Still Mildly Ranting

The mild rant apropos the iniquities of IT in Education in which I indulged back in January and expanded upon, rather more intemperately, a few days later never really went away. It never does. Every time I hit a hitch with a screen that doesn't function, a cable that doesn't connect, a connection that suddenly goes slow for no reason I can fathom, a bureaucratic webpage that I have to fill in which doesn't allow me access, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, I get hot under the old collar.

But this is not out of blind stupidity. I don't expect the world to run smoothly for me; in fact, I'm mildly surprised when it does.

No, the thing is that when these silly hitches occur in the classroom I recall the earliest very difficult months of my job, when I was learning painfully - but eventually successfully - how to do it. And that involved figuring out the basics. Like how to get a class of extremely non-compliant kids to get on with what needed to be gotten on with and do some real learning. And that involved ensuring every step of a lesson, especially the tricky stuff at the start, flowed. Which meant that each step needed to work, had to work, non-negotiably. 

And now, when I'm dealing with yet another unpredictable malfunction as a lesson begins, I feel for the long-ago younger version of me who would not have been able to guarantee what was necessary to guarantee to function competently. And eventually excel. And I wonder about all the 'beginning' teachers I encounter, especially those faced with kids of the non-compliant variety, of which there are more than a few even in this sunny Far Place, and how often they have to deal with problems created solely by the stuff that everyone was told would somehow make teaching easier, more efficient, more 'fun', yadda, yadda, yadda.

Kids' Stuff

An excellent 'listing article' (not sure if there's a proper word for the genre) ('listicle'? no, don't think so) published earlier in the month in the Graun has stuck in my mind. 25 books to read before you turn 25 isn't exactly a memorable title, but the list itself is. And has reminded this reader how much he misses books aimed at kids. 

Must say, I think seven is a bit too early for the classic Tom's Midnight Garden, but that's the title that most triggered my longing. Just brilliant. Wish I could teach it again. And again.

Putting It Into Words

I mentioned to a class today that sometimes when I'm struggling with a piece of writing that I can't quite 'get' - especially a tricky poem - I read it out loud and surprisingly often something clicks. I didn't expand further on this, but it occurs to me that I experience something similar if someone asks me to explain something I'm not quite sure of. When I try to articulate my understanding I frequently find myself clarifying what it is I think I understand and, again, ''getting it' in a way I don't think I really did before I started talking. It's all a bit odd.

And here's a further thought. Putting all this in writing can help precipitate what seems an even deeper, or possibly more confident, undertanding.

Of course, there's always the possibility of being wrong and just not knowing it. But that's all part of the fun, I suppose.

The Best Bits

As I hope I made clear yesterday, Randai Macbeth was all good in this spectator's eyes, but I'll have a go at specifying the best bits by way of a clumsy review: 

The bits where the musicians came in suddenly (musically, I mean, and usually loudly) at the completion of a scene/act/segment, ensuring a rapid pace forward; the bits where the super-athletic chorus moved in snappily, crisply, synchronised fashion, creating their own sound effects with clapping & cries; the bit where King Duncan's corpse was carried out, but it wasn't a body, it was just a cleverly folded piece of white cloth that shrouded the unseen late king; the bit where drops/streaks of red stuff streamed repetitively across a screen above the stage action during the aforementioned murder; the bit where Lady M smiled knowingly in melodramatically hypocritical style towards the audience (getting a few laughs, and rightly so) having feigned innocence after the murder as suspicions mount; the bit with the beautifully choregraphed killing of Macbeth by his nemesis Macduff, suggesting something like a genuine slaughter; the bits featuring the manically over-the-top witches, fairly glowing with unsettling intensity; the bit where Banquo's ghost came, looking down the tunnel of the chorus at the king, in a nicely underplayed sequence, wisely eschewing the manifold melodramatic possibilities for once; the bit where the actor playing Macduff performed the set-piece introductory speech, with details of the theatrical traditions involved, and suitable apologies for any short-comings on the part of the performers (at which point I decided I wouldn't mind being cast as Macduff myself & getting the speech); the bit with Macbeth sprawled very dead at the end (but keeping his head) in a neat, unshowy, but striking little tableau.

Need to stop there. Take it from me, it was top rate stuff. I loved every minute. (And I just completely forgot to reference the great songs interspersing the action!!) 

An Afternoon To Remember

It was Noi who noticed that, as part of the Pesta Raya season celebrated in and around the Esplanade, a play entitled Randai Macbeth was to be performed over this weekend. She sort of half-shyly asked if we might go along some three weeks back, and I'm very glad indeed she did. We caught today's matinee (and sadly final performance) this afternoon and I have to tell you, it ranks up there as one of the best things I've ever had the pleasure of seeing in any theatre anywhere.

Put simply - in fact, overly simply - it's a Malay version of the Scottish Play. So when it was first broached that we might attend I did have a reservation - but this was not that we'd be watching something performed in Bahasa Melayu. To be honest, this was something of a pull factor as I knew immediately that the novelty of the language would help me off-set the weariness I feel whenever viewing the play is suggested. I think I said it before in this very Far Place: I've taught the play so often that I'm suffering from such a degree of the fatigue of familiarity that it's the one Shakespeare play I'd refuse to teach again. As it is, I had to force myself to watch the brilliant movie version starring (I use the word advisedly) the mighty Mr Denzel Washington. The fact that I watched it twice is sort of mitigated by my having to break up both viewings into smaller, highly appreciated, chunks.

Anyway this is drifting from the central point about today's experience. The show was fabulous in almost every respect, and I feel the need to tell the world this. But there were so many good things about it that I'm a bit overwhelmed at the moment - and looking forward to my dinner, which is a bit of a distraction from writing too much about the show now. So here's my solution: inspired by my overuse of the word bit in the previous sentence I intend to recall all the best bits, of which there were an abundance, ahead of tomorrow's post and list as many as possible when I put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, or whatever.

Digging Deep

Left the gym just now nursing a deep & abiding thirst, a sign I'd been pushing it a bit, effort wise. Except I hadn't really, it was just that my body had been heavy & out of sorts prior to setting out and it's been a heavily hot day and I'm just that little bit frazzled on account of a week of work that stretched these elderly sinews. And now, with several glasses of chilled water down my gullet and time to recover I still feel like I could down a gallon of juice and nod off for three and a half days without stirring.

All signs I must be doing something right, I suppose.

Concluding

Approaching the end of Syawal, so only one night left for the twinkling lights to serve their tour of duty. And we've been concluding visiting family & friends by having a good time this evening at Nahar & Yati's. A wide range of comestibles (of course) have left us happily thinking of spending tomorrow at home with a simple sandwich to round off the month. It's all highly satisfactory, I must say with a happy, if irritating, complacency.

In A Great Moment

I'm all for living in the moment, zen-mindfulness style, but lousy at actually doing so. Easily distracted, as they say, or used to say, in school reports. Not sure if anyone in teaching is allowed to be that honest now. But generally I try, if given the space, to launch a quick review of great moments of the day. It's sometimes quite surprising how many one can salvage even from a pretty rotten span of hours.

So today involved a fair amount of running about like a maniac. But more than the usual number of distinctly bright spots. And here's the winner, by a short head:

I chanced upon a sensational five and a half minutes of the latest incarnation of Cardiacs live in Manchester of all places. And promptly lost myself, having a minor out-of-body experience in SAC (also, of all places.) If someone had told me they could play Fiery Gun Hand note perfect on stage - making it look effortless - I would have questioned their sanity. But no longer.

And it doesn't stop there. Just after I finished (ready to buzz off to a lesson) I realised that the entire concert!!!!!! is up there on YouTube waiting for me to blow my mind to. Well, that's my entertainment for the weekend fixed!

Re-charging

Another long one! (Day, that is.) But quite a bit of fun here & there.

And now run-down. Like my phone, which is plugged in and re-charging in what looks like a passively, easy, relaxed kind of way. I, in contrast, need to eat & drink the various bits & pieces cunningly provided by The Missus. 

I think I know who gets the better deal between me and my phone. And it's not the phone! Hah!

Long Day's Journey

Gosh it's been a long day. And I still need roughly four extra hours to get done all that needs to be done. Oh dear.

Clarity Of Thought

In troubled times it's comforting to be able to read material of such clarity of thought and expression that it offers hope for our benighted species. For some time now I've found that especially true of my favourite right-wing, conservatively Catholic philosopher Ed Feser, whose political views, on paper, might to be some degree be seen as diametrically opposed to my own. So it's no surprise that he's taken a typically principled position on the notion of a just war.

And a more recent post outlining his ideas on the nature of various addictions struck me as being one of the most insightful things I've ever read on a particularly difficult topic. Funnily enough it draws on the ideas of another philosopher that in terms of political affiliations I really should have no time for at all, and yet invariably read with gratitude for what he has helped me understand. The two passages Prof Feser quotes from Scruton's excellent little book on Beauty struck me as very interesting when I first read them back at the end of last year (if memory serves me well.) Rereading them makes me realise just how deeply insightful they are.

All this reminds me that I need to consciously read outside what I'm comfortable with socially & politically at least 20% of the time - advice I freely offer to all.

In Preparation

Had a brief but jolly time at the Tekka Centre at Serangoon in the early afternoon hunting down the right kind of bones for Noi's patented Sup Tulang Special. She's now doing wonderful things to said bones ahead of a bit of a do scheduled at Fafa's place on the morrow. I for one intend to grab more than my fair share of the pickings.

After purchasing the bones and chicken pieces and potatoes and carrots and spices and whatnot we proceeded to enjoy a cuppa and appropriate comestibles - samosas for myself and prata for The Missus. Pretty much the perfect outing, I reckon, and I have the evidence to prove it:

In Denial

I contrived to be impressively forgetful over the last 24 hours. My attendance is required for an 'event' at work which will eat up most of tomorrow morning. It involves a not particularly onerous duty, so that isn't a problem. But it means there will be no Saturday morning lie-in and no possibility of an uninterrupted 3 hours or so to get with with some urgent marking. But somehow, despite being entirely aware of said event for at least a couple of months, late yesterday I'd entirely forgotten that the morning had been wiped out, until I suddenly remembered on going to bed.

And then the duty again dropped entirely out of sight for me this morning, until I glanced at my appointments diary over a cuppa. And, finally, by the early afternoon I was considering what music to play on my 'free' morning when the painful reality once more intruded into my day-dreaming. 

Of course, all this might just be a sign of aging, and I'm okay with that. But part of me suspects the truth is that some part of what passes for my mind these days decided denial was the appropriate strategy in ensuring I wouldn't get overly irritated by thoughts of going into work on a weekend. And, I must say, I commend that part for a job well done.

Not Mincing Her Words

Difficult to take in the idea that Mum left us on this date a full fourteen years ago. For some reason I was thinking earlier today of one of her epic anti-Thatcher rants when it occurred to me it's a good job she didn't live to witness the ascent of the current POTUS. Difficult to imagine the kind of outpouring he might have triggered, except for the fact it would have been very long. And very unprintable.

Shouldering The Burden

In those far-off days (circa 1971 - 77) of labouring in factories and industrial cleaning (when not goofing off at school and university) I would never have believed that office work (as performed by the middle-classes) involved any kind of physical strain. And now I know a lot more about it I know it doesn't really. Well, not teaching anyway. Except for niggling little pains and physical irritations.

Like shoulders aching from holding them too tightly, as my shoulders are now doing. It's not exactly painful but it hurts, if you see what I mean.

Generally aching shoulders aren't a problem for me at all, in the ordinary run of things. But when I unconsciously hunch up over the old laptop the folly of doing so can leave its mark. Over time I've come to realise that I need to consciously relax when throwing myself into that kind of work - like getting entangled in e-mails, so generally I avoid the problem. But I've come to realise over the last few days of examining for the oral component of my subject that when I'm engaged with my students in their one-on-one recorded presentations I get extremely tense physically, but not mentally, as if in sympathetic response to the pressures some of them feel.

Much as I've generally enjoyed listening to what they have to say I'll be happy when it's over for them. And even more so for me, just to be more than a bit selfish.

Grooving

Felt a bit flat just now, still on duty after a longish sort of day. Goofed off for 5 minutes or so listening to a great cover of Prince's Kiss, and the world was well, in truth very well indeed, all over again.

Big similarity between Prince & Dylan, aside from the fact they are obvious bona fide geniuses. They invariably provoke great cover versions as well. (The bass on the Phat Hat version is to die for and, of course, there's famously, brilliantly, no such thing on Prince's classic original.) (Oh, and the Phat Hat horns are none too shabby, especially in the final chorus.)

On The Record

As I recorded back in early February I needed considerable help from Dr Shivangi (my current brain doc) and Ms Jessica Koh (the only human representative of the Medical Records Dept at NUH who could be tracked down) to triumph over the hospital's digital bureaucracy and obtain - late last week, finally - the report I needed from the Neurology people to submit to my prospective insurers in Malaysia. It made interesting reading, I must say, for me at least, and shed a little more light on the events of late August & September 2022 with regard to yours truly.

Of course, I struggled with the plentiful technical jargon involved, but it was good to see the word mild featured frequently. At least, this was the case after the reports on the initial scans which featured some pretty heavy evidence of severe brain seizures. Must say, my experience of The Delirium itself didn't feel in the slightest bit mild, but I suppose there's a good chance that some of the various drugs fed into my system to bring me back to sanity might have helped keep me in the strange mental world I inhabited for some three and a half weeks. But it looks as if all I need to worry about now going forward is some (mild) degree of white matter damage in the old brainbox which is pretty common in lots of folk my age. There's no treatment for this - which is why the docs are happy not to see me and I remain happily unmedicated - but the usual stuff about checking for high blood pressure, a decent diet, plenty of exercise, good sleep, etc., etc., applies. Which is very fine indeed by me.

The mystery remains as to why I suddenly lost all touch with reality back in 2022, and almost as suddenly came back again. (Not to mention why my lungs, heart, liver, etc. decided to severely misbehave.) But for me the most pressing puzzle is how I came to sustain what would seem on the surface a kind of double consciousness in the first few days of the breakdown (roughly five or six, I reckon.) Noi and others who were around to try and help are quite clear as to what I got up to on the general ward and it's all highly embarrassing. In fact, just a month or so ago Noi played a bit of a recording she has of me indulging in a spectacular rant and it sounded colourful, to say the least. (Unprintable in polite society, I'm sad to say.)

But all the time I was entertaining, perplexing and generally irritating the world around me in NUH I was in a world elsewhere caught up in a series of interlinked narratives, a place and events I remember extremely vividly. And there is almost zero overlap in terms of the obsessions I manifested in the two entirely separate versions of me. 

Now I can grasp the notion of the Divided Self as made familiar by our chums Dickens & Dostoevsky. But the entirely Divided Consciousness, fascinating as it is, is a step too far. To use a handy colloquialism: I just can't wrap my head around it.

Getting Going

The resumption of 'ordinary' post-Ramadhan reading has proved slower and less steady this year than usual. Probably a sign of aging - a general slowing down. Fortunately I have got going largely as intended (these days I plan my reading ahead, strange as that may sound), so it hasn't been a complete disaster. However, I now find myself still engaging with material I thought I'd have put aside once Syawal arrived - most specifically, the reading of some of the later, shorter surahs from The Holy Qur'an in the translation provided in The Study Qur'an supplemented by another commentary. Actually I find the slow pace of this reading extremely conducive and have half-decided that I might make this activity (confined to an hour or so in the mornings at weekends and holidays) a permanent feature of life in general. We'll see.

The 'big' work of fiction now claiming my attention is Junichiro Tanizaki's The Makioka Sisters. The colleague who provided me with the translation said she thought there were shades of Jane Austen involved in the writing - always a good thing - and after a halting start I'm starting to feel that. Plenty of pages ahead, by the way, and I've a feeling I'm going to relish them. I started the novel after Raya, but I've been rereading Declan Kiberd's commentary on Joyce's great epic Ulysses and Us: The Art of Everyday Living since the last week of Fasting Month. Not sure why. A feeling that I needed to get connected with Joyce again, which has certainly worked for me. Lots of wisdom from Messers Kiberd and Joyce which somehow tied in with key ideas in my mind as Ramadan reached its conclusion and remain pressing in their way as life moves on.

And then there's (still) Finnegans Wake. More than 100 pages on and gloriously, comically, baffled by it all. Plus the great Henry Vaughan read-through wobbles on. Now dealing with various (late?) translations and (gasp!) love poems by the Welsh Wizard and, for the most part, thoroughly enjoying doing so, even if this kind of verse doesn't exactly set my world on fire.

That's all for now, I think. (Believe it or not, I have a list of what I'm supposed to be reading somewhere, but I can't be bothered to check.) Oh, am also rereading and rewatching Pinter's The Birthday Party, but that's not exactly reading, is it? Or is it??

Mixing Around

Paid our first real post-Raya family visit just now. Good to have a public holiday to make visiting seem just that bit more relaxed. I can recall years in the past when getting out and about seemed quite an exertion, even if a necessary one. Perhaps I've mellowed with age: these days I quite look forward to the free munching involved.

Moonmadness

Completely, foolishly, forgot to celebrate yesterday's Great Day of Fools. So as a poor second best today I'm attaching two photos of yesterday's fabulous moon. Hope all who are invested in their folly can happily meet me on the dark side of the moon whence a rather famous bass-playing madman once invited us all.

(Apologies to all for failing to do justice to our lunar chum in my amateurish fashion, but nothing in a mere two dimensions could come close to doing so. Do look up, everyone!)

It's Only Words

I know the Brothers Gibb had a point when they warbled It's only words so tunefully, but words have an odd heft & weight beyond their mere utterance. Today I got to thinking of two words that, through no fault of their own, really get my goat*. 

The first is flourishing (which I even have problems spelling.) And the second is alignment.

To balance things up I'm really rather keen on plurality. And divergence hits the sweet spot.

Not sure what all this says about me, Gentle Reader, but if you happen to figure it out don't feel obliged to share your insight. So often Things are better left unsaid (a phrase which I just goggled to see if anyone has used in a song lyric. It seems that some lass going by the unlikely name Ariane Grande has informed her listeners of such in one of her songs. And good for her, I say!)

*Manchester talk = bother me.

Performance Art

A former colleague from my previous school once told me he couldn't understand how I managed to look so calm and unflustered when talking to a largish audience of parents about the school's programme for its first year students. I'd sort of been selected as the spokesperson for the school in my third and final year there since it was generally agreed that I looked calm in pretty much every public situation, almost as if I was enjoying myself and this would go down well with what nowadays gets termed 'stakeholders'. My answer seemed to take the questioner by surprise, and took me a moment or two to figure out myself since I'd not really ever asked that question of myself at the time in question.

I'm just pretending to be calm. I'm a pretty good actor and it seems to work. (Not sure that that's exactly what I said, but it's close.)

What I didn't get into is the weirdness of acting and the way you (well, me, anyway) start to feel exactly what you are pretending to feel. To this day my pulse races - I think - before speaking in public (except in front of a class) so the nervousness, the being flustered, is real. But it disappears once the act begins.

I sometimes wonder if physical fear might disappear if one pretends to be brave. But I'm too much of a coward to try that one out.

A Matter Of Disagreement

The desire of my colleagues to avoid any real disagreement over various aspects of teaching strikes me as very odd. There's so much to heartily disagree on that it seems a wasted opportunity not to explore necessary and helpful differences of practice and opinion. To tell the truth, I'm not too sure I've ever really agreed with myself on some fundamentals of the trade.

Over the weekend I experienced a distinct shift in opinion with regard to the brave new world of AI, and I'm still not sure I'm comfortable with what I now think I think. It would be nice to feel certain over these matters, I suppose, but not terribly exciting.

The Old Normal

It seems a long time since Fasting Month concluded. The tiny miracle of eating & drinking at any time of day is now taken for granted. And we've done particularly well for ourselves this weekend with a lunch at Ismail's place yesterday and baked potatoes with tuna & corn & salad just now, resulting in my feeling distinctly full. (I resisted the temptation of embracing a second helping on the grounds that I can no longer deal with being bloated in the manner my younger self could just about cope with.)

So there we have it - one of the unexpected benefits of the fast: it becomes difficult to take the simple joys of the everyday for granted. Thus intensifying those joys.

Not a bad pay-off in its way.

Extreme Gratitude

I think that keeping a Gratitude Journal is a jolly good idea. I don't do so myself - not exactly sure why not, probably lack of time rather than lack of gratitude - but if I did today's entry would read: I feel profoundly grateful for the accident of living my life at broadly the same time as that of Sir Paul McCartney.

This thought came upon me (and I suspect lots of other folks) yesterday when the lyric video for Days We Left Behind made it to YouTube. Ironically the line No one needs to cry made me do precisely the opposite to what it enjoins.

Thinking It Out

Not sure that this thought from yesterday was in any way original for me, but it felt newly minted. And here it comes: Joyce represents three entirely distinct modes of consciousness for the key characters in Ulysses, yet they are all versions of himself - Poldy, Stephen and Molly. (Yes, I know Molly is Nora, but Jim inhabits his long-suffering Wife & Muse.)

How did he do it? Genius, yes, but a kind of absolute honesty about the nature of the self helped.

I can't aspire to that. But I can offer a rapidly written list of modes of thought - knocked off in ten minutes - that seem to me so individual as to hardly overlap. And here it comes: relaxed day dreaming of the wish fulfilment variety; sexual fantasizing; figuring out a schedule when impossibly busy; reading fiction and responding; reading non-fiction and responding; listening to poetry that works; listening to poetry that doesn't work; remembering stuff that happened in childhood; listening to a friend; listening to criticism of oneself; listening to something you're not listening to.

In Thought

Managed to find some time today to think about thinking. Was basically playing around with thoughts I've experienced many times before when it occurred to me that the thoughts were not exactly mine but thoughts I'd somehow picked up from others and, in some surreptitious way, made my own. Except I had no sense that they in any way belonged to me. In fact, I was distantly aware that I was just a vehicle for the thoughts and belonged to them.

Now, there's a thought.

Getting Back To Business

Quite a taxing first day of term at work, made slightly more challenging due to the fact that we reached our usual Far Place quite late in the day yesterday and I felt as if I would have benefitted from a couple of hours more sleep than I managed. The highway home was typically dense with traffic, which Noi negotiated with some aplomb to ensure we arrived in one piece, even if later than expected. No, that's not really true. We knew ahead of the weekend that we would be lucky to be afforded any easy journey over the Raya weekend, so were lucky that the drive up to Melaka was reasonably smooth. Basically we expected delays on Monday and got them more than amply.

One variation on our usual practice worked well for us, though. We came back via the crossing at Woodlands rather than by Tuas and getting through immigration on both sides was easy enough. Something to be thankful for, even if I'm moaning a wee bit here.

Talking It Out

We weren't sure that Hamzah & family would come over to Mak's house yesterday, with the loss of Sharifah so fresh, but happily they were able to do so. This added even more significance to the prayers read, and I think helped with the process of grieving for all the family. I felt some relief myself being able to talk at length to Hamzah about pretty much everything, our conversation going on to the early hours. They set off back to Shah Alam in the late morning, I hope feeling a tiny bit better for the warmth & support of all around them.

And we ourselves will be departing yet again in a couple of hours. There's always more to get on with, part of the gift of being alive.

Presence And Absence

We've driven up to Melaka for the second day of Raya. The family will be reading Surah Ya-Sin in the evening for Sharifah. Much cheerful noise just now for the distribution of packets and taking of photos. A way of compensating for the silence.

A Sort Of Beginning

Hari Raya Puasa, Eid ul-Fitr; 1 Syawal, 1447

07.43

About to enjoy a large mug of coffee at a time that feels wrong but is right again. Now adjusting to the loose demands of the usual routine on a happily special day.

10.06

Well, that was a more exciting morning than expected. We arrived at Masjid Darussalam at what we thought was a decent time for the second shift of prayers for Raya only to discover they'd already started. Fortunately the helpful attendants outside re-directed us to a void deck just across the road where it turned out that the overspill from the crowded mosque (still under renovations) was being accommodated and we got there with five minutes to spare. Now gently recovering at home, though Noi is a bit behind in her preparations as a result of her unforeseen trip to KL the other day. She just said it doesn't really feel like Raya with the house still mildly unready, but with prayers performed it does to me. Must say, I like praying at a void deck in something close to the open air, especially on a happily sunny morning. Sort of au naturel in its way.

21.05

A loud and cheerful afternoon has turned into a quiet and fairly restful evening following the departure of our guests. It's good to celebrate. And good to cogitate afterwards.

And better still to wish to all who held fast: Eid Mubarak!

Making An Ending

30 Ramadhan, 1447

15.31

I've been on the go with stuff for work, shopping for Raya, tidying up and attending Friday Prayers since the early morning. Noi arrived back from Malaysia at 5.10 am and I opted to stay up and get the day in motion rather than going back to bed after sahur and doing the dawn prayer. Now I'm feeling the effects and also feeling oddly impatient to finish the fast. I say 'oddly' since I haven't felt this way since Day 3.

19.04

Close to buka, and still impatient. You'd think after all these years I'd have learnt something about waiting. And I have. But not enough.

21.05

Neither Noi nor myself have any great appetite after breaking the fast. This evening we're just finishing off bits & pieces left over the last few days along with a few boiled sweet potatoes we picked up in the morning's shopping. All very easy and highly satisfactory. A fitting low-key climax to all the effort of the last thirty days.

Lighting Up

29 Ramadhan, 1447

It's time to try and find some kind of light in the darkness.

Loss

28 Ramadhan, 1447

A day darkly coloured by deeply sad family news. We'd been worried by recent developments in Sharifah's illness throughout the month and these culminated in what felt like the sudden news of her death as Maghrib arrived today. She'd been in isolation in hospital since early in the month and been struggling with a lung infection. Things appeared to have taken a turn for the better recently, though, and she was actually back on an ordinary ward yesterday. But her oxygen levels suddenly dropped today and she was rushed to ICU. It seems the damage caused to her lungs by the infection was irreparable. 

Noi & Rozita are now working out how they are going to get to KL for the funeral, which is likely to take place tomorrow morning. Unfortunately I'm stuck here meeting deadlines and will be sticking to our original plan of travelling north over the Raya weekend. At least, it looks that way at the moment but things are understandably in flux.

But regardless of any planning the sense of loss is powerful. Hamza and the children have had time to prepare, but that's never really enough to help cope with the passing of someone so dearly loved & regarded.

Changing Times

27 Ramadhan, 1447

We found ourselves in Geylang in the late afternoon. We were there essentially to pay zakat, a mission we accomplished at Darul Arqam without too much fuss. The building, by the way, has undergone some kind of renovation which has meant changes to the interior decor. I'm afraid that none of this appealed at all to Noi and myself, custodians of the way things used to be as we are.

Something similar applied to the general ambiance of this year's bazaar at Geylang. It felt distinctly low-key having been considerably reduced in scope. Now there are hardly any stalls at all on the side of the road where Darul Arqam is positioned. This made it easy to walk there, just as it had been easy to find a place to park, but we missed the cheerful inconvenience of previous years.

Mind you, we were wandering around before the festive lights were to be switched on and the whole thing may have proved more happening later. Noi was talking about going again in the evening in the days that remain, but not with any great keenness. I suppose we miss the days of yore. Just hope that for those who are newly making memories the sense of genuine celebration of the Holy Month remains.

Across The Miles

26 Ramadhan, 1447

Just concluded a long distance chat between ourselves and John & Jeanette. Both ends of the chat moaning about the state of the world.  Both ends finding some relief in venting their feelings about certain individuals they held largely responsible for such. Both ends naming the same names. 

I think both couples felt that little bit better for that aspect of the discussion. But better still was just the chatting about friends & family and feeling warmer & richer and that little bit more normal in the process. 

Losing Count

25 Ramadhan, 1447

Just five days to observe the fast left after today. And since we're now enjoying the start of the one week March vacation it would appear that the deepest challenges are now over. But you never know.

Just like I never really know my real step count for the day. The app thingy on my phone frequently ends the day telling me I've managed more than 10,000 steps, only for the number to mysteriously decline by the time the next day begins. Not sure why and how the rounding down takes place because I don't care about the count in any real sense.

Numbers seem real, but are deceiving. They can only point in broad directions no matter how precise they seem. (Except when you're building a house. Then you seriously need to get them right. There are limits to philosophising, you know.)

A Matter Of Routine

24 Ramadhan, 1447

Got to the gym ahead of breaking the fast yet again. It's now something of a routine and no longer feels that little bit strange, that tiny bit daring, as it did initially. Even The Missus no longer expresses any particular concern as I make my way down to do my thing.

As the month began I set a broad target of ten visits to the gym over the course of Ramadhan and today I recorded the ninth. Which makes me complacently pleased with myself - until I recall just how much I've struggled  to keep going for the full hour on the elliptical trainer, even when I've lowered the resistance. Today it was at full resistance and the muscles in my legs are sort of remembering that even as I sit and relax. 

Hoping to avoid the ambush of a sudden burst of cramp as I lie sleeping later. But will treat it as a reasonable price to pay if I have to suffer such.

Dreaming

23 Ramadhan, 1447

18.40

Off to The Esplanade for a bit of dance this evening. The Dream of Red Mansions, performed by the National Ballet of China. Tired but up for this. More anon.

21.18

It’s intermission time. A break from the ridiculously gorgeous beauty of the evening. Looking forward to further luxuriating.

11.55

Part 1 of the ballet was wonderful and, remarkably, Part 2 was even better, with its darker hues and distinct sense of melancholy. A number of unforgettable images. Kept wanting to capture the moving canvas of the stage and couldn't - which is the whole point, I suppose, of this kind of transient beauty.

Something Found

22 Ramadhan, 1447

Still no time to luxuriate in sweet sounds. But managed a few minutes with The Modfather in top form essaying a blistering live version of Eton Rifles. I'm not claiming it made my day, but it went some way to ensuring that things didn't fall apart on me, providing an injection of energy at just the right time.

Something Missing

21 Ramadhan, 1447

So far it's been a week without music. And, sadly, that looks set to continue. I'm starting to feel the withdrawal symptoms. 

I'll put this right, probably quite loudly, over the weekend. Good to have something to look forward to, eh?

More Than Enough

20 Ramadhan, 1447

The busiest day of the Fasting Month so far. Which meant that it passed exceptionally quickly yet very slowly. Each hour seemed intense, leaving little time to think except for dealing with that which cried out to be dealt with.

Fortunately the busy stuff came to a sharp conclusion once I'd got back to break the fast (delayed, oh dear!) and caught up with all the prayers. Now it's time to look back and ask whether I remained true to the fast. Put simply, did I display grace under pressure, as the fast relentlessly demands?

Well, it wasn't a disaster, so I can enjoy this reflective moment, at least to some small degree. But the final report, as usual, reads, Could do better.

Enough

19 Ramadhan, 1447

Sometimes it's enough just to get to the end of the day. But 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.