Enough

19 Ramadhan, 1447

Sometimes it's enough just to get to the end of the day. And mine isn't really finished yet.

So Many Voices

18 Ramadhan, 1447

The dire situation in the Middle East keeps pulling us away from personal concerns, as I'm sure it does for lots of folk around the globe. But the problem is getting real knowledge & understanding of what exactly is taking place. Of course, this is true of our grasp of any 'current event', but once the fog of war descends the feeling of disorientation can be intense.

So far the single most convincingly coherent commentary I've heard comes from a recent podcast from Chris Hedges. I'll be interested to play this again a year hence and see how accurate the analysis from Messers Hedges & Crooke proves in hindsight.

Can't help but wonder about the kind of Ramadhan being experienced by people in Tehran, Beirut, etc. 

Out & About

17 Ramadhan, 1447

One of the patterns of Ramadhan for me, established over decades, has been a tendency to keep things inward for the first half of the month, and then move more obviously into the outer world. It looks as if something similar is starting to take place.

This evening, for the first time, Noi and I went out to do a bit of shopping at the market adjacent to Clementi Mall and in the mall itself. No big deal, of course, but there was a freshness about our unhurried strolling at the market that felt appropriate for this stage of the month. It reminded me of just how much I enjoy evenings in this part of the world, especially when there's a bit of breeze to disturb the warm, thick stillness in the air.

We've just feasted on the bundle we brought home from the KFC at the mall. Noi has always been a bit of a fan of the franchise and, over the years, I've acquired something of a taste for their output, as long as we don't sample it too often. This evening's munching felt appropriate. Just enough, as The Missus rightly announced as we happily concluded.

All very optimal.

Broadening The Mind

16 Ramadhan, 1447

Part 4 of Seyyed Hossein Nasr's The Garden of Truth is very different from the parts that precede it. This final part of the book comprises two extended appendices which basically survey, in a methodically dry fashion, various major schools of Sufi thought in the Islamic world, followed by a history of what the writer terms the tradition of theoretical gnosis. This is in stark contrast to the fascinating exposition-cum-exploration of the range of philosophical ideas that came earlier. But there's another kind of fascination involved.

The barrage of names of what are obviously major figures in what be termed spiritual thought and experience suggest networks of ideas that transcend immediate historical circumstances. They constitute a kind of alternative history outside the usual historical narratives. I suspect I'll never really carve out the time to achieve a genuine familiarity with all this, but at least I've managed to know it's there. A way of acquiring a powerfully wider perspective to my own thought.

Halfway There

15 Ramadhan, 1447

Older, but no wiser, here I am counting the days to ending the fast. More than a bit sad, really, especially when I know I am gaining so much, as always, from the experience, which is always the same and always different.

For example, as ever I feel at this stage of the month pretty much completely adjusted to the rhythms of the challenge; yet, unexpectedly, I zonked out majorly in the late afternoon in a sleep so deep I almost failed to rescue myself on the alarm I'd wisely set. I suspect I might not otherwise have surfaced until now.

Not exactly a role model, eh?

On The Way

14 Ramadhan, 1447

06.24

Just walked across to start the working day under a glorious almost full moon, accompanied by birdsong and the whirring of various furiously busy insects. The world getting underway. What's not to like, eh?

22.50

And now at the other end of the day. Dark out. Cloudy. The moon no longer visible. But, let's face it, you can't have everything, can you?

Stretched

13 Ramadhan, 1447

In some ways it's a good thing to be kept busy on a day of fasting. It helps the time pass at something close to normal speed and takes one's mind off one's basic appetites. But the utility of stretching oneself becomes doubtful when breaking point comes close. 

That didn't happen to me today, partly because I'm wary enough to know it could happen. Hope the same is true for other busy souls feeling stretched at this time.

What's Really Real

12 Ramadhan, 1447

Noi has driven up to Melaka with her chum Nosiah, to see family there. They'll have broken their fast in good company at Khalsom's Warong. So that's good.

Which leaves me home alone to break my fast. So not so good. But not so bad either. A flask of optimal teh tarik and a plateful of coin prata have eased the ache.

I used to think of fasting as an individual thing. And on a simple, literal level it is. But real things are never simple. And the point of the fast is to transcend the individual to arrive at a place that is far more real.

Still Challenged

11 Ramadhan, 1447

Have now got into the habit of going to the gym ahead of breaking the fast, just to do a stint on the elliptical trainer and forgoing the weights. It saves cutting into what feels like wonderfully 'free' time in the evening after buka and it seems to be working in that I've been steadily increasing the degree of resistance on the trainer with each visit and have suffered no ill effects so far.

For this afternoon's session I had the resistance set at its highest from the get-go since I instinctively felt I had enough energy to cope. Must say though, for the first ten minutes I thought I'd seriously miscalculated. It was difficult to get any real speed going and I was huffing and puffing more than I expected to. But after that things got easier; or, rather, I found myself accepting the level of difficulty without the anxiety that I would break down at any moment.

I'm hoping to get myself to the gym at least ten times this Ramadhan. It adds to the challenges of the fast, but in a way that seems aligned to the greater purpose.

Heartening

10 Ramadhan, 1447

Spent some time today looking over to the land of my birth - indeed, the actual town. Denton is a fair distance from this Far Place, but it occupies a small place in my heart. I'm so much out of touch these days that I didn't know it is now combined with Gorton - where Dad hailed from - as a parliamentary constituency. And I didn't realise there was a feeling it is now vulnerable to Reform until I read that the egregious Farage and his dumb chums thought they were in with a chance of winning the by-election held on Thursday.

So it was with some relief when I saw that Reform was well out-voted into second place. But I really didn't know what to make of the victory for the Green Party, being a Labour-for-life sort of chap, even when disapproving of what the party occasionally gets up to.

Then today I watched the victory speech of the new MP, one Hannah Spencer, and found myself thoroughly enjoying it. Indeed, even thinking I might have voted for the lass had I been there myself, based on just how well she came across. I suppose the warmth of her local accent played a part (though she comes from Bolton, I believe, rather than Tameside) but it was the common sense of her content that did it for me.

That and the pained expression on the face of the defeated Reform guy. I really shouldn't enjoy witnessing the misfortunes of others in Fasting Month, but I just can't help it.

Hard Work

9 Ramadhan, 1447

It's still crowded at Masjid Tentera for Friday Prayers, and will undoubtedly remain so throughout this Holy Month. Today I was able to get there quite early though, so getting a reasonable place wasn't too difficult. And just for a change I didn't need to make my way back to work in the afternoon, so I was able to relax after all was concluded.

I'm guessing I was a fortunate exception. Today I noticed for the first time just how many of the jama'ah were wearing overalls, clearly having made their way directly from work, and most likely in a rush to get back, judging from the speed at which many left. As we were driving away, Noi noticed one guy wearing overalls that she recognised as those of someone working at the port - which makes sense considering the proximity of the mosque to the port entrance at the bottom of Clementi Road.

I hope that these guys did not have to face demanding physical labour in the hot afternoon. But I suspect that more than a few did. The spiritual dedication of so many of them in relation to real physical struggling in his month is one of the quiet astonishments of Ramadhan.

A Good Thing

8 Ramadhan, 1447

Just polished off a plateful of bangers & mash & gravy. Not exactly a traditional meal for Ramadhan, but deeply good all the same. Food tastes better in Fasting Month. Not sure why, but it does, and there's no need to think about it too deeply. Just enjoy it in the moment.

Low Points

7 Ramadhan, 1447

I'd half-forgotten, but now vividly, vitally remember, how often the demands of Fasting Month confront me with my numerous inadequacies. The funny thing is that this process sort of makes me feel good - relieved from heavier duties to deal with simple realities and then just get on with the important thing. The fast and its demands.

And whilst I'm on the subject of my less-than-impressive characteristics, it occurs to me that I've never genuinely managed to identify in any real sense with the more 'heroic' figures in literature. The three that spring to mind, that I automatically identified with from first reading, that I'm painfully aware reflect significant bits of me are King Lear, Estragon (from Godot) and Mr Leopold Bloom. Not exactly an impressive triumvirate, eh?

A Low Point

6 Ramadhan, 1447

Life decided to be desperately unfair to me this afternoon, around 5.30. There we were at the basketball court with the session going well, when the natural light began to fade. The solution was simple. Access the controls for the over-hanging lights and just switch them on. But someone had padlocked the doors to the panel, so a call to our Security was necessary. Still simple, except that it had started to rain ferociously and the doors were out in the open. Along came the helpful guard, umbrella in hand, to open the doors and try and switch on the lights. But he was new to the job and, understandably, not at all sure which switches to hit. So he passed the brolly to me and I stepped out heroically into the storm to do the necessary. Simple.

Except doing the necessary involved getting my trousers wet through up to the knees.  In which state I needed to deal with the ensuing two hours. Poor me, eh?

Well, not exactly. The low point was pretty much the solitary blip in a good day. So, facing up to reality, lucky me really. It's nice to wallow in a bit of self-pity, but five minutes' worth was more than enough. 

Looking In

5 Ramadhan, 1447

I wouldn't claim that Seyyed Hossein Nasr's The Garden of Truth is easy reading. At times the prose is dense and the reader needs to tune into quite a number of technical terms, predominantly in Arabic. But after an encounter with the daily news there's something refreshing about a voice providing a quiet, calm sense of authority. 

This reader is more than happy to surrender to the demands involved, just to catch a glimpse of the beauties of the garden.

A Challenge

4 Ramadhan, 1447

19.02

Got myself to the gym just now. I wasn't at all sure this would be a good idea but decided to take the risk, and I'm not feeling any obvious ill effects in the aftermath of my hour on the elliptical trainer. I am, however, feeling astonishingly thirsty and suspect that the next twenty minutes will take several hours to pass.

20.10

It turned out that the twenty minutes that passed between my posting the above and sipping on a class of water took just twenty minutes after all. There's something about fasting that can distort perceptions but the bedrock reality of the fast remains a sort of comforting constant. Each day is a real challenge in its way, and every challenge turns out to be negotiable, with the requisite patience. 

Now feeling happily at ease, able to eat and drink whenever. And mostly choosing not to.

Inching Along

3 Ramadhan, 1447

18.17

Roughly an hour left before we break our fast and everything is moving slowly on this seemingly slowest of days.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, especially for those who can embrace the stillness.

23.30

Just got back from a jolly evening spent in the company of Pete & Lia and Kishor. Excellent grub & plenty of catching up. Quite unusual to be socialising so early in the Fasting Month but good to be reminded of a world elsewhere. outside the boundaries of the self.

Still Beginning

2 Ramadhan, 1447

06.32

So consumed by myself yesterday evening that I completely forgot to wish all those holding fast: Selamat Berpuasa! (Also including Christian friends & family in that as they embark on the Lenten season.)

14.20

Just back from a crowded Friday Prayers. I'd forgotten that part of the excitement of Ramadhan is trying to find a decent spot to pray if you're latish arriving at the masjid.

21.00

A quiet evening, just me and The Missus, along with the basics of food & drink. Plus a book and the telly if we want to watch something. A tiny echo of paradise.

Beginning

1 Ramadhan, 1447

06.35

The way to work awash with birdsong just now. Not a bad way to start the working day.

15.16

Just finished teaching for the day. Feeling a bit weak and light-headed, but only a 'bit' fortunately. Am keenly aware of adjustments being made somewhere, possibly at a cellular level?

18.10

Negotiating the final countdown to the first buka of the month. Feel reasonably fresh after an afternoon snooze. Hope my brothers & sisters in Islam have something of the same sense of ease as we begin again.

21.17

Now very much at ease, and happily expectant of the porridge to come. Savouring the sense of achieving something. Also aware of the happy illusion involved. Achieving something means genuinely extending the possibilities of self and doing so for others. A big ask, as they say. But a question worth posing.

In Preparation

Sometimes I'm a bit of a puzzle to myself. In fact, you can make that most of the time. And here's a pressing example. We start fasting for Ramadhan tomorrow and experience shows it's wise to be mentally prepared. Now for some reason I can't grasp, that preparation for me centres upon deciding what special reading I'll do for the month. This really shouldn't work, but it has done in the past and I'm hoping this year will follow a similar pattern.

It's also oddly important that I complete whatever 'secular' reading I'm doing to ensure my head is in the right place, which is why I'd been pushing on with Dostoevsky and the big Jazz book - and fortunately deeply enjoying both. I had been hoping to complete the great Henry Vaughan Collected Poems read-through, but that hasn't been possible. However, since that's been going forever (more than a year now) it wasn't exactly urgent reading.

Anyway, I've figured out what I intend to engage with in the days ahead. A re-read of Seyyed Hossein Nasr's The Garden of Truth: The Vision and Promise of Sufism, Islam's Mystical Tradition has been on my mind for ages, and now's the right time for a deeper dive that my original encounter (or so I'm hoping.) That's the central text as commentary on the faith, as it were. At the same time I'm intending to really apply myself to key sections of The Study Qur'an, a volume I've hardly begun to do justice to. I'm hoping to engage in very close reading of a number of surahs and at least three of the excellent scholarly essays at the back end of the weighty tome. And since most of the surahs I have in mind are the shorter ones after al-Takwir, I'm looking forwarding to cross-referencing my readings with Michael Sells's interesting versions and commentaries in Approaching The Qur'an, especially for the surahs that he provides a lively analysis of the 'hearing' of. 

So that's it. Do wish me luck, Gentle Reader.

A Bit Special

Jazz - A History of America's Music, the companion volume to Ken Burns's PBS documentary, has been on my bookshelves for almost two decades now. It was a very generous present from Peter and Iris on my fiftieth birthday, chosen, I'm guessing, because Peter had picked up on my particular enthusiasm for the work of Wynton Marsalis and the great trumpeter had his name all over the documentary. 

For some reason I didn't see any real need to read the handsome volume all the way through initially. It seemed more like the kind of coffee table book that was worth browsing occasionally for the wonderful pictures, and dipping into now and then for specific bits - looking up what it had to say about classic albums, for example.

Gosh, was I wrong about that. Fortunately I elected to give the book the cover-to-cover treatment a couple of months back and discovered that whilst its engaging anecdotes made for enjoyable reading as individual 'bits', its main writer, Geoffrey C. Ward, had captured in the sweep of the narrative a deeply engaging and insightful history not just of jazz as a genre, but of the US itself, especially, though by no means exclusively, the experience of black Americans in the face of grim oppression.

Of necessity there are some deeply sad sections of the text. Many of the stories about Charlie Parker, to take but one example, are perplexing and almost heart-breaking. But the sense of often astounding creativity is ultimately life-enhancing. Ken Burns identifies Louis Armstrong as the central figure in all this, and it's easy to see his point, but Duke Ellington, already something of a musical hero in my eyes prior to reading the tome, emerged as the most heroic of all in his unmatched elegance and humour in the face of all that life could throw at him. And being a genius in his field helped.

I'm now seriously thinking of getting hold of the authors' book on the Civil War. If it's half as good as this one it will be something special.

Stunned x 100

Didn't want The Brothers Karamazov to end, but it did for me yesterday. My assumption that Dostoevsky would somehow sustain the brilliance of his final novel to the last page was borne out. I'm not sure about the circumstances of its composition, but, like Dickens, the impression of astonishing spontaneity within a capacious frame dominated my reading. And, as with Dickens at his best (Little Dorrit, Bleak House, Our Mutual Friend) Dostoevsky seemed to know exactly how to put his magical jigsaw of meaning together.

In truth, the Russian Master's superiority over The Inimitable, in this novel at least, was wonderfully obvious. To take a single example: both writers are unafraid to deal with the unashamedly sentimental, but in Dickens's case this can topple over into something so blatantly manipulative that even in his greatest fiction there's the danger of unintended bathos. In contrast, Dostoevsky's sentimentality is so vividly sincere that it overwhelms.

The ending of The Brothers Karamazov, focused on a child's funeral, in a sub-plot entirely distinct from the central thrust of the novel really shouldn't work. But it's a triumph. Completely unexpected yet perfect in its evocation of grief and suffering and resilience. 

I'm still rearranging my head over all this.

In Action

Was pleased, but not surprised, over the news of the British High Court's decision that Palestine Action cannot be banned under the UK government's anti-terrorism laws. It'll be good news, to say the least, for the more than 2500 brave souls (lots of my advanced age and older) who've been arrested for supporting the organisation since its proscription. It seems that Yvette Cooper has been on the telly today defending the legislation and insisting there are good reasons for the ban, yet as far as I'm aware she yet again failed to give any solid indication of what the authorities know about Palestine Action that leads them to think the group is nefarious enough to warrant singling out in this way. I reckon I might have half-believed Ms Cooper, a politician for whom I have some respect, two decades ago, but the track record of every UK govt since Blair's in terms of their transparency apropos dealings in the Middle East has led me towards a position of intensely healthy scepticism regarding what they claim to be their honest dealings.

I think the news might come as a bit of relief to The Missus since I've made it very clear that if we happen to find ourselves in the UK when marches related to the situation in Gaza are on-going, then I'll make sure I'm there declaring my support for the proscribed group. It isn't that I'm keen to serve time in one of His Majesty's prisons (especially not Strangeways, thank you) but if necessary I will. And getting sent down for holding up a cartoon has a real appeal about it.

True Romance

For me it's been a day spent getting up close and personal with Fyodor Dostoevsky. Meanwhile Noi has been a good deal more productive in her ironing and biscuiting. All built on the solid base of an exchange of suitably slushy cards this morning and a flower or two in the afternoon. None of this setting the world on fire, I suppose, but keeping it nicely warm.

Embracing The Peace

Didn't need to rush back to work after Friday Prayers for once, so we enjoyed teh & vadai & samosas at the Al Rayyan eatery at the back of Masjid Darussalam as the early afternoon flowed gently around us. Nice to conclude a week spent running around, sometimes enjoyably, sometimes in a mild panic, with three hours of distinct peace. The younger version of myself seemed to need to be active & involved, if memory serves me well; the older version, not so much. A lesson learned there somewhere.

The Human Touch

Found myself back at the National University Hospital for a couple of hours this afternoon, fulfilling my final scheduled appointment with my brain doctor. We reached agreement that my grey matter is functioning effectively, I'm happy to say, which means I have no further appointments scheduled related to my mental & physical breakdown of late 2022, which means I'm a very happy soldier indeed.

Funnily enough I enjoy being around the hospital, and I think Noi does too, so in a way I'll miss popping up there now and again. In truth, since I owe my life to the care of their excellent doctors, nurses and ancillary staff I harbour a genuine affection for the place such that I find it difficult to criticise the organisation on any level. Which is why I've felt severely conflicted regarding my irritation over their records department - and manfully avoided expressing that irritation in this Far Place. But today I'm going to say something.

And that something is this: I reckon it was a big mistake for the hospital administrators to close down the actual office where people could go to in order to ask for their records and put the whole shebang online. The app they provide to enhance communications in general terms is fine, but not in relation to trying to get one's records. I know this for sure since I've been trying to get hold of material that I need to apply for medical insurance in Malaysia and I just couldn't navigate the system (for a full three months). This wasn't due to my sometimes wilful inadequacy in relation to the wonders of tech. Take my word for it, it was genuinely impossible.

But here's the thing. Today, I triumphed and finally got access to what I needed (fairly desperately as I have an application deadline to negotiate) but this wasn't through the help of the app. The doctor I went to see actually listened to the problem I faced sympathetically and went to considerable trouble to contact an amazing lady, Ms Jessica Ko from the records department, who literally ran around initially to find us and then assist us in completing the necessary paperwork to get what we needed, and somehow remained smiling throughout.

So wobbly human stuff once again out-performs the super-efficient and probably expensive system that most likely has put a fair few folk out of work in the interests of cost savings. Could there be a lesson in all this?

A Strong Start

After an eventfully fun-packed day we got back in time to catch the first episode of the second series of Cuci on Suria TV. This is the show based on the unlikely premise of the dealings of a post-traumatic cleaning company (hope I phrased that correctly) based in this Far Place. It's a genuinely excellent programme, and, based on this first episode, it looks as if the quality of the first series is going to be maintained.

By its very nature the content veers towards the potentially melodramatic - tonight's episode opened with a brutal murder - but the writers somehow keep it grounded in the realities of day-to-day life. There was a typically thought-provoking sequence based around the stress and strain of being in a fairly low-income occupation just now that genuinely furrowed the brow without any strained emoting.

Sometimes it's enough to just quietly become the character without doing much at all of anything.

Stunned

If anyone had told me before today that it was possible for me to be utterly stunned by the depiction of an act of violence in a work of fiction I would told them that that was next to impossible. After all, this is a reader who took Blood Meridian in his stride and that's about as extreme as it's possible to get. (Actually, I found McCarthy's great novel extremely disturbing, but I could cope without physically shuddering.)

And then today I read the conclusion of Chapter 3, Book 11 of The Brothers Karamazov. To say my reaction to Dostoevsky's penultimate paragraph was visceral is an understatement. To add to the impact, I happened to be reading it in a very public place and had to hide my state of disturbance. Fortunately I was able to cover up. Just.

A Sense Of Accomplishment

Saddened by the recent news that the Pangs are winding up their company Pangdemonium. I can't say I've seen a huge amount of what they've put on stage, but every show I've seen has been obviously first rate. In fact, I'm feeling a tad guilty I wasn't able to give them more support than I did in terms of watching their stuff. But that's something of a sort of systemic problem here. Productions have short runs and schedules are unforgiving. (I know that sounds like a weak excuse, but it's actually a strong one. Case in point: I was intending to attend the two most recent SSO concerts, but on both the nights in question it was absolutely impossible that I could have got to the concert hall. Grrgh!) 

Must say though, I reckon that Mr & Mrs Pang must feel a remarkable sense of accomplishment given the quantity and quality of work they've somehow managed to get up on those stages across the decades. I've long been of the opinion that much as producing great drama, poetry, prose, music, painting, sculpture and all that arty stuff depends on talented individuals, the sense of a supportive 'arts scene' is a necessity. And the contribution of those who put in the hard labour to carve out that scene can be curiously over-looked. Happily, it seems the Pangs are being genuinely celebrated for their achievements.

I hope they've made a ship-load of money, but rather suspect they haven't.

Eyes Wide Open

Over the last year or so I've learned one heck of a lot from James Payne's Great Art Explained videos on YouTube. Watching them (usually more than once) has been a reminder of what a boon it is to sit at the feet of a great and enthusiastic teacher.

Yesterday I was blown away by his account of Mark Rothko's Seagram Murals. I've had the great good fortune to have visited the room in The Tate with nine of the murals exhibited and that was quite an experience, but I wish I'd known then what I know now through Mr Payne's brilliant commentary.

I've never really been able to 'see' visual art through my own limited eyes. It's quite something to have the privilege of the vision of others.

Zonked

Somehow got myself to the gym after winding up the afternoon's training session with my Basketball guys. It was hard work on that elliptical trainer, I can tell you. But I'm glad I went - though I'm paying the price now. Will pour myself into bed some time soon, when I find the energy to do so. Digging deep for traces now.

Another Reason To Be Cheerful

Noi set off early for Jakarta this morning and is now happily ensconced with her chums, having a jolly good time. I'm surviving on her signature shepherd's pie, cunningly prepared amidst all our rushing round yesterday. So no need to worry about me, thank you. Enough goodies surround me to see me through the empty weekend. And I'm playing Prince's Emancipation at a satisfying volume to fill the space.

The big highlight yesterday was not the frantic packing for the Indonesian capital as you may have falsely assumed. Rather it was our making the acquaintance of the little chap featured below, who's just a week old. Not sure what it is about babies that makes even an old cynic like me cheerful, but the magic always works.

A Minor Challenge

We're planning to rise extra early tomorrow. Noi has an early flight to Jakarta; she's off with her chums on a sort of sewing holiday. I'm not exactly looking forward to rising in advance of the Dawn Prayer, but it's not a bad way of gearing up to the challenges of Ramadhan. In truth, the whole day has been a bit of a rush, but since that's true of every day at this time of year I can't honestly claim it's been exceptional.

True Greatness

Now enmeshed in Book 8 of The Brothers Karamazov, with the focus on Mitya. There's still a way to go in the novel, which makes me very happy indeed as I don't really want it to end. Will FD sustain this level of brilliance? I'll be surprised if he doesn't as everything so far has had the air of effortless spontaneity, as if the book is simply an improvisation of sheer genius, which can't possibly go wrong as it doesn't quite know where it's going.

I've previously rated, for more than a few years, Anna Karenina and Madam Bovary as the two greatest novels of the 19C in any language but I suspect I'll soon be changing my mind.

Every episode of The Brothers K seems to achieve a kind of perfection, but I'd rate the Gold Mines chapter, in which Mitya tries to borrow 3000 roubles from Madame Khokhlakov the funniest pages of any prose I've ever read. Better than Dickens at his considerable best. And I'm not even sure that Dostoevsky intends to be funny.

By Moonlight

Exceptionally beautiful full moon last night, illuminating us as we made painfully slow progress along the North-South Highway to this Far Place. The irony was sweet and bitter all at once. Arrived late, but happily in one piece, ready to fight another day. That day being today. 

Not sure I actually won the fight, mind you. But another gorgeous moon this evening made all my struggles irrelevant. 

Side By Side

Conscious of the gaps, some quite substantial, in my exposure to the works of musicians I hugely admire, I've been experimenting of late with playing stuff in the background, usually via Spotify on my laptop, without trying too hard to take it in. In some ways this goes completely against my philosophy that it grossly undervalues music not to give it reasonably full attention, but consistency has never been my strong point. That's how I'd come to play the full three hours of Prince's (wonderful) Emancipation (which is now receiving the treatment for the second time even as I type this.)

Earlier today I happened upon a rather tasty commentary on George Harrison's 1974 album Dark Horse, which reminded me of just how good the ex-Beatle's solo stuff could be (obviously I'm thinking All Things Must Pass here) and just how little I really knew of it. So I interrupted my second run of Emancipation (getting hooked, obviously) and banged on George's third solo album.

The result of the juxtaposition was disorientating, to say the least. To say that initially I found Dark Horse plodding would be an understatement. Four tracks in and I thought it unlistenable and put a merciful, decisive halt to the proceedings. Every song from His Purple Majesty I'd felt as so casually funky that it was impossible to stop listening even when I wasn't actually listening - if you see what I mean. And that experience seemed to have coloured my consciouness.

But I felt a bit guilty over all this. The guy commenting on Dark Horse was very much a fan, yes, but a sensible, well-informed one, and he'd had some very positive things to say about most of the tracks. It felt necessary somehow, to resume playing the album through, and I did just that a couple of hours later. At which point it began to sound okay, if not downright promising. I still couldn't get on with the Xmas song Ding Dong, but charitably recalled that I'd quite liked it as a single when it came out. Indeed, I reckon I'm ready to give it all another listen in the near-ish future, though I don't feel compelled to do so (in contrast to my reactions to Prince's 3 CD epic.) 

Not sure what I've learnt from this, except being reminded not to rush too readily to judgement of any music that aspires to a degree of seriousness. Oh, and not to juxtapose anything less than brilliant next to Prince once seduced by his inimitable groove. 

Relaxing

Optimal relaxation achieved. Nodding off with brutal efficiency.

The house awash with food and noise and children. Not necessarily in that order. And not disturbed in the slightest.

Something Sweet

Rushing the finishing touches necessary to setting off having just come back from the stillness and  peace of Friday Prayers. Today's muezzin was possessed of an extraordinarily mellifluous voice. A practical call to worship combined with pointless beauty. The melody existing simply for its own sake.

Some time later (22.15): Just arrived after negotiating some pretty slow traffic on the highway and now at Wati & Aziz's place enjoying a happy plateful of roti prata telur bawang dua + teh tarik super gajah = satisfaction x 10 = optimal.

On Our Way, Again

We'll be making our way north tomorrow. Destination: the homestead in Melaka. Purpose: a pre-Ramadhan kenduri with as many of the family as can gather. All very jolly.

But a surprising amount of preparation & thinking ahead is required even for a short break. And I'm doing some of the necessary now.

Is it all worth it? Oh yes, emphatically so. (But do wish us luck with the traffic, if you get the chance.)

Not Entirely Integrated

I'm frequently puzzled by people who consider themselves people of integrity. So often they are entirely sincere about this without a trace of hypocrisy. But it seems so obvious to me that you'd need to be a remarkable person not to live without compromising your moral certainties at least some of the time. I'm painfully aware of the extent to which this is true for myself.

Case in point: Earlier in the evening Noi was talking about electric and hybrid cars in relation to the policy being rolled out by the government in the direction of moving car-owners towards owning such. Now I came to the conclusion quite a while ago that it was ethically the right thing for me to buy such a vehicle. But I've never taken action on this, for a variety of fairly good practical reasons; unfortunately none of these genuinely takes priority over what I see as the essential 'rightness' of acquiring one.

So here I am, still causing more damage to the environment than strictly necessary, but, typically, compromising as I so often do on key questions. 

Ouch.

Something Funny

I've manfully resisted posting anything at all about the recent revival of the Mighty Reds. The triumphs over City & the Goners were sweet, and sweeter still was the sense of release in finally being able to childishly taunt their supporters. But going public on all this so early might just be a step too far, so I won't.

But I can't resist linking to a typically brilliant cartoon by David Squires on the weekend's victory. This made me laugh immoderately, as did much of the stuff BTL. Enjoy, if you can. (Arsenal supporters are exempt from the invitation.)

Strong Stuff

Was knocked sideways today by a very powerful article in the Graun. The big interview, featuring Ian Russell, the father of the poor girl, Milly, who took her own life back in 2017 in large part due to the darker influences on social media, opens with a heartbreaking paragraph and then veers into some of the sanest commentary on the dangers of social media and what we might do about them that I've ever read. Mr Russell strikes me as an extraordinary man, admirable in every way. 

And a devastating contrast to those who control social media platforms and make lots of cash from doing so. I thought I loathed them prior to reading the article, but some of the details related by Milly's dad turned that loathing into something quite disturbing. A kind of rage. Fortunately it's the eminently sane Mr Russell who's a key figure in the fight against their pernicious influence and not myself.

I wish him well. We all should. In a world of noise, we need his voice.

A Bit More Ranting

So here goes with an attempt to expand a little on Tuesday's comments. What went wrong with IT in Education, apart from pretty much everything? (Yes, I'm exaggerating, but, honestly, not all that much.)

Let's start with a sort of foundational truism that everyone I know takes for granted: the new technology hugely facilitates communication at every level. The problem is that I'm convinced it doesn't. I reckon it hinders real communication.

How so? Well before I attempt a quick explanation let me explain where my sense of certainty comes from. I started teaching a good decade and a half or so before all the IT stuff really kicked in (which I'd date from roughly 1994. I think emailing in schools here started around 1995.) And teachers had few if any problems communicating with each other and with students. As far as I recall schools were organised such that they managed to do all the things back then that they do now, the obvious exceptions being holding classes and meeting parents online - but that only really started as a result of the pandemic and can't honestly be seen as necessary. You could easily phone parents back in 1978. And I'm inclined to think it's more effective teaching kids in a classroom than through a screen.

Particularly relevant to my own experience is the fact that I directed a number of quite 'big' dramatic/musical productions for schools in those early years. Now I'd say that of anything I've encountered in school life doing a big show (even a 'small' one) is the most dauntingly complex exercise in terms of the need to communicate effectively with lots of people at lots of levels. But it was do-able, without emails and messaging through various platforms.

And here comes the counter-intuitive thing. Communication was easier then. Any messaging had to be clear and kept to a minimum because (joyfully) all the platforms we now take for granted did not exist, so the capacity for last-minute changes of mind just wasn't there. These days it's by no means unusual to find out that a fairly important meeting has been postponed or rescheduled close to the last minute, often in the name of so-called flexibility. 

Someone, somewhere, forgot that fixity & predictability are valuable, indeed necessary, qualities in the general run of things and even when attempting genuinely creative exercises.

I don't know of any colleague these days who doesn't complain about the burden created by the sheer amount of 'information' out there - the tsunami of 'messages'. To adopt a quasi-scientific metaphor, the signal-to-noise ratio no longer favours clarity.

So much noise!

Narratives

I'm just here. I have no story.

The Right Trousers

I was feeling a touch despondent the other week having made myself face up to bad news on the trousers front. My favourite pair - actually my wedding trousers - had developed a badly placed hole in the pocket on the right hand side. In fact, The Missus and I reached agreement it was time to discard them, in line with our policy of getting lean & mean (as per my New Year Resolution for 2025 which we deemed still operational.)

I suppose it was remembering that said trousers had been tailored by her old friend Azman, in his shop in Peninsula Plaza, that prompted Noi to get out the sewing kit and attempt to remedy the offending gap. And I'm very happy indeed to say the remedy proved successful. I donned the garment throughout the working week and all held steady.

With luck the trousers might just last another three decades. 

Lost Worlds

Thinking of Dad, on this the anniversary of his death. Considering how out of step he so often seemed about the world around him, that faintly baffled air he exuded, it suddenly occurred to me how deeply uncomfortable he was with any kind of technological advance since the days of his youth. He didn't like to use the telephone and, if memory serves me well, he had little if any appreciation of the access afforded by the telly to a brave new world. Yes, he watched tv, but I can't recall him having any kind of favourite programme, and his frequent word for the kind of comedies I enjoyed was stupid. In contrast Mum definitely had her favourites and enjoyed identifying which programmes particular actors had been in before, a game Dad could never play - to her irritation, if I remember rightly.

Springsteen's great lines from Independence Day seem so apt for the middle-aged Jack Connor: there's just different people coming down here now and they see things in different ways / And soon everything we've known will just be swept away. I think that by the time I was 17 it had all been swept away for him - the familiar, tough but comforting world of England in the late 1940's. He could be relaxed in Denton Working Men's Club on Frederick Street, and in his little garden on Cargate Road but few other places.

Despite the considerable changes I've seen since I was a teenager I don't think the world of the 1970's has been swept away so completely. I'm luckier in that than Dad, as I have been in so many other aspects of life.

Sad.

Great Reading

Is listening to an audiobook as good as reading? was the question posed in an article in today's Graun. Must say, I'd have thought the answer was a bit of a no-brainer. Of course it is.

Slightly surprised the piece in question fails to mention the obvious fact that many 'readers' in past centuries were illiterate. How so, you ask. Well look at it like this. I reckon there's a good chance the majority of those enthralled by Dickens's great novels were spellbound by literate friends reading from the magazines in which they were first published, or were families gathered around the paterfamilias as he delivered the stories in the way I suspect their author deep down would have preferred to have them 'read'. (Assuming the father could do the police in different voices as per the wonderful Sloppy in Our Mutual Friend.)

In fact, listening to an audiobook could well provide the richer experience of a text. And definitely does in the case of plays that demand to be listened to rather than read on the page.

A Mild Rant

We have an excellent IT Department at my place of work. The guys in it have considerable expertise and are always ready to help. So why do I find myself enveloped in a haze of irritation, of an almost permanent nature these days, related to what might broadly be termed IT in Education? (Case in point, I got back home today a good twenty minutes later than really necessary, essentially due to a malfunctioning IT system.)

The funny thing is, I think I know the answer (or, rather, some of the answers) to the question I frame above. Today I articulated some of my thoughts to a colleague who was helpfully working with me to figure out another irritating IT-related issue that needed figuring out, and which we solved. We think. I was gratified that he gave much, if not all, of what I was saying credence.

Which made me think that one day, and this isn't that day, I might just make more of an attempt to share my (possible) wisdom with the world. The difficulty will be avoiding a rant that won't do anyone but me any good. (And I'm not sure that venting the irritation I feel will lead to any real relief; it might just inadvertently thicken the haze.)

The Wow Factor

Two distinct WOW moments today:

1) Ran the video for Prince's Sign O' The Times and was knocked sideways by it and the music. I suppose the contrast with Girls & Boys, which I'd played earlier in the lesson had something to do with it. That, and the complete perfection of the song & its production. (And I usually detest drum machines!)

2) Was reading The Grand Inquisitor chapter of Dostoevsky's supreme masterpiece. Stunned. (And more than once.)

Something in common in terms of my experience with each text: I know both very well indeed. Can't begin to number how many times I've listened to Prince's song (possibly over a hundred) and watched the video (probably above thirty views); and I've read The Grand Inquisitor as a standalone piece at least three times, once as part of a Philosophy of Religion course back in my undergraduate days.

Funny, then, they can still make such an impact on me. I suppose I should analyse why, but I can't be bothered. Being WOWWED lies beyond analysis. Possibly beyond reason.

Cheerful Anticipation

Just back from late night shopping at Clementi Mall. The supermarket there is now thoroughly geared up for the approaching Chinese New Year celebrations, and I must say I enjoy the goofy cheerfulness of it all. This sits in contrast to my generally negative feelings regarding the preparations undertaken in the Xmas season. Not sure where this bias stems from. I suspect I've over-dosed on Christmas cheer over a lifetime, hence the complete lack of logic I now embody. 

It helps not to be involved in the build-up to CNY in any meaningful way. No skin in the game, as it were. Just a happy adjacency - and a welcome holiday just at the right time.

Presently

Eating very well, thanks for asking. Lots of goodies coming in to the apartment this January for some reason, and The Missus on top form in terms of providing the comestibles.

Thinking of getting a bit more serious as I age. But most likely won't.

Seeing possibilities. Not many, but enough.

Listening to Prince's Emancipation over Spotify on the laptop. Hardly know the album and very happy to get acquainted.

Reading Dostoevsky, Henry Vaughan, the big Jazz book (love the photos) and bits & pieces here & there. The Brothers K dominating, hardly surprisingly.

Expecting bad news out of the big game in Manchester. But living in hope (a familiar state.)

Losing patience with all aspects of IT in education.

Anticipating a month of fasting coming soon. A bit intimidated, as always, but, assuming I can cope, the rewards are sort of guaranteed.

Writing this.

Replete

Sausages & mash just now, with some cunningly mingled onion. Felt like licking the gravy off the plate, it was so good. 

Always distinctly satisfactory to get to the end of the day in some small style.

Switching Over

Was talking this morning to students about dealing with uncertainty and heard interesting bits & pieces from them of their experiences of such and ideas of the best way to respond. Then at the end of a pretty long day found myself listening to an obviously well-informed commentator on American politics talking about the current state of play between the US and Iran. Found it all a bit much as Mum would have said and replaced it with the comfort of Jerry Garcia & co doing the business live. (I'm still on a bit of a Grateful Dead roll.)

Extremely unsure of what this says about my character. But it's not something I feel all that proud of, even if I'm enjoying those sweet and strangely comforting sounds as I write this.

Riches

The death of Bobby Weir got me thinking, as the deaths of old rockers often do these days. I realised I could easily lose myself for days or weeks in the Grateful Dead and offshoots' back catalogue and I'm not even a fan, as such, not even close to Deadhead status.

But, gosh, weren't they a truly great band (pun intended)? The masters of music that doesn't seek to draw attention to itself, but just unfolds in the moment.

Under The Weather

Thought I'd successfully staved off the coughing & spluttering so many family & colleagues & students have been afflicted with of late. I was wrong. My nose started running (in a big way) around 5.30 pm, and I've struggled manfully ever since. It wasn't a big surprise as I'd been nursing a headache in the early part of the day and that's often a precursor of a full-scale cold for me.

Now moaning (unmanfully, to be honest) and feeling deeply sorry for myself. I'm not good at illness so the sooner I'm cured the better.

Extremely Satisfying

Now firmly embarked on The Brothers Karamazov, having reached the end of Book 1. Astonishing stuff, even for a hardened reader of Dostoevsky. I thought there might be some build-up to the first provocatively 'scandalous' scene, but that came almost immediately and the pace hasn't slowed down since. Almost all the Karamazovs are crazy, but since no one else in the novel approaches any reasonable level of sanity this hardly matters.

And FD leaves you in no doubt he's dealing with the deepest questions of human existence amidst the crazy extremes.

I'm loving every page. (And it helps that I reckon that translators Richard Pevear & Larissa Volokhonsky really capture the idiomatically varied individual voices of the charaters. Of course, I have no idea what's in the Russian but none of the other translations I've read of the earlier novels gave me such a strong sense of that polyphonic variety.)

Just Dozing

It wasn't that I slept badly last week, but, as is so often the case in the first week of work after a relaxing break, I can't honestly say I slept terribly well. So I was looking forward to a bit of a lie-in this morning, but also keenly aware that in recent times once I've woken for and completed Dawn Prayers it hasn't always been easy to go back to bed and re-enter the land of nod. And that turned out to be the case this early morn.

But after getting up, enjoying the cup that cheers (x2), showering and listening to some sweet sounds, it's been a day on which I've found it suspiciously easy to nod off. Case in point: I popped up to the newish sort of shopping centre called Geneo, opposite NUH, whilst Noi was concocting a heap of curry puffs at the homestead, and came close to dozing in public at the nifty little garden they maintain out at the back. Someone has thoughtfully placed reclining chairs by the little ponds there and I stretched out on one intending to read a page or two but almost conked out after a paragraph.

In case you think I'm writing this in a spirit of complaint, I need to tell you that is very far indeed from the truth. I consider a dozy day as being amongst life's deepest blessings. And I wouldn't mind a repeat tomorrow to be honest.

Perfectly Monstrous

Need to give credit where credit is undoubtedly due. I forget to mention yesterday in my brief account of my recovery from musical torpidity that Sir Paul and his stellar live band of recent years played a crucial part in the process. Listening to the double-header of Let Me Roll It and Jet as performed live on Later... With Jools Holland happily blew my head off in SAC in the early part of the week. And to think that Macca was nearly seventy years young at this point in his illustrious career.

It helps that the band is monstrously good, especially Abe Laboriel, the monster on drums. I mean, Blimey!

Reviving

Here's an odd thing. I'd been mildly out of tune with the wonderful world of music - all varieties of musics, that is - throughout December. Yes, I did some listening, but it was all a bit forced. I felt sort of outside everything I tried to open my ears to, even stuff I deeply love. It was all okay, often pretty fine, but no more than that. So all sort of tepidly disappointing. And the irony is that I had oceans of time to listen.

I vaguely suspected that all this might change when I became genuinely busy again. And guess what? My suspicions have been realised. Thankfully!

Just played VdGG's Trisector and am deeply glad I did.

(Actually The Missus told me to turn it down as it was very loud, and I dutifully did so, and it still sounded blisteringly brilliant.)

Of Real Value

Chanced upon a fascinating piece over at the reliably rewarding Open Culture related to a pithy Japanese saying of penetrating insight. Those Japanese certainly know a thing or three.

And all this a useful reminder of my limitations in terms of in-depth knowledge of other cultures. I mean, I thought I knew quite a bit about the aesthetics of this culture, but really it's quite a little. Keen on learning more, though, and there's no excuse not to given the excellence of this website and those like it. 

It's not all AI slop out there.

In Retrospect

Broke my New Year's resolution already by looking back to this date ten years ago. No plausible excuse for doing so really, but I'll attempt one anyway. Remembering the wide open spaces is a way of looking forward to encountering them again one day. A way of knowing there's always a world elsewhere, even if the walls seem to be closing in.

Broken News

There's a lot of breaking news today, said Noi just now, particularly in relation to a certain POTUS and his unfathomable behaviour. She was thinking primarily of the frightening sense of destabilization in the world as we know it. Couldn't help but agree.

But, rather immaturely, my focus at this point is on the news out of Old Trafford. Deeply embarrassing stuff. Is this any way to run a football club? I ask myself and the world in general. (The answer is No, by the way.)

Clearing The Mind

Enjoyed a walk at West Coast Park this morning. Excellent way to shake out the creases and clean up a grubbily dusty mind.

Bit of a contradiction here. When I'm walking alone I tend to do a lot of thinking and, on occasions, actual detailed planning. When I'm walking with someone else, usually Noi, my thoughts are enjoyably limited to my immediate needs (few) and surroundings (rich.) So this morning my immediate concerns were limited almost entirely to the flora & fauna on view.

Sadly I'm now back at the table planning for the week ahead and cluttering the grey matter once again. But a morning's freedom from this kind of thinking is something to be grateful for. And the prata & teh tarik that followed were none too shabby either. 

Not So Complicated

It's a complicated life they have, said The Missus in relation to the increasingly complex comings & goings & wheelings & dealings portrayed on The Morning Show. We watched a full two episodes today, thus getting good value from our subscription to Apple TV and breaking my records for watching stuff on the Goggle Box over recent years. It's all absurdly fascinating with plenty of what Noi terms glamour. (She came up with a pithy phrase early in today's viewing regarding this aspect of the world of the rich & powerful in American media, but I'm afraid I've forgotten the exact wording.)

Must say, I feel a powerful sense of relief that the world on our tv screen bears no resemblance whatsoever to our own happily limited life & lives. Something to celebrate as I set about the nasi goreng ikan bilis we're about to share. Eat slowly 'cause the food is hot, says Noi, as we ready ourselves to eat. That's quite enough excitement for me. No further glamour required. 

A Timely Reminder

The khutbah for today's Friday Prayers was in English and had quite an impact on me. It wasn't that the sermon dealt with anything particularly new or unusual. I'm well aware of the Islamic teaching on the need for steadfastness and perseverance in trying situations, which was today's theme. And, let's face it, the notion is hardly exclusive to Islam. So why the impact?

In the course of  the morning I'd needed to deal with three distinctly irritating situations and I'd done so pretty well, but not well enough to be able to genuinely rise above the irritations involved. I'd score myself at 60%, with distinct room for improvement, and could well be over-generous in my estimate. The simple but deep wisdom of the khutbah helped reassure me I'd done reasonably well but left me in no doubt that doing well on just one morning wasn't enough.

The Imam's emphasis on the everyday nature of the challenges being referenced also hit home. I'd been discombobulated by the trivial throughout the morning, proof of my own smallness. But now was offered a chance to grow. Slowly.

Not Looking Back

We all know her in her various guises: 

She's got everything she needs / She's an artist, she don't look back.

In the year ahead I am resolved to imitate that lack of concern for the past and make of myself something new. (Well, if not new, then at least trying not to be so old.)