, most of the population sensibly avoids contact.

My original aims in writing this also stand: to let friends beyond these shores know I'm somehow still ticking over; to enjoy the sound of my own voice, and see what happens to it when I go mildly public; and to practise writing to make myself a tad more authentic as someone who's supposed to teach others how to do it. And this being the case, I reckon I'll see if this can be kept going for another five years or so, God Willing.

There might well be changes in that time, related to my earning of a living, with retirement highly likely at some point. And perhaps a change in content might not be such a bad thing. Indeed, much as I appreciate, along with Prince, the joys of repetition, fresh pastures have their allure, eh?

Let's Ban Some Books

I think that at one time I would have been righteously outraged over news stories about the banning of obviously worthy books in the classroom by the champions of decency, like today's bleak little tale about the banning of Art Spiegleman's Maus  by a group of 'educators' on a school board in Tennessee. (By the way, I promise to avoid any snide references to the oddities and limitations of third world countries, and the like, in relation to the particular nation involved.) But I honestly found myself unable to find this anything other than very funny, based on my suspicion that right-thinking youngsters of a Tennessean persuasion are more likely to get hold of the offending text now it's been torn from their metaphorical grasp and read it with a reasonable degree of attention if only to find the offending 'curse words' and 'nudity'. (I just can't remember any of this from when I read the offending text, which, I suppose, means I'm so corrupted I just didn't notice.)

Indeed, the whole scenario fits beautifully into my cunning master-plan to get youngsters really involved in the wonderful world of lit by banning all of it. I know this sounds a bit crazy, but think about it. Let's take Shakespeare as a test case. There's no problem in outlining a wide range of reasons for any of the great tragedies being banned from the classroom. King Lear, to take but one example, is so obviously beyond the pale in its extreme violence and demented sexuality to make one wonder how anyone ever thought it was a good idea to put it on a reading list. So once we sensibly make clear to students they should on no account corrupt themselves by reading it - or, worse still, watching it staged - I reckon sales of the Arden edition and various DVDs will go through the roof.

Job done!

Other Places

Caught a few minutes of one of those spectacular Natural History documentaries helmed by Sir David Attenborough for the Beeb earlier in the evening. It was about deserts and it was typically mind-scrambling. Suddenly I found my protected little world expanding and I was, temporarily, in a better, richer, place.

Not Long Now

I'm not a great believer in the virtues of hard work for its own sake. But I will admit, there's something satisfying in its own way about feeling very tired at the end of a week of work and crawling into bed. The thing is, though, that when you feel that way on a Tuesday night it's a signal that all isn't exactly well. 

Looking forward to crawling into dreamland some time very soon!

Staying Alert

Prompted by one of my students recommending I listen to Sufjan Stevens's Fourth of July, a track I know very well, from Carrie & Lowell, I went on a mild SS binge over the weekend. Was very happy I did so, and quite startled to realise that I really don't know the material on The Avalanche (the outtakes album from the wonderful Illinois set) as well as I thought I did. This means I'll need to revisit the CD over the next week or so, a welcome diversion from the routine, I must say.

I suppose this is why I remain generally committed to listening to CDs, rather than going down the streaming route, apart from simple inertia-cum-laziness. The act of really getting into a CD forces something like concentrated listening, which brings its particular rewards. I suspect the ease of streaming might result in lazy listening, for this audient at least.

Still Getting Started

My Januaries are often characterised by a distinct sense of derailment as far as getting on with my reading in general terms. This January has not proved a notable exception, though in recent days I've begun to get back on track to some small degree. I suppose this might be connected to a slight easing in the demands made by the Toad, work, but it might also relate to an increased determination on my part to carve out some kind of life as the working year begins.

I've not exactly made wonderful progress in reading the work of WCW in 1939 - 40, but this is partly because I've deliberately slowed up at the translations of the Jean Sans Terre poems. To be honest, I've no idea of the French background of the series; I don't even recognise the name of the writer, but I've found Williams's versions fascinating since they are so uncharacteristic with their deliberately clunky rhymes and rhythms. Thus, instead of breezing through them out of happy familiarity with the voice of the writer, I've been pulled up short and had to read and read again, almost in slow motion, to grasp the poems. It's been a salutary reminder of just how essentially experimental WCW was throughout his career, how ready to try out forms and idioms that didn't necessarily flow from his centre, as it were.

The other book I've been making progress of a limited sort on has been Meira Chand's A Different Sky. It's a fairly mainstream popular novel of the well-researched history-cum-romance-cum-family-saga set in mid-twentieth century Singapore - the setting being the basic reason I wanted to tackle it. So far, so good, I'd say, having reached 1940, about 100 pages in. Predictable, but not in a bad way, and written with genuine craft. On a simple level, I've learnt a fair bit about day-to-day life on the island in the pre-war years, including the fact that an Englishman working in a business at that time needed no fewer than fourteen suits to keep up appearances. That's fourteen more than I possess, by the way.

I suppose my sustained reading has centred on the periodicals I got hold of at the back end of last year. Must say, I found each one very readable in its way, and a reminder of how reading the real thing in hard copy seems so much more engaging to me than the stuff I read online. I was particularly taken by the end-of-2021 edition of The Mekong Review and am seriously wondering if I should pick up the editions I missed in the months of the pandemic which are available at Wardah Books, if I'm not mistaken.

Something Like Grief

I've been thinking about the problems Dad had catching his breath, on this the anniversary of his death. Well, not so much thinking as remembering the wheezing. Painful to listen to, it must have been extraordinarily difficult for him to deal with.

Almost half a century away. Feeling an echo of something like grief.