On Time

I've always found the way that people seem to find it difficult to arrive on time for concerts & shows & the like to be a bit puzzling, and more than a little irritating. But I don't think I've ever seen quite as many folk as I did this evening unable to arrive on time for a concert beginning at 7.30 pm. And I seriously wonder if arriving at 8.13 (about 7 minutes before the interval) might be some kind of record.

Paying Further Attention

Meant to listen yesterday to the noise of the natural world on my way into work - and forgot. Was distracted by thinking of stuff I needed to do. Kept my ears open this morning though, just to see if the glorious racket I became aware of on Wednesday morning had been an odd exception. Realised it hadn't as the soundscape at 6.45 am today was just as richly layered. Felt like recording it but felt that would be somehow silly.

A free streaming service on the doorstep, eh?

All Very Interesting

I'm in that odd state of mind in which everything I read is really interesting. It's a good place to be, but it means that it takes a while to actually finish anything since that anything demands slow reading and painstaking attentiveness.

Case in point: I'm only about a third of the way through the Christmas Double Issue of the Literary Review from 2023, despite it having resided on the shelf for mags since late January. And every article so far has exercised its fascination. Here's the sequence of topics, if you're interested in what I find interesting: the rulers of the 'princely states' of India in the 20th century ⇒ history of Renaissance paintings ⇒ Oliver Cromwell, his writing ⇒ the doctrine of papal infallibility, and how it got started ⇒ how 'ordinary' Germans functioned as bystanders in the Holocaust ⇒ the Mau Mau uprising in Kenya ⇒ the poetry of Czeslaw Milosz ⇒ J.G. Ballard's non-fiction ⇒ elegiac poetry written in English ⇒ a practical joke played by the writer Virginia Woolf & some of her cronies ⇒ the fraudster and forger (of books) Thomas James Wise ⇒ the development of the female body in evolutionary terms ⇒ how twins are regarded across various cultures, and periods of history.

I suppose I sound quite learned in referencing the above. But the opposite is the case. It's all stuff I'd like to know a lot more about but can only get a taste of.

Paying Attention

Captivated by the clouds as I walked across to work this morning. Not sure why. They seemed etched with unusual precision against the blue beyond. For a few moments I was outside myself. And simultaneously I realised how very noisy the silence was, or, rather, wasn't. Discordant birdsong and insectile chirring.

I suppose it's like this every morning, and, locked into the prison of the self, I just don't notice. Nice to be set free, if only on probation.

The Human Touch

I was just accessing a website I need to use related to work I do for examinations when I got the message: Verifying You Are Human. There was a short pause, just a few seconds, and then I got in to do the needful. But what I want to know is this: How exactly was I being verified? And, How do they know they got it right?

I feel like something out of Blade Runner, and I'm not sure whether that's a good or bad thing. But it is a Thing.

(Must say, I'm very happy indeed I didn't need to do one of those weird 'catcha' things I always manage to fail at.)

Far From Overboard

Don't go overboard, cautioned The Missus as I set off for the gym in the late afternoon. Fat chance of that, I thought. Far from going heavily overboard my problem was likely to be summoning enough energy to get on board at all. And so it proved. For the first 10 minutes on the elliptical trainer I was, as usual, seriously considering whether I'd be able to keep going for a quarter an hour, never mind the hour I had in mind.

And, as usual, I found I could dig deep enough to find the energy to accomplish the full 60 minutes, but it was never going to be with anything like the enthusiasm required for a leap overboard. That's the advantage of a fairly regular attendance at the gym - it all becomes a bit routine and that helps in getting to know exactly how much you can accomplish on any single occasion.

The pay-off occurs when it's all been done, in the quiet satisfaction of knowing that something valuable has been accomplished, some kind of care has been taken, and some kind of acknowledgement has been made of being embodied, no matter how weak & fragile that body is.

Something Bright

I would never have read Ng Ziqin's Every School a Good School had I not been given it as a birthday present, but I'm happy to say I'm glad I did as I thoroughly enjoyed it. I've always had a soft spot for lit for kids and I suppose as a self-described YA novel that's what Ms Ng's tale of her two likable protagonists who swop schools as a sort of sociological experiment is.

It's a bit heavy on the exposition and might have usefully lost eighty pages or so in editing, but the novel is engagingly bright, breezy and basically good-hearted. It's possessed of a naive charm that's really quite touching but does manage to say some perspicacious things about the education system here and, from my perspective as a teacher, is quite revealing in terms of giving insights into what some, possibly most, kids think about schools here.

Actually I was a little bit surprised as to how many stereotypes the writer seems to buy into whilst intelligently questioning the whole notion of stereotyping, but I suppose that just goes to show the success of schools here in getting folks to accept their mythologies. On the other hand, I suppose the fact that kids have no choice but to live out the myths, since that's what they're stuck with, is something I need to more readily recognise.

Anyway, if a young writer as talented as Ng Ziqin is a product of the system I suppose that gives me some room to be a little bit cheerful about being a part of it myself.

Lights Out

Wednesday marked the end of Syawal, the twenty-ninth day, and so our fairy lights are now sadly redundant. Resisting the temptation to switch them on again. Yes, they're pretty but there's a time & place. However, they will remain where they are for a reprise come Hari Raya Haji.

At one time I wouldn't have cared about such things. But I'm wiser now.

Not Exactly Inspirational

This poster in the library at work. It took me by surprise yesterday. I don't normally look overly closely at posters and the like intended for the kids. But for some reason I gave this one more than a passing glance, and wished I hadn't. It left me mildly traumatised.

It was about inspirational leadership and featured photos of famous folks the designer considered of that ilk. Three of them I wouldn't have quarreled with: Lee Kwan Yew, Nelson Mandela and Barack Obama. I mean, I wouldn't consider all three my cup of tea, but I can understand others thinking of them as the bee's knees. (President Mandala is the one I'm entirely comfortable with, in case you're wondering.)

But then there were the two Brits. One was the late queen. Not exactly my idea of someone to look up to given the massively dysfunctional apology for a family she presided over when she was with us. But, okay, I could live with her staring out at yours truly. Unfortunately the other one was Margaret Thatcher, and that was going way too far. Good job Mum isn't around to hear me tell this tale. At least I've spared you any ranting, not something the old lady could ever do when the ex-PM got a mention, especially an admiring one. (I consider myself a fairly broad minded chap, but I still can't wrap my head around the idea that anyone at anytime actually thought highly of her.)

Piling Up

Popped into the library at work today in a spare moment just to pawm around - and ended up taking three books out to read (by August.) I'm now adding these to the small pile I accumulated for my birthday when The Missus decided it was time to break my book-buying fast by gifting me no fewer than three tomes from local publishers Epigram. Oh, and a kind colleague bought me Ted Chiang's Stories of Your Life and Others which he reckons makes him 'think'. Since the author seems to be regarded as 'a science fiction genius' (according to the blurb) I'm hoping it does the same for me. I can't remember the last time I had something like an original thought, though I suppose being prompted to think the thoughts originated by a genius in his genre doesn't exactly count as originality.

So that's seven books so far, and I have to add to that the chunky Collected Poems of Robert Lowell which I'm still going on with. Plus I made a list of books on my shelves that are in deep need of an immediate re-read, or complete read-through with me having dipped in extensively but never quite gone cover to cover. The four on that list means the pile is twelve tomes high. Quite enough for now. Possibly for the rest of the year.

And the funny thing is that I get just as excited over the idea of reading all the books in the months ahead as I would have done with an equivalent list of books from the library when I was a little lad.

Time For Bed

There are few feelings more absolutely right than getting to the end of an endlessly busy day and knowing that it's officially over and out. Good night and sleep tight! (I know I will.)

[Weary Postscript: Woke around 1.30 am with a savagely cramped left leg. Note to self - avoid asinine predictions in future.]

On The Plus Side

Just went out to check that some rooms used for classes this evening were in reasonable shape and chanced upon two students hammering out Bach's double violin concerto on a dingy corridor. (I mean the solo violin lines, not the thing in its entirety.) A glorious noise. Made me feel a whole lot better about education and its purposes.

And the fact that the rooms I checked were in good nick helped me sustain the feeling. Sometimes schools do get things right.

Lost

Just finished reading Susan Cooper's The Dark is Rising sequence. To be honest the second part of Silver on the Tree didn't work for me. I suppose it might be classified as 'high fantasy', and I mean the very highest of all. A reader in love with the 'matter of England' would have a great time, but I left all that behind long ago. I found much to admire in the poetry of it all, but I needed to make myself keep going to the final page, which is never a good sign. It can be good to lose ourselves in fictions, I know, but not when we start to feel lost.

And, for the now, that's as much fantasy as I can take. I'm leaving symbolism behind me and stooping to reality for at least a year or so. 

On Being Still

Ten years ago to the day I was thinking about the importance of stillness. And it's still a concern a decade later. I know I've got better at it, but I'm also keenly aware that it takes very little to disturb whatever equilibrium I achieve.

At best I can freeze a moment now and then to protect it from time's turbulence. I suppose I'm doing that now in a very, very small way that, if I'm extraordinarily lucky, I'll recall ten years from now.

On Being Connected

A strange day yesterday, one of contrasts. I came unstuck at work for most of the day due to 'connectivity issues' with my laptop. How did I become so reliant on the thing? Why is it necessary to send out so many messages just to keep up with the ebb and flow? What has any of this got to do with actual teaching? Frustrating, much. 

And then it was off to watch the musical Hamilton as performed at the theatre at Marina Bay Sands, in completely the wrong frame of mind. Having got myself there doing my man of the people thing on the bus, with Saravanan for company, I wasn't exactly looking forward to three hours of musical theatre up to 11.00 pm and severely doubted that I'd be able to get into the show.

Gentle Reader, I was wrong. The three hours were up there with the very best I've ever spent in a theatre anywhere. Relentlessly astonishing stuff. Glorious. Just ridiculously brilliant.

On Being Embodied

There aren't many things of a positive nature to say about suffering from a cranky back. Mine feels okay now, in case you were wondering, but last weekend was generally rendered pretty bleak on account of unpleasant stuff happening to the muscles in my back. At least, I think that was the problem, but I'm no doctor so I really don't know (and I suspect most doctors are equally ignorant.)

But looking back over some thirty years of patches of discomfort I can see one positive, apart from how good it feels when all is 'normal'. Being reminded of the fact that we are, for the most part, bodies rather than minds serves to ground one in a sort of ultimate reality which would otherwise be so easy to forget. Of course, it's easy to think of ways in which transcending the dictates of biology is a good idea - just so long as we don't fool ourselves into thinking we can somehow rise above our status as rather clumsy animals.

Fine Writing

Since the end of fasting month I've been trying to get some momentum going with regard to my reading of the last novel in Susan Cooper's fantasy sequence The Dark is Rising. If I had world enough and time I reckon I would have raced through Silver in the Tree in a couple of days. But my world is too narrow and my time too starved to have managed more than the first 90 or so pages, so I'm not even halfway through yet.

But here's the good news. It's so well-written that a slow reading seems appropriate. Who cares about what happens next when you're so engrossed in what's happening now? (I suppose it's that kind of attitude that makes me forget plots so quickly.) (Oh, and it further occurs to me that I don't believe a word of it. The novel, I mean.)

Not So Cheerful

Still struggling with an extremely cranky back. This has manifested itself at a particularly bad time as I've got one heck of a lot of work to do. Since pretty much all the work involves having to sit on a chair and sitting on a chair involves a considerable degree of discomfort I am not a happy soldier. But I did cope with a full set of marking today so I can't complain, even though that's what I'm doing.

Staying Cheerful

Quite a mixed day. Enjoyed adding another year to my age this morning, with cheerfully celebratory cards from The Missus. Then found myself suffering from the crankiest of cranky backs for the remaining hours and struggling to get any work done.

In fact, the struggling is still on-going, but I have managed to get a bit done. Just not enough of a bit to feel any real sense of accomplishment. Still, you can't have it all, and I'll very happily settle for the cards.

At Peace

On a busy day two moments (extended into minutes) of peace. Friday Prayers at Masjid Darussalam. And praying Maghrib at the Sultan Mosque, pictured above, as it was at 8.00 pm. Escaping the noise of it all, whilst the noise swirls restlessly around one, is peculiarly satisfying.

What Really Counts

It's the steps that count; not the count that counts.

(I was thinking about compiling a set of my finest apothegms, but since the above is the best I can come up with for now, I've decided not to bother.)

The Sporting Life

I miss my involvement in drama at work. That came home keenly to me when watching the play at our amphitheatre the other week. On the other hand, I'm loving basketball. I don't think I'd have ever been much good on a court myself, but shouting at the guys on it is distinctly life-enhancing. The funny thing is that watching the guys play feels so much like directing a show: huge amounts of nervous energy meaning I can't bring myself to sit down and relax. And the pay-off when we win is the equivalent of putting on a show that really works.

It's an interesting mental exercise to try and draw the lines between Sport and Art. I suspect that, in the final analysis, it can't be done. 

Simply The Best

Over the weekend I found myself idly browsing through one of my prized possessions, this being a rather battered copy of The Calvin and Hobbes Tenth Anniversary Book. I'd been inspired to revisit by a splendid article on the greatest comic strip ever drawn & written over at the also somewhat splendid Open Culture. Now thinking of acquiring the complete three volume version of the full run plus extras, but maybe that can wait until I finally retire.

By the by, aside from his artistic genius, Bill Watterson, the man (and really just one man, alone) behind the brilliant strip is up there as one of my ethical heroes for his unbending stand against the merchandising of his creations. Much as I'd like to, I'll never wear a Calvin and Hobbes t-shirt unless he endorses the production thereof and happily (or a bit sadly as well) that'll never happen.

Staying Well

There aren't too many positive features involved in a good buddy having a heart attack - though the fact of survival thereof ranks as a major relief. And it serves as excellent motivation for getting to the gym, as I just did.

Am now regularly putting in an hour on the torture device elliptical trainer. Of that one hour I can honestly claim to enjoy roughly four minutes. And that's on a good day.

A Sense Of Wellness

Just got back from visiting Boon at the KTP Hospital out in Yishun. He was looking pretty good for someone who'd recently suffered a heart attack, I'm glad to say. He reminded me that his first one happened around 15 years back, which put me right since I was vaguely telling folk I reckoned it was some 6 or 7 years ago. Time flies at supersonic speed, eh?

We'd engaged in a bit of post-Raya visiting in the earlier part of the day, which was gently joyous in its own way - especially the part involving the consumption of freshly prepared prata. So a fruitful day overall (even including the work-stuff which claimed my attention in the morning.)

Oh, and Noi intends an end-of-the-day treat with a few slices of home-baked cake of the fruity variety adding to the general sense of well-being.

A Bit Of A Worry

A message from Mei we received this afternoon, whilst we were out for a tea and epok epok, caused Noi and myself more than a little concern. Boon has had another heart attack, following one a few years back, and at first it wasn't clear just how bad it was. Fortunately it wasn't too long before she followed up by letting us know it was relatively mild and there's no need for a by-pass. I didn't get overly worried, even when the severity of the situation was open to question, reminding myself that Boon had actually driven himself to hospital on the first occasion. But in that first fifteen minutes or so there was still a nagging doubt that this time things might not turn out for the best. And the worst might have finally arrived.

Awareness of mortality - one's own and that of one's contemporaries - is inescapable once you get to my age, I'm afraid. And, in a small way, I am afraid.

But, for now, at least, it looks like Boon and I get to go on and enjoy time's mercy.

Modern Life Is Rubbish Confirmed

The thing about auto-tune is that it's impossible to unhear it.

Some Good Sense

I've just been listening to Prof Jonathan Haidt talking what strikes me as a lot of good sense about The Hidden Dangers of Social Media. Not sure how much of his analysis applies to young people in this Far Place, but I have the uneasy feeling that the answer is: an awful lot.

Considering raising a ruckus when I next find myself at a workshop predicated on the worship of our Tech Overlords. But feel like I'm getting too old for all this. Having said that I can't help feel a certain stupid complacency over the good fortune of being born at the right time.

Am certain I would have been addicted to video games if I'd ever have played them.

Something Sad

It's been quite some time since I've taught anything by Federico Garcia Lorca. Am now well into Act 1 of The House of Bernarda Alba, a play which in the ordinary run of things doesn't do all that much for me. Yet this time round it's all electricity. The power!

The thing is, though, that I can't go for more than twenty minutes without thinking of the murder of the great poet, great dramatist, great man. And when I remember I get angry. And deeply, deeply sad. Somehow he has come to represent all the desaparecidos for me, from another time, another dark place.

History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake - 3

It's 35 years almost to the day since the disaster at Hillsborough that killed 97 Liverpool supporters. An excellent article in the Graun yesterday served to commemorate the terrible event and the years of injustice the community suffered (and continues to suffer) at the hands of figures of authority who both should have known better and, painfully, always did know better in terms of what actually transpired.

I thought the new inquest of 2016 had gone a long way to righting wrongs and serving the cause of truth, but it looks like I was wrong.

The one constant I have unearthed in my study of history is neatly summed up in the lyrics of a popular song:  It's the same the whole world over, / It's the poor what gets the blame / It's the rich what gets the pleasure, / Isn't it a blooming shame? Sometimes you have to laugh to stop yourself from crying.

All Eyes And Ears

After this, in the film, the composer speaks of the appeal folksong had for him and describes British musical life as a pyramid, its apex the virtuosi and composers, then the 'devoted musical practitioners... spreading the knowledge and love of music in our schools, our choral societies, our music festivals', then 'that great mass of musical amateurs who make music for the love of it', and finally 'the great tunes... upon which everything must stand.'

The above is from the excellent notes, by Michael Kennedy, in the booklet accompanying the CD featuring Ralph Vaughan Williams's post-WW2 music for the film The Dim Little Island, that featured in my listening yesterday afternoon. I was thinking, amongst other things, of RVW's ruminations on English music as I attended the play from our Independent Stage yesterday evening. And I was also thinking of what a lovely venue the little amphitheatre makes for an evening show and how much I'd enjoyed being there for our performances of As You Like It in July last year. As I arrived I realised that I actually felt more nervous as a spectator waiting for the show to begin and hoping it would go well than I did last year as someone involved in the making of the experience who had lots of stuff to do, serving to channel whatever anticipatory nervousness I might have felt. Apart from anything else I was mildly worried about the possibility of a sudden downpour which, considering the fact we spectators were out under the darkening evening sky, was likely to disrupt the on-going drama.

In fact, it did start to pour about fifty-five minutes into How to Sell Your Art from the Grave, but if anything this added to the whole experience of the show. The cast manfully - and, indeed, womanfully - kept going for the five minutes of rain whilst a fair number of those watching without brollies (self included) went to grab some of those thoughtfully provided at stage left or take shelter at the covered side of the stage. And the show went on since nobody elected to run away, everyone being thoroughly engaged and wanting to know how the clever plot would work itself out. Oh, and I should say I put a stop to my initial worrying and just opened myself to a rather selfish enjoyment about two minutes into the show by which time it was obvious that it was all well put together and was going to work.

But what has any of this got to do with the art of RVW that I'd been meditating upon, or Art in general? Lots, in my eyes.

I'm of the firm belief that the grounds for the production of great art in a nation lie in receptive audiences and enthusiastic amateurs and the inherent excitement of creativity balanced against the necessary commitment to make things happen; and the pyramid referenced above is a sort of necessary structure for all of this. And yesterday evening I felt that Zackary's finely crafted play, so exact its variety of linguistic rhythms (the demotic, the artistic-critical) and its broader rhythms of dramatic construction, both powerfully reflected and added to the development of drama in this Far Place. The fact that the piece as a whole was a commentary of sorts on how Art might manifest itself here on this not-so-dim but very little island was peculiarly appropriate to my mood and confirmed, for me at least, a simple truth about all nations and all their peoples. We have a deep-rooted, uncompromising, absolute need for Art - drama, music, painting, dance, poetry - whatever form serves for us to find ways of expressing what it is to be alive.

I think everyone who attended the show, felt all the more vitally alive for doing so. And I'm sure everyone involved in its making had their lives deepened and enriched and extended by that experience.

All Ears

18.55

Spent the morning at work, but in a fairly light-hearted manner, on duty at an Open House. Then found myself with a few genuinely free hours. Filled some of them with RVW, the music of, and felt very English; and got on with reading Passion is a Fashion - The Real Story of the Clash, which also made me aware of my essential Englishness. Not quite sure why, but one's nationality is a complex thing. 

21.20

And just got back from further listening, but to the spoken word, for the most part, and an outstanding theatrical evening, of a very Singaporean bent. Of which more tomorrow as I promised The Missus a prata treat for Saturday and it's time to deliver.

Falling Short

I'd been hoping to get to the gym at least eight times in Ramadhan, and thought I'd manage ten. In the event I managed seven visits when fasting - and achieved the eighth today, rather too late. I have an excuse, and it's quite a good one: being super-busy precludes enjoyment of the finer things in life, at least while the busy-ness lasts. (And mine lasted.) And having to deal with a cranky back for a few days didn't help.

But it's a sign of a sort of elderly maturity that the set-back hasn't set me back at all. It's just the way of things and I'll seek to amend that way insofar as amendment is possible. In fact, I'm happy at the idea of bouncing back, something that only failure makes possible.

It's good to begin again, again.

Lost And Found

Carved out a little bit of time today to listen to sweet sounds close up. It's been a little while since I've managed to get up close and personal with the great Richard Thompson, but I put that right today with all sorts of live bits & pieces, concluding appropriately with the Dimming of the Day. 

Strange how one can both lose and find oneself in the same piece of music. 

Words Of Wisdom

Hari Raya Puasa, Eid ul-Fitr; 1 Syawal, 1445

As with last year I attended the second session for Raya Prayers at Masjid Darussalam. The khutbah was in English and spoke deeply to me on Fostering a Confident and Resilient Religious Life. It's strange how what in another context might seem like cliches catch fire and come alive when you see how much they apply to whatever it is is real about one's own life.

As always and ever to all and everyone: Eid Mubarak!

Finally

29 Ramadhan, 1445

It slipped my mind completely yesterday that I'd intended to write something in relation to the fact that the date (western style) marked the anniversary of Mum's death. I suppose I have a reasonable excuse in the fact that it was a hyperbolically busy day, but reasonable excuses don't work for the kind of reasonable guilt I feel over the omission. 

I've come to realise that, for me at least, the chief value of Ramadhan is the way it orients one towards others. Yes, the individual's fast is important, but in the great scheme of things it's the well-being of the whole community that counts. And one's generosity towards others is paramount.

When I think of my dead I think of what more I might have done for them. The answer, inevitably, is a lot.

Counting Down

28 Ramadhan, 1445

I'm afraid I've been counting down the days in a rather silly fashion over the last week: This is the last Monday I'll need to fast on; this is the last Sunday I'll need to fast on; etc... I do this at the end of every fasting month and it's always faintly embarrassing.

And here's the oddest thing. By the second day of Syawal, as always, I'll sit enjoying a cuppa in the canteen thinking how wonderful the freedom to drink is and part of me will regret the fact there will be no breaking of the fast at Maghrib, no small sense of triumph.

Staying Alight

27 Ramadhan, 1445

The hardest thing about the Holy Month is keeping up with the demand to be better than oneself, or, just to be one's best self. A sort of dwindling from those moments of glimpsing a potential to transcend the self seems inevitable. And I suppose it is.

But the great thing is that it's enough just to achieve the fast, and that's simple, despite being hard.

Alight

26 Ramadhan, 1445 

Zakat paid. Twinkling lights up, and twinkling. Biscuits everywhere. 

The month speeding (slowly) to its happy conclusion.

Baking Hot

25 Ramadhan, 1445 

The heat continues. I think I'm bearing it with some fortitude. But The Missus is outdoing me on that front. Her output on the baking aspect of life this month has been nothing less than phenomenal. And she's now into her biscuiting phase - a sure marker for the last days of Ramadhan. See the rather splendid evidence above. And that's just a fraction of what's been created over the least few weeks.

History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake - 2

24 Ramadhan, 1445

Back in January I stumbled upon an article in the Graun that I sort of wish I hadn't. Something similar today in the same publication caught my attention, but this time I'm happy it did. There's a faint promise of some sort of closure involved for those who suffered terribly in a massacre that took place just over one hundred years ago and, wonderfully, astonishingly, are still around for that promise to mean something real.

Just the photograph of Mother Randle and Mother Fletcher made me want to cheer.

Something Important

23 Ramadhan, 1445

One of the great things about the fasting month is the way in which you're given such frequent reminders of what's ultimately important. Of course, even then it's easy to forget for a time and fall prey to the illusion that somehow you're at the centre of things. But real freedom lies in the painful and obvious truth that you're at best peripheral. And not of any great, or minor, importance at all.

A Testing Time

22 Ramadhan, 1445

Gosh it's warm at the moment. Normally I'm no great fan of air-conditioning, but stepping into a cool space after spending time wrapped round by the humidity of the late-afternoon was definitely an experience to be welcomed. These are by no means the best conditions for fasting, yet in some ways they add to the experience. It isn't meant to be easy and, at this point in time I'm feeling distinctly uneasy with regard to coping with it all. So it sort of fits. Unfortunately.

No Fooling

21 Ramadhan, 1445

I suppose it should have been a day for foolery, but it wasn't. Some days just aren't funny, and this was one. This day was sober, serious and very, very dry. Partly because it was a day for holding fast. But I'm celebrating the fact that it wasn't by any stretch of the imagination a bad day. And that'll do nicely for me, thanks.

Oh, and I should add that I crashed spectacularly around 5.00 pm, for more than an hour. For such relief, even more thanks.

Out Of Time

20 Ramadhan, 1445

It seems a long time since we started fasting, yet at the same time it might have been only yesterday.

Every fasting month is the same. Time slows down and you come to recognise its value just in waiting for it to pass. But when it's gone it seems so fleeting, and everything seems so rushed.

Slowing Down

19 Ramadhan, 1445

My reading for the Holy Month hasn't gone quite as smoothly as I expected, but it has proved very rewarding. I estimated that I would complete Gai Eaton's Islam and the Destiny of Man by the halfway point and move on to the Martin Lings's tome I had lined up, but I'll be surprised if I finish it tomorrow, though the end is in sight. Because I've read it before and remembered it as eminently readable I thought I'd probably race through it, but this has been far from the case.

It is very readable indeed, with never a dull moment, but that's the sort of problem. It's dense with ideas, powerful, worthwhile ideas. When I first read it the exciting quality of the ideas spurred me to read at speed with, I suppose, the notion in my mind that one day I would re-visit the text. Well, the re-visiting is upon me and I have to slow down in order to do Eaton the justice his efforts deserve.

I'm now in the third and final part of the book, in the third chapter from the end, The Human Paradox, and the treatment of the question of human suffering in the chapter is one of the best I've ever read. Completely convincing on an issue that it's extremely difficult to ever feel completely convinced about (as John Milton surely knew, deep in his bones.) I feel like starting the chapter again to ensure that I've not just fallen for the rhetorical power of the text; but I won't because I'm so keen to get on to the final two chapters, which I intend to slowly digest.

Thirst

18 Ramadhan, 1445

I rarely feel actually hungry during the fasting month. Going without eating anything between roughly 6.00 am to 7.15 pm isn't terribly difficult for me. In fact, in some ways it's a bit of a relief, simplifying the day. But going without anything to drink during that time is a different matter. So it's always images of glasses of water and cups of tea that haunt me in the early days of the month. Now, not so much.

But even then it's difficult to pin down moments of actual distinct thirst. It's more a case of the irritation of not being able to fulfil one's habits. Except, that is, for when real thirst hits which it does for me if I exercise ahead of the breaking of the fast. I did that again today and the last ten minutes before the time to buka were filled with a keen physical sense of yearning. Which made that first sip of water all the more meaningful and fulfilling.

I reckon I'm becoming a little bit addicted to working out in the hour or so prior to the breaking of the fast. That feeling of thirst is worth experiencing, even if only to slake it. But I suspect its value lies more simply as a reminder of how vulnerable to our appetites we are.

Still Having A Good Time

17 Ramadhan, 1445

Noi and I broke our fast in the company of some of my Muslim colleagues in what has become a happy annual tradition. It felt good to be going out into the world as we so often find ourselves doing in the later stages of the month.

Having A Good Time

16 Ramadhan, 1445

There's always a day in the fasting month when it suddenly occurs to me, usually in the late afternoon, that I'm really enjoying the process of fasting. Today was that day. Yet, paradoxically, I was far thirstier than usual when actually breaking the fast (basically because I'd been enjoying shouting a lot at a basketball game.)

I'd like to understand where the enjoyment comes from, but I'm reluctant to push the analysis too far. There's something about the experience of fasting that seems designed to defy analysis. The Holy Qur'an is simple and clear as to the rewards involved and that's enough.

(By the way, this is not to say that I won't find myself struggling tomorrow and sort of wishing the month had reached its end.)

Lighting The Way

15 Ramadhan, 1445

As the lunar month pivots on its axis, a gorgeous full moon lit the way to work early this morning. There are signs everywhere and we can learn to read them. But we are in peril of failing to read the first, natural world to which we owe all.

Small Steps

14 Ramadhan, 1445

Gai Eaton provides a particularly incisive account of the life of The Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him) and his early successors in Islam and the Destiny of Man. Reading it served as a poignant reminder of the impossibly large footsteps we seek to follow in. Of course, such emulation is essentially beyond us, but that doesn't make the attempt to follow misguided. Quite the opposite, I think.

But another description of a kind of ideal from Eaton's tome powerfully resonated with me. This is his account of The hero of pre-Islamic Arab poetry who was always the Bedouin 'knight', standing upright, true to himself, in a world reduced, as it were, to the bare bones of sun, sky, sand and rock, proud even in poverty and seeking joy in self-mastery, scornful of security and all the ambiguities of wealth, and ready to look death in the face without flinching. Gosh, isn't that fine!

It put me in mind of the fallen Samurai who feature in some of Kurosawa's great movies. I'm not sure that I actually aspire to what this represents, except possibly in a mock-heroic Bloomian fashion. But at some deep level - possibly a childish one - I know I'm stirred.

Digging Deep

13 Ramadhan, 1445

Got to the gym for the fourth time in this Fasting Month, again repeating the experiment of working out before actually breaking the fast, again with reasonable success. For the first ten minutes or so I could find next to no energy at all and seriously wondered whether this time the experiment would prove an ignominious failure. But then I seemed to break through to the hidden reserves lying below the surface. It wasn't that it all suddenly felt easy; but it did all feel do-able at a reasonable pace. And proved so - to the extent that I considered adding another five to ten minutes on. But I didn't, reckoning that that might come later when I'd built the foundation for working out in Ramadhan.

My aim now is to complete at least eight sessions during the fast, possibly even ten. And, more importantly, integrate these into the experience of fasting as a whole such that they gain a meaning in themselves as part of that experience.

Coming Together

12 Ramadhan, 1445

18.30

Looking forward to breaking the fast with all the folks up at Woodlands in less than an hour. Not exactly great expectations, since we've done it all before, but happy expectations none the less.

23.50

All happy expectations happily fulfilled. Lots of laughter. No tears. Good food. A fine teh tarik. And all is very well, thank you. It all came together.

Losing Count

11 Ramadhan, 1445

I somehow convinced myself that today was our tenth day of fasting this morning, only realising I was wrong when I checked the date on the Islamic calendar. So we're more than a third of the way through the fast, and it's become enough of a routine for me to lose count of the days spent under happy restraint.

Mind you, it still felt more than a bit special when I broke the fast, this time on the sidelines at a basketball game. A first time ever to cheerfully remember.

Locked Out

10 Ramadhan, 1445

Found myself locked out of an IT system I very much needed to get into for work purposes. It seems that my account has been 'disabled' for reasons that lie well beyond my understanding. So information I really needed in a fairly urgent manner was denied me since it was sent through a channel that's pretty difficult to access in the ordinary run of things and impossible to get into once someone has decided you're not able enough.

In some rough notes I made to celebrate the event I wrote this: All hail our Tech Overlords, who, in making life so efficient for us, have made life so difficult. Must say, I enjoyed my own paradox.

The New Normal

9 Ramadhan, 1445

A lot of today felt quite normal, sort of business as usual. A sign that adjustments have been made.

I wonder why so much of the consumer culture that surrounds us insists that we aspire to something beyond contentment with the way things are - like living a lifestyle rather than a life? (Actually, that's a rhetorical question/statement in case you didn't spot it.)

Precious Time

8 Ramadhan, 1445

06.23

Thought I'd write something early today, since there'll be precious little time for writing anything else until the very latest part of what is set to be a long and trying eighth day of fasting. Still a reminder that any time, all time, needs to be made precious.

21.40

Prayers all done, fast happily broken, most jobs done (though not quite all). A sort of ragged calm achieved. All worth it.

Within Limits

7 Ramadhan, 1445

By definition this is a period in which one has to work within constraints. It's interesting testing oneself against those limits. Even passing the test involves the realisation of how limited oneself is, also by definition.

Yes, it was one of those days. And tomorrow looks set to be another. Ho hum.

Early Doors

6 Ramadhan, 1445

Switch of strategy today. I was a bit annoyed with myself for not getting to the gym yesterday, but well aware that it was sensible not to expect too much of my back given just how cranky it was. Today I thought there was a definite improvement and was so keen on trying it out I went for my workout in the hour immediately before breaking the fast. I've been half-intending to see what it's like to exercise at the end of a stretch of fasting and now I know the answer.

It's not too bad at all. And it means you don't have to drag yourself out after breaking the fast when all your instincts are telling you to simply chill. Might just try this again.

Not At Ease

5 Ramadhan, 1445

Felt mildly uncomfortable all day, mainly due to a cranky back. Found myself feeling distinctly irritated five or six times over the fact I was fasting, as if having a cup of tea would be the answer to my woes. By the actual breaking of the fast I'd generated more of an aching head than anything I'd experienced on the first days of fasting, largely due, I suspect, to simple irritation.

All this is a reminder, not so much of how difficult observing the fast is, but of how weak I can be when something doesn't quite go in the direction I want it to. Sort of petty. Certainly not pretty.

By the way, now the fast for the day is officially over my equanimity has been not so mysteriously restored.

Strong Stuff

4 Ramadhan, 1445

Gosh, Gai Eaton really doesn't take any prisoners in his highly punctilious Islam and the Destiny of Man. It makes for bracing reading in the Holy Month, as a reminder that sometimes achieving holiness/wholeness requires a distinct toughness of mind & spirit. When I first read his exploration of what it is to be a Muslim some twenty years ago, in the early years of my own intense encounter with the faith, I spent a good deal of time nodding in recognition at the clarity of particular insights which seemed a good deal clearer than my own happily muddied thinking. And the same is true today.

Except that I now find myself nodding over entire chapters which seem remarkably prescient as we negotiate the ups and downs of the twenty-first century. The first chapter, Islam and Europe, manages in just a few pages to encapsulate a way of looking at European history that helps explain Western civilisation's encounter(s) with an Other with which it has been unable to come to terms for the best part of a millennium. Once you become aware of the long view the deficiencies of a secular view of history appear so obvious as to almost painful in their naivety. 

Of course, we're talking generalisations here. Big ones. But hugely illuminating. 

Still Getting On With It

3 Ramadhan, 1445

16.40

Not an easy day so far, due in no small part to a particularly cranky back. I would have preferred to just lie down and think great thoughts, but that wasn't an option on my pressing to-do list.

21.50

Rather pleased with myself for getting to the gym after breaking the fast. All oddly reminiscent of the same time in Ramadhan last year. The same reluctance; the same sluggishness. The same lessons to learn since I've managed to unlearn them.

Getting On With It

2 Ramadhan, 1445

16.18

It's been a sunny day and I got to enjoy the warmth of it all this morning, which means I'm feeling a bit drained now. But there's lots to do in terms of the Toad, Work, so there's no point wasting time complaining. It's a matter of just getting on with things.

20.00

And I did get on with things, and am still doing so. Though, I have to confess, I've given myself a few bits of relaxing time in between. And breaking the fast was sensationally relaxing in itself, which it usually is. That's one of the oddities of Fasting Month. Everyday features a major highlight.

Easing In

1 Ramadhan, 1445

14.35

Generally easy day so far. Achieved a good deal of dozing in the morning, though now stirring myself to some kind of action. But gently so.

18.55

More napping just now. Muggy-headed, but not a sharply aching head - so not too bad for the first day. Looking forward to that first sip of water, I must say. And the teh tarik!

20.05

Fully restored, and hoping that all who have fasted this first day feel the same way. Selamat berpuasa!

Something Precious

Moving into gear for the test ahead. But I won't be ready. I never am. 

The readiness comes from the actual doing. Or not doing, if you see what I mean. How do you prepare for a time that deliberately mingles deprivation and abundance? Two sides of a single precious coin.

Not Worth It

Decided a week or so ago to put the great Robert Lowell read-through to one side during the Fasting Month. But ahead of the hiatus I've been trying to press on and am now well into his sonnet collection The Dolphin based on the breakdown of his second marriage to the Lizzie of For Lizzie and Harriet. Have enjoyed both of these books more than the sonnets in History, but none of this later poetry matches the brilliance of his earlier work for this reader (and it seems this is the critical consensus.)

There are great lines everywhere, and the occasional gem-like sequence, but rarely anything close to a fully achieved poem. And it all seems so privately obsessive - even the more 'public' material in History. Though it's true that awareness of Lowell's fragile mental state goes a long way towards reading him in a forgiving mode.

But, to be honest, I don't trust him. You don't need great depth of insight to sense he's behaving very badly in the writing of The Dolphin - sacrificing those closest to him on the altar of his art. Including himself, I suppose. And behaving very badly as a husband and father.

I think the younger me may, at some point, have accepted the idea that great artists sometimes needed to behave badly. This is no longer the case.

Changing Times

We've had Fifi staying with us for a few weeks now, since Hakim has temporarily taken over her room in Woodlands. Can't say her presence has altered our routines much, basically since she is rarely actually present. I suppose I knew police inspectors were busy, but now I know it as an actual thing. Another small change in our lives has been Noi's greater busyness in her home-based baking business. Never knew churning out big numbers of various kinds of puff - potato, chicken, shrimp, mushroom - was so labour intensive. But this is only a temporary thing since she's only taken in orders up to the Fasting Month. Once we move into Ramadhan she'll be back into producing all her various kinds of kueh and it'll be business as usual, which will still be busy, of course. Must say, I'm happy sampling her products as chief domestic taster, so no complaints from me on this one either.

At this point in time all my complaints regarding unnecessary alterations in my life are focused on my not-so-trusty laptop from work. The stupid thing has taken it upon itself to do routine things differently for reasons I can't fathom. All sorts of peculiar things have been happening on its desktop over the last week, including a refusal to download an audio file in the middle of an oral examination. That caused a worrisome ten minutes or so, I can tell you, until we finally got it to behave. But the single most irritating thing, though of only minor, cosmetic significance, has been the weird re-configuration of the look of my Outlook emails, which came suddenly out of nowhere. It served as a reminder that such systems are never really 'ours' of course, but those of our Tech Overlords.

Taking A Breather

The great thing about a period of unrelenting pressure is when the pressure takes it upon itself to relent. A strange feeling of freedom results. I experienced this at 3.15 pm today. I still had stuff to do, but could actually breathe in between tasks.

Group Effort

I'm not a notably creative person, though I have my moments. I suppose that's why I'm especially interested in the kind of creativity associated with various kinds of group. The ways things get done in the theatre fascinate me, partly because I've contributed to that kind of creativity myself whilst being keenly aware of my own lack of genuine originality. I'm more than happy to feed off the talents and ideas of others. Doing so gives me a definite buzz.

And then there's the world of music and its various 'group creations' - indeed, the very notion of the group or band in the sphere of popular music. I've just been reading about The Clash in the period that they came up with the classic London Calling album and it's striking how the key four players involved fed off each other. And how the group itself fed off the wider scene of which they were a part. Given the general embracing of a spirit of chaos in which they invested it's something of a miracle that anything great came out of it. But that's part of the mystery. It really shouldn't work. But it does, sometimes, and we all profit.

A Bit Lost

Got lost earlier this evening in the school next door to ours, an international school with an impressively large campus. I think years ago the sense of being completely discombobulated would have resulted in at least a mildly panicky feeling. These days I almost enjoy the experience, the only downside being a feeling that I'm getting a little too much exercise a little too late in the day.

Mind you, having Google Maps readily to hand probably helps stem the sense of existential crisis. And nice to clock-up more steps.

Making It Sound Easy

Excellent Poem of the Week over at Carol Rumens's column in the Graun, with a particularly astute analyst from the columnist.

Made me wonder why I don't read more Dryden. Was quite a fan, back in the day. I've sort of lost touch with some of the masters of the language and now feel the need to plunge into the dynamically metrical. It's a bit like realising you're not listening to enough Haydn. (Or Purcell!)

It all sounds so easy, and provides so much ease - for the ear and the soul.

Another Good Read

I've been reading William Berger's Wagner Without Fear alongside Pat Gilbert's account of the career of everyone's favourite punk band, The Clash. You might think that a book on the life of a great composer with stacks of information about his key operas wouldn't have much in common with Mr Gilbert's highly entertaining tome, but you'd be very wrong. Both works are wonderfully gossipy, appreciative of their subjects both in terms of their artistic accomplishments and personal defects, and often very funny. Oh, and they're both easy to read: not an easy thing to pull off when you're writing about music and its makers.

Accomplished

Now preparing to set off for our usual place of residence ahead of what looks to be, and therefore definitely will be, a demanding week at work. Fortunately the particular demands of preparing for and delivering a top-notch kenduri were more than ably met by Noi and other members of the family. So yesterday was busy in the best of ways and today has been distinctly relaxed by comparision.

The pictures above mainly feature our special guests for the prayers, these being the guys from a local home for boys. They ate well, I'm pleased to say, as did everybody - self definitely included.

Preparing

It's fairly peaceful here at Mak's house where we're enjoying our long weekend. But the peace will be happily disturbed soon by the kenduri that Noi and family have planned. Fortunately I've been spared heavy involvement in the on-going preparations and am just sort of swanning around taking pictures at the moment. Evidence above.

Risen

Happily concluded The Grey King this afternoon. Now I understand why it won the Newbury. A very strong ending that ties the various levels of human story and myth together makes for a completely assured work, one that really knows where it is going. And it's beautifully written in terms of the vivid, poetic life of the prose. Great descriptions of the Welsh mountains and rural life in general.

Mind you, I'm still not convinced by the portentous nature of the mythologising. But it would be way too fussy to let that stand in the way of enjoying a darn good read, and that sort of thing comes with the territory of the fantasy genre. In fact, I think the writer does something quite unexpected here by imbuing what could have been just another idyllic landscape with a sense of dark, unpleasantly brooding power. I don't think Cooper is ever really convincing as to what the forces of the Dark are up to beyond perfectly ordinary human wickedness (and there's not much of that in any specific sense); but I do think she creates a wonderful feeling of unease, of something being uncannily wrong in the otherwise very comfortable worlds of her child protagonists.

Now wondering whether to save the last in the series, Silver on the Tree, until after Fasting Month. Sorely tempted to make a start immediately after the excellence of the fourth novel. 

In Extra Time

Having one more day is quite handy, I suppose, as long it's not too much of a busy one. Then it can be a bit much. But it's always good to have a bit more time to live through, eh?

Still Rising

I wonder why Susan Cooper's The Grey King won the Newbury Medal in 1975. In case you don't know, the Newbury was (and probably still is) a pretty prestigious award in the world of children's fiction. I'm not implying that the fourth novel in her The Dark is Rising sequence didn't deserve the prize, but I would have thought the second titular novel would have been the more obvious contender simply because the later book is so strange - and so sort of grown up. Compellingly so, for me.

I'm getting close to the end and wishing I had time to finish it, but I don't want to rush. There's so much to enjoy in the quality of the prose. (I suppose that might explain the award, since I can't honestly describe the plot as gripping.) So it looks like the novel will accompany us on our journey north over an extended weekend break.

More anon. Probably.

Time To Spit Out

The main characteristic of my day at work? Having no time to spit out, as Mum would have said. In its way exciting, and time certainly passes quickly, having no choice. But I'm hoping tomorrow will see some let-up in the pace. I don't mind going with the flow, as long as it slows down.

On The Record

Greatly enjoying reading Pat Gilbert's highly informative, well written and fair-minded account of the only band that really matter (or used to, that is): Passion is a Fashion - The Real Story of The Clash. Never realised that Joe Strummer was actually some four years older than me, vaguely assuming that I was bit older than any of the punks of the late 70s. Now I realise they were very much my generation. It was just that I was in a small way respectable and they weren't.

Much as I admired (and still admire) The Clash I thought there were elements of iffiness in how they went about some things and the book confirms this, but brings with it the requisite understanding of what it's like to be in your early twenties and both inspired and silly at one and the same time. Thank goodness that no one would dream of writing anything about me at that age. Or any age, for that matter.

Still Counting

Just back from the gym where I found myself counting out time and numbers, in a similar manner to what I referenced a few days back. But I must say I'm less conscious than I used to be of measuring my progress. On the previous elliptical trainer - the one that eventually fell apart - I was always aware of the read-out related to calories used up and generally used that as the best measure of an individual work-out since it was an obvious constant. The odd thing is that when I had to switch to the 'other' elliptical trainer the new calorie count was considerably lower for the same sort of time & distance so I gave up bothering to take note of it. (The difference being something like 170 cals burnt in an hour versus 600 - 700 cals.)

But I decided recently to take note of a couple of key numbers to try and make sure I don't get overly relaxed in the course of my 60 minutes of punishment. These relate to distance travelled and calories burned and I actually wrote both numbers down in recording my efforts just now. Hope I don't get overly obsessed trying to out-perform myself - but a bit of obsessiveness could prove useful in its way.