The Little Things

Noi has been out and about with one of her chums today, so I didn't see her until fairly late in the evening. She came back with an appointment diary for me for 2027, having somehow found one perfect for my needs. This diary is obviously far sturdier than the rubbishy ones that I've put up with for the last three years, so no worries about it falling apart come next June. In the great scheme of things the acquisition of a decent diary doesn't count for much, I suppose, but in the small scheme of things that gives welcome shape to my life it means a lot. Just thought I'd let you and the world know that.

Switching On

Stumbling into the living room around 9.00 this morning I was worried about repeating the lethargy of Saturday. To say I felt sluggish would be an understatement, and I foresaw a day of non-achievement. But how wrong I was, happily so.

By 10.30 I'd managed to get going on some work. Not marking, since I've finished the piles of scripts from recent examinations, but broadly speaking examination and end-of-year adjacent tasks. And these went well, helped by a cunningly curated musical accompaniment. And by 11.30 I found myself at my desk over at the staffroom getting some necessary printing done and feeling wideawake. 

Which remained the case for the rest of a day of reasonable accomplishment - well, at least in terms of the little world in which I operate.

There was even an unexpected high point on the musical front. I'd been spinning a fair bit of Steve Reich in the early afternoon and reminding myself of how stirring he can be when you don't just surrender to the hypnotically shimmering beauty of it all but make yourself listen. This culminated in 30 minutes or so of intense exposure to his arrangement of some of the Psalms, entitled Tehillim. If this doesn't wake you up to the mystery and beauty of the world I don't know what will. 

Nodding Off

A day characterised by frequent efforts on my part to nod off. Except I'm not exactly making efforts. It's just something that creeps up on me, and I'm rather glad it does. Just wish I'd managed more actual naps, but the sensation of gently drifting to oblivion without quite getting there is pleasant enough in itself for me to enjoy fostering these moments. I'm getting rather good at opening myself to a wide passivity. (A highfaluting way of saying good at being lazy.)

Postscript: that should have read a wise passivity - but I quite like the mistaken original above - so both.

In Conversation

Found myself in conversation with a much younger colleague this morning related to all things AI. I've been wanting such a conversation for some time since all things AI have been much on my mind. Tried to articulate some of my concerns and in the process realised just how very deep those concerns are, despite not articulating them terribly well.

Was struck both by the intelligence of my interlocuter and how distant her perceptions were from mine. Not surprising really given the sheer magnitude of what we were touching upon. Gained several insights, not the least of which related to how local writers - in the very broadest sense - are reacting and responding to the new technology (if it makes sense to call it that.)

Trying now to pin down not what I think (which is a mess) but how I feel (which is even messier.) Let's try following the rule of three: Uneasy - very. Excited - richly. Discombobulated - deeply.

A Bit Biased

Brief follow-up to yesterday's brief musings: all this unpleasantness in lit texts - is it the result of something hard-wired into us - the negativity bias that means it's the angry faces in the crowd that grab our attention? And does that mean that focusing on the Stanleys of this world distorts our understanding of the way things are? Maybe life's not so bleak as Euripides would have us think?

Hope so. And I think the greatest art manages somehow to attain a balance between the light & dark. Helps us live in the shadows. Somehow finds reasons to be cheerful.

A History Of Violence

It suddenly occurred to me today, teaching A Streetcar Named Desire, specifically the bit where Stanley brutally rapes Blanche, that all four of the texts I've been teaching my Language & Literature classes across the last couple of years, feature, in varying degrees, moments of grotesque violence. And all, in some degree, admit of the possibility that inflicting violence on others might be satisfying in some sense.

Gosh, that's a dark, disturbing idea. 

The problem is that it's true, for some people at least. I wonder how many. A few outliers? Or most of us? On a bright & shiny day I think I can convince myself it's the former. But today was a bit of a grey one. A bit too dark. A bit too Kowalski-ish. 

Making An Assertion

I received an email today recommending an outline course which someone, somewhere found suitable for me, given my profile. The title of said course: Mastering the Art of Assertiveness for Professional Effectiveness. 

I'd just like to assert that I suspect they profiled the wrong man.

Thinking Of Cheesecake

The chapter What's Up with the Arts? in Gazzaniga's Human, which I read over the weekend (the chapter that is, not the book) provoked me into thinking of yet another little reading project - one that looks like supplanting my rather silly plan of becoming a bit of a (strictly amateur) minor expert on cognitive psychology. The original plan involved a rereading of four of Steven Pinker's books in this area before moving on to the latest I could find in scholarly articles of weight (obviously as yet unread.) But that's not going to happen, much as I enjoy Pinker as writer and thinker.

What is going to happen - at least, this is the plan of sorts I'm now formulating - is to read the appropriate chapters in Pinker on his ideas about the arts in relation to the workings of the mind (encompassing the controversial stuff about music as auditory cheesecake, etc.) and then expand into other thinkers on aesthetics more broadly (just the ones on my shelves, like Scruton on Beauty) with the aim of settling on a definite position of my own regarding why I see The Arts (capitalised this time) as being central, crucial, vital to human experience. Because I do; but I'm not sure why I do.

At the moment I fall back on Joyce's brilliant theorising through his alter ego Stephen in A Portrait as a way of explaining to myself what I can't articulate, or think through clearly. And I've been doing that, one way and another, since I was twenty. Time to move on just a little more, I think.

Searching

It's that time of year when I feel the need to acquire an appointment diary for the year ahead (as the dates start coming in.) And it has to follow the week-to-a-view format. Time was there would be many available, but not these days, I'm afraid. And the ones I've managed to acquire for the last three years have been shoddily put together. This year's fell apart a month ago and I needed to apply the sellotape, as in 2025, to hold it together. Not sure it will last to the end of December.

Anyway, we popped into the fairly large Popular Bookstore at Clementi Mall just now, where Noi had noticed some diaries for 2027 on the shelves a few days back, but there was nothing for me. Plus they didn't stock the kind of red pen I need for marking purposes, the type of post-it notes I prefer, or the kind of little black notebook I favour (for jotting down the names of all my enemies. Hah!)

Something tells me I'm grievously out of step with the modern world. But, then, I've known that for the longest time.

Double Negative

Question: What's worse than having nothing?

Answer: When you ain't got nothin' you got nothin' to lose.

Context: Me, on the elliptical trainer just now. Last two minutes. Less than zero.