Looking Ahead

Contrived to keep myself busy, despite this being a holiday for schools for National Day, by taking a group of students to SolarLand at the Changi Business Park. It's Singapore's largest ground-mounted solar farm and gently impressive in its way. I had a feeling I might be looking at the future, and not a bad one all told. Certainly better than the one I tend to imagine in bleaker moments.

In Celebration

Time was we'd invariably escape to Malaysia when the National Day holiday came. But the pandemic has changed everything. We didn't think at all of going north this time round, choosing instead to spend much of the day in a hotel on Sentosa for a birthday celebration of one of our nieces.

To be honest, I was happy to escape a long drive in heavy traffic and spend time scoffing pizza and birthday cake. Also managed to watch some of the National Day parade on the telly. Not exactly gripping viewing, but nice to see folks enjoying themselves. It helps that so much of the celebration emphasises the need to transcend the loyalties of race & religion, with a firm stress on inclusivity. Much as I distrust nationalism, this version is at least fundamentally sane.

In The Moment

Feeling - happily tired after a day of not doing very much of anything;

Complaining - about a stiffness in my left leg and on my left side at the back which has prevented me from getting to the gym;

Wondering - why I haven't listened to any music today, except for a Bach chorale I tried to get to the grips with in SAC earlier today, but which got drowned by by the ambient noise, of which there was lots;

Listening - to the telly in the background;

Speaking - only when necessary;

Eating - well, and thinking of grabbing a couple of pieces of bread before I hit the sack;

Writing - this. All very spontaneous.

Still A Bit Mundane

Did a bit of marking, including that pesky Oral I've been moaning about, but generally the day was dedicated most effectively to relaxing. This involved a bit of reading - now well into Follett's A Column of Fire, and just starting out on a rereading of Archie Ammons's Garbage, my personal favourite long poem of the twentieth century - and listening - to 4, 5 and 6 of the Brandenburgs this morning, as essayed by Trevor Pinnock and his merry men and women of the English Concert on a disk that's now some forty years old and still sounds fresh, and Sufjan Stevens's Carrie & Lowell this afternoon.

Then it was off to West Coast Park to enjoy a walk and a sunset. Lovely to see the barbecue pits open again and the tents littering the grass with the place now fully alive. And after that: tasty prata at Clementi Road.

It's all happening, in its quietly ordinary way. Most satisfactory. Some evidence above.

On The Mundane

Spent part of the day at the mosque for the solemnization of Udin's wedding and subsequently at Kak Kiah's for some nosh - though going home in between to get some marking done. Resolutely decided not to deal with the extra Oral from the IBO I was moaning about yesterday.

Was struck in retrospect by the complete triviality of my post on said Oral from yesterday evening and, in its way, the smallness of today's proceedings. We are blessed to enjoy the peace to make much of little. 

It Isn't Over Until It's Over

Recently I've been engaged in some re-marking for the IBO. This involves listening to various Orals from kids who've appealed for re-marking after getting their grades for English from the May examination. To be honest, this work doesn't come at a good time given all that's going on in my day-job. But someone's got to do it, I suppose. The really irritating thing is that you're never given notice of just how many reviews you'll need to do. I keep thinking I've cleared all the work, which has to be completed in under 3 days, only to find yet another Oral in my Inbox that requires attention. The funny thing is that since I'm now getting just one 'extra' each time it's hardly an overwhelming load, but just the one increasingly feels like one far too many. 

Sleepiness

I'm not quite sure why I felt so sleepy today, but I did. If I hadn't been sleeping terribly well, I could understand it, but I reckon I've enjoyed quite a few nights of solid, restful sleep lately, so when I started nodding over some marking in the early afternoon it came as a surprise. And it wasn't the fault of the essays I was marking. In fact, I'm at that time of year when marking becomes that bit more interesting since I'm seeing those more obvious signs of progress in individual scripts that signal genuine development, which has a kind of fascination all its own, moving beyond a predictable routine.

I suspected that once I got back home I'd find myself crashing out for an hour or so, and that's exactly what happened. Sadly I managed to do so listening to Mozart's Haffner Symphony which made me feel especially guilty since I'd recently been reading an article that pointed out how much modern listeners take for granted the accessibility of wonderful music and abuse that privilege. And here's something to reflect on: if I start moaning about a lack of concentration on the part of the young people I teach then it will more than a little hypocritical. I suppose I'll just have to claim my advanced years as an excuse. Come to think of it, that often comes in handy these days.

Satisfaction

There's something highly satisfactory about following a demanding session at the gym with a deeply fulfilling dinner from The Missus. Now feeling completely cream-crackered in the nicest possible way. 

Reading On

Forgot to mention yesterday that I've moved on from Ishiguro and my furrowed brow to the luminous clarity of Ken Follett. I came across a handsome paperback in the library at work of one of his follow-ups to The Pillars of the Earth, this being set quite a bit later in history but in the same location as Pillars, the fictional Kingsbridge. The opening pages of A Column of Fire rendered exactly what I needed, a solid story that I just know is going to grip me. A bit like comfort eating I suppose, but a lot classier and genuinely rewarding.

Some Consolation

Did a bit of reading online about The Unconsoled yesterday after posting about my puzzlement in regard to the novel. Was a bit relieved that I hadn't missed anything too obvious in relation to what Ishiguro was up to in his fourth book - after all, as someone who purports to teach Lit I'm supposed to be good at this sort of thing. In fact, most of what I read confirmed aspects of my own reading of the text - its nods to Kafka, the dream-logic involved, the sense of dread.

I'm very pleased indeed that I didn't try and look up anything about the novel whilst reading it since I'm sure that would have diluted my own sense of anxiety as I read, a response that seems to me (now, after reading around) central in terms of Ishiguro's curious achievement. I was haunted throughout by a feeling it would all turn out badly, that some dreadful humiliation was in store for Ryder, the narrator. And I think that's exactly what the writer wanted: to force the reader into recognition of the kind of vulnerability we all live with as part of the human condition, except here intensified, as it is in dreams. The contradiction is, though, that nobody would want to read the book twice - certainly I know I'd never want to repeat the experience, salutary as it was the first time around.

The most useful aspect of yesterday's further reading was the light it shone on the title. I came across the suggestion that Ryder is continually attempting to give consolation to the 'ordinary' people who cross his path as he prepares (or, rather, fails to prepare) for the big concert. In each case he fails the character and they remain unconsoled. That works for me, especially when extended to include the idea that his art fails to give consolation.

I had a nagging suspicion when reading the novel that Ishiguro might have been drawing on his own experiences, especially anxieties, on book tours having become quite the star, and rightly so, after The Remains of the Day. I must say, that feeling has grown on me since yesterday as I've been recalling various aspects of the work. Funnily enough, although I have absolutely no desire to ever reread the book I'm certain I'll remember quite a lot of it - which is unusual for me.

I remain perplexed by a number of loose ends in relation to the text that I just can't thread together, and in that sense I'm thinking of the book as a failure. But a brilliant and audacious one. What a risk to take after the success of Remains!