Radically Cool

I'm sure that at some point in the not so distant past I posted something in this Far Place related to how the wonderful Stevie Wonder (see what I did there?) embodied the notion of cool musically, and in various other ways, in the long ago and far away 1970s. Fortunately for me, and you Gentle Reader, that sense of cool is still in evidence on the WWW in terms of various musically informed coves posting some of his great live performances of the period.

So I'm more than happy to repeat my praise for the Great Man and provide a link to a transcendent take on Living For The City which I reckon is better than that on the album. Much as I love Stevie's own drumming on the original, the guy in the video (whom I can't identify, I'm afraid) blows it out of the park, as they say.

And the back-up singers are seriously to die for.

Not So Good

Heard some bad news about a former colleague in relation to her severe health problems this afternoon. I remember some years back seeing her with some frequency in the gym at work, trying to put into action what her doctor had then recommended, and doing so with some success. A pity it wasn't enough to put all to rights, but that's how it is. Life is deeply unpredictable.

We are left, as so often is the case, with prayer. Part of its necessary power.

Lights Out

Another very busy day. And a highly satisfying one. It helps a lot when the team you're supporting clinches a national championship. (I'm not talking Liverpool here, by the way, just in case you think I've lost my usual sense of grounded rationality.) 

Sadly, though, it's the final day of Syawal & we'll putting away the twinkling lights for another eleven months or thereabouts. But best to look ahead at the year in store than dwell on former glories, eh?

Cause For Good Cheer

An entirely splendid sort of day so far, with a prata dinner treat still to come! 😁

Must say, I'm more than a bit stoked by the birthday books. A few weeks or months of deep reading pleasure guaranteed therein.

Apologies over the legs above. Not my fault.

Back Again

We made our way to Arab Street this afternoon for the second time in two days, and I found myself back in Masjid Sultan for the Asr Prayer, still enjoying the carpet therein. Actually the main purpose of our visit wasn't really to pray at the mosque, enjoyable though that was, but to pay a visit to the rather splendid Wardah Books on Bussorah Street. (After quaffing the cup that cheers, that is.)

Happily the shop appears to be thriving, with a new space opened upstairs and a generally more spacious feel than the last time I was there. I've been avoiding going there for some little while now. It's just too tempting in a way that the much larger Kinokuniya outlet at Takashimaya somehow doesn't manage to be. But after passing it the other day my resistance crumbled and I just knew I needed to browse there for an hour or so on the morrow, which I did most profitably. The owners seem to know exactly what will appeal to me, both in terms of the Islamically-themed stock (the majority of the books) and the more general stuff.

The recent announcement of a new branch of Kinokuniya hasn't convinced me that they intend to expand. I suspect we might be in for the closure of the larger pre-existing outlet some time next year, which will mean the city being reduced to just two bookshops. Quite an embarrassment really. But as long as Wardah is around it will help considerably to reduce the pain.

Sitting Still

A day of motion with an hour of stillness, spent in Masjid Sultan, at its centre. Nice sense of diurnal symmetry. Suddenly realised when in the mosque that it was my first time there for Friday Prayers and decided to make the journey more often. The lovely carpet alone would make it worthwhile.

More Wonders

Another unreasonably busy day. But luckily my little world kept spinning equitably, despite turning a little too quickly for comfort. In fact, it slowed down very nicely in the mid-afternoon to accommodate a lovely cup of tea with The Missus followed immediately by a highly satisfactory game of basketball. (It helps when your favoured team win, and win well, doesn't it?) 

World Of Wonders

Carol Rumens has managed it yet again at her wonderful Poem of the Week feature in The Graun. She's picked an absolute belter from the peasant poet, and for some reason I can't figure out the poem in question, which I'll title The Old Pond, though it hasn't really got a title, is entirely unfamiliar to me despite the fact that some of the comments BTL suggest it's well-known. Mind you, it being unfamiliar is quite wonderful in its way since it meant that on Tuesday I could genuinely experience that full-on utterly enchanted and blown away feeling I plugged into so regularly as a teenager.

But here comes the problem, which I seem to remember outlining in a previous post centred on another gem from Clare. I now really, really, really want to get stuck into the closest thing I've got to a Clare Collected, but am committed to reading my Henry Vaughan: The Complete Poems. And that's chugging along nicely, but it's not exactly inspiring since I'm diligently working my way through the early derivative stuff and work in translation which is good in an average sort of way as opposed to the wonderful 'metaphysical' religious poems which are, as stated, wonderful.

Isn't it extraordinary to have so much to wonder at? But, in its way, not such a bad thing to delay gratification and settle for enjoying something craftily put together? Yep, I'll stick with HV for now. I think.

Footsore

It's a bit petty to moan about sore feet, regardless of the fact we have little choice but to stand on them, walk on them, run on them, etc. If feet aren't foundational, I don't know what is. But, as I said, no one likes to hear someone moaning about their feet.

And, in my case, the situation is even sadder. It's not so much my feet as the toes on the end of them, and, more specifically the three toes in the middle of my left foot that I've come here to moan about. They've been sore for ages and I reckon they're going to stay that way. My feet are just too wide, to the point of looking deformed as The Missus has rightly pointed out, and they've been that way since I was a little lad, who needed a special fitting of shoes on account of this. But now, in age, the toes seem to be unnaturally rubbing against each other a lot of the time, especially if I'm walking at speed, and they're continually sore in an unpleasantly burning manner. 

Fortunately when I'm completely focused on something else - rushing to a classroom, keeping going on the elliptical trainer, shouting on the touchline - the pain fades, forgotten. But, unfortunately, it always comes back. Pretty glum, I suppose. Except for one saving detail. Pain that's peripheral, on the end of one's foot, can hurt like crazy, but it remains on the edge, almost as if it's an afterthought, something that doesn't quite belong to the body. In stark contrast, internal pain (I imagine, never, thankfully, having really suffered such except for the odd really bad aching stomach) is somehow at the centre of the self, powerfully destablising.

So, a bit of comfort there, cold in nature, but enough for now.

Wise Words

A very great man once said: Football, bloody hell, eh?!

Today a not-so-great man said: Basketball, bloody hell, eh?!!!

Just saying.