Happy Families

Spent the best part of the evening at Fafa's, with baby Arissa as the centre of attention, though Fifi technically was the birthday girl. Mei was able to join us in celebrating the joys of being entirely silly and having an aimlessly jolly time. All in all we didn't do anything much and did it really well. There's a lot to be said for being pointlessly happy.

A Synchronicity

I'm not sure it's reasonable of me to invoke Jung's acausal connecting principle regarding what happened to me today, but I do know that a distinct spookiness embraced me for a good twenty minutes or so in the middle of the day, and still lingers. But perhaps the whole thing can be simply put down to YouTube's algorithm getting it right for once.

To explain my experience I need to go back to Wednesday and a conversation I had with Maria which touched upon the notion of Beauty. I'd semi-playfully referenced the on-going War on Beauty to her and she rightly asked me what exactly I meant by Beauty. I brilliantly avoided directly answering her question by seeking to look appropriately wise and saying something evasive. But later in the day I felt a bit guilty about this and started thinking of how I might provide some kind of genuinely fruitful answer. Which in turn got me thinking about the conversation between Stephen Dedalus and his chum Lynch in Joyce's A Portrait referencing Aquinas's thoughts on the subject. Since Maria is essentially a good Catholic girl this seemed a particularly appropriate place to start; plus it remains my own reference point for understanding a concept which happily lies beyond my limited understanding.

Anyway, I've not seen Maria since but I thought I'd better reread the apposite pages from Chapter 5 just to check if they remained as brilliantly illuminating as I remembered them. So I read them around 10.00 am today, sitting in the library as it happens, and, my goodness, they were better than ever. And, then, to some small astonishment from myself, around noon, a lecture with the unlikely title Islamic Influences on James Joyce popped up in the YouTube feed on my phone.

It took me roughly 10 minutes into Tim Winter's talk to realise that some five decades of thinking on my part about Joyce's art, including Stephen & Lynch's momentous dialogue, was coalescing into a series of insights that I can only characterise as deeply exciting. And now, having listened to the full lecture I find the initial excitement hasn't really subsided, but transformed, as these things do into something rich and strange.

Still processing.

(Oh, and in case you're wondering, in between and around all this I did get quite a bit of work done.)

A Matter Of Fact

Now taking a break after polishing off a plateful of Noi's patented nasi goreng ikan bilis (with fried egg on top.) Seconds are happily available and will be coming soon. Frankly speaking, it doesn't get much better than this. Fact.

Oh Lucky Man

Despite my resolution at the onset of this year focused on the idea that looking back was something to be avoided, I found myself today, yet again, caught up in remembrance of things past. Mind you, I have the excuse of not being an 'artist' of any kind, and I definitely don't have everything I need, in contrast to Dylan's muse.

Also I can reasonably claim to have been unexpectedly triggered and, hence, trapped by the clouds of time that descended upon me. When I put an old CD on this afternoon, comprising Borodin's Symphonies Nos 1 & 2, I didn't expect to find myself back in late 1991 and the first half of 1992 enmeshed in memories of the musical Kismet and my first intense exposure to the Russian Master and his key works. At that time I was engaged in putting together a production of the show for the school I was working in, which involved getting very much up close to the score at every level; and since the score of the show is essentially bits of Borodin reimagined the happy soaking in his works inevitably and easily followed. That was when I bought the CD, by the way. It was a great way to spend the afternoon, I can tell you. The magic all came back.

And that in itself triggered a further realisation, something obvious to me, yet I don't think I've ever quite consciously thought this before. I've never been involved in a musical, either as performer or director, that I didn't fall completely in love with in terms of the actual music, to the point of a kind of happy obsessiveness. Here's the list of the full length shows: Guys & Dolls (as performer), Oliver, My Fair Lady, Flower Drum Song, The Matchgirls, Guys & Dolls (as director), Kismet, Carousel, The Fantasticks. Chock full of brilliant music, each and every one.

Gosh, I've been lucky.

From Somewhere

Was taken by surprise just now visiting the gym. Last week I managed three sessions, and each was a struggle. The thought of just giving up the whole business of torturing myself occurred very distinctly indeed to me a couple of times. And was almost instantly dismissed. I'm just not capable of submitting to the easy way out. But occur it did, accompanied by the understanding I wasn't going to improve my fitness no matter how hard I tried.

So I was expecting more of the same this evening. But it didn't happen. I don't mean I suddenly recorded any improvement. But I didn't struggle in any real sense. Time flew by when I was on the elliptical trainer and I barely registered what I was doing on the weights. In fact I seriously thought of re-circling the little circuit I've devised.

I have no idea where the new-found energy came from, but I don't care. Just as long as it arrives occasionally. A bit like the entirely undeserved grace of the kind we could all do with.

Just Being Grouchy

Why do so many of the hosts & hostesses on tv shows originating in this part of the world feel the NEED to SHOUT with EXCITEMENT so much of the time? If the show in question in question is genuinely exciting then the raised voices are superfluous; and if it's not, you're not going to convince anyone it is by SHOUTING THAT it IS. 

And why do members of an audience arriving late for a live performance need to check their phones once they've pushed past those already seated? And then text whoever they're in contact with even though what's actually on stage should be claiming their very much delayed attention? The point of going to a play is TO PAY ATTENTION to IT.

And why am I bothering complaining about this here? Completely POINTLESS.

But good to vent, eh?

Very Much Alive

After being adjacent to matters of mortality for some time it was rewarding to get out this afternoon to a live performance of the theatrical variety. In this case a distinctly youthful production put together in every sense by students from NTU. Through Your Eyes, written by a young lady from NTU-USPRESENTS (I think I got that right), played this afternoon in the black box at the top of the National Library building down town and proved highly engaging. I'd been notified of the show by my ex-student Shana, who was playing one of the leads, and I'm very glad she did so.

There was no shortage of energy and talent onstage and the whole thing was very much 'meant', if you see what I mean. It had urgent things to say about the choices facing intelligent young people on this island and said them with balance & sensitivity; and it managed to be funny when it needed to be.

My only quibble with the show involved the use of the mikes. This was very well done, actually, and the sound balance with various effects had obviously been painstakingly put together. So this is not a criticism of the show in itself. But I would have preferred unamplified voices in that space, which I think would have carried to what was a genuinely attentive, supportive audience. I just think you get more range & nuance with 'real' voices.

But that's an insignificant point really, given the life that those involved created. And it was a delight to see how the efforts of the whole team were reflected in the publicity materials and the curtain call. That in itself had the stamp of truth and lived experience about it.

At Rest

Kak Kiah's grave is quite close to that of Sanusi. She was laid to rest there in the late morning after prayers at the Masjid Pusara Aman. The weather stayed fine, engendering a sense of ease somehow. Much sadness, but a strong sense of the business of life being able to go on. The sprinkling of flower petals on the soil of the grave says much.

Flown

We'd planned to go to NUH this evening, but it wasn't to be. Kak Kiah died this afternoon, and now Noi is out at her place at the West Coast to help the family prepare for the burial tomorrow. She'd looked comfortable when we saw her last Sunday, but earlier this week her doctor had noted some deterioration in her condition. So the news was no surprise. Sad, but good to know the drawn-out uncertainty of being hardly alive has been spared her, and the family.

Not Funny

I posted the topical image above to prove I have a sense of humour, despite everything. 

The problem is, I don't. Not today. 

I foresee that one day in the distant future I'll access this post and smile. But that day is a long way away. And, by the by, the acquaintance who sent me the image this morning will live to regret it.