Ear Candy

Listening to a bit of Ravel from the Proms courtesy of the Radio 3 website. This is starting to become a bit of a habit, and what an excellent one it is to acquire. I'm in danger of remembering how to relax, and since I don't have that much work to do tomorrow, this may be intensified through some more judiciously applied aural medicine in the course of Sunday.

But, fear not, from Monday there won't be time to spit out as my dad used to say.

In The Soup

I'm about to treat myself to an overwhelmingly scrumptious bowl of oxtail soup. Or, rather, Noi is treating me, in her absence. She set off for Mak's this afternoon to attend a kenduri for Abah, and cooked the soup this afternoon (and other goodies) in order that I might survive the lonely weekend ahead. It'll be a close thing, but with sustenance like this I may just pull through.

Dressing Up

There's something a touch suspect about an old fellah who enjoys dressing up, if you ask me. Evidence above.

But this was my way of promoting harmony on this little island, so I might be forgiven, I suppose.

Gothic Voices

Got back in early enough to allow myself a listen to the recent Proms performance of Havergal Brian's 1st symphony, the Gothic, courtesy of the wonderful Radio 3 page at the BBC. I first heard of the piece when reading the obituaries for Brian in the early seventies (I think 1972.) At that time my only real musical interest lay in what might broadly be termed rock music, but I think Melody Maker had an article on the composer basically to the effect that there was great music out there that never got played (the Gothic is so vast in scale it is rarely performed and Brian was and is hardly fashionable as a composer) so rock musicians should think themselves very lucky. My interest was piqued but, alas, I never got my hands on a recording, since there wasn't one.

Fast forward to this year and old friend David H. e-mails me to say he's in the choir for the symphony (as a member of the Huddersfield Choral Society.) I happen to check out the Radio 3 page a couple of days ago and, blimey, they're providing a link to the actual performance. So being fated to listen I do.

And it was lovely stuff. Very English but ridiculously ambitious. All sorts going on, most of it tunefully. Loved every minute, of which there were many.

Moving On

I'm making alarmingly slow progress with Thoreau's A Week, and I don't know who's to blame. Probably me. There's no way I'm going to get to Walden by fasting month so now I'll be content just to make it to the end of the jaunt down the Concord. The detours are interesting - plenty of Hindu philosophy on Monday - but a bit jarring at times, owing to them being so unexpected. I think that's part of what's slowing me down. And simple laziness, of course.

My plans for Ramadhan reading are pretty much in place. I picked up The God Delusion from the library, intending to test the 'robustness' of my faith. At least the blurb on the back says it will, so here's hoping. I'm intending to re-read Karen Armstrong's fine biography of the Prophet (peace be upon him) since the last couple of biogaphies I read have been hagiographical if not devotional in nature - though very fine. (Martin Lings & Tariq Ramadhan.) And striking out into new territory (and not reading at all) I'm intending to watch the full BBC Life series (which Noi bought for a birthday that's now rather too long ago.) This is by way of reading the book of the world. Looking for signs, as they say.

I've decided to forego a reading of the Qur'an, partly because I feel it's time to tackle a different translation from the three I know, and I haven't got one.

This Enchanted Evening

Just back from prata & teh tarik at the Al Ameen Restaurant just up the road from here. It's one of those wonderfully run-down places that comes in a tawdry blur of gaudy lights along a row of dark shophouses, announcing good food with no frills. The walls nicely painted, but all the electric wires showing, several bandaged unconvincingly with duct tape. Next door is one of those old provision shops, that seems to stock everything in the space of a single shelf at the Giant at IMM. And on the corner of the row is a little mesjid, modern in style, where you fancy doing the prayer just because it looks so cosy.

We ate outside on the front, like most of the other customers, wrapped in the sultry warmth of a typical Singapore evening. It was sort of busy but not really. And it was sort of wonderful, absolutely really.

Close To The Edge

We completed the script last night for the show we will be doing less than two weeks from today. And five days ago about a third of it wasn't actually down on paper, though it was to a large degree in the collective heads of myself and my drama guys, especially that of one particularly talented young lady, who was the one initially putting pen to paper. Working in this fashion - trusting the process, even if it takes us near the edge - has been stressful and exhilarating in roughly equal measures.

A trio of discoveries regarding my own creative juices, though not so much discoveries as confirmation of what I've always known:

Deadlines free me to write, and the more imminent the deadline the better.

I have very little interest in originality, much preferring to re-parcel whatever's been left lying around, a process so close to stealing that it's embarrassing.

I am almost completely immune to embarrassment once I'm near a stage.

Self Expression

There's always that moment, staring at the blank page, about to express your inner self when you realise there's no inner self to express. Awkward, eh?

Press Mess

Coverage of the phone-hacking mess in the UK confirms the obvious: never trust any journalist ever. And even more so if s/he works for Rupert Murdoch.

Speechifying

Spent the afternoon listening to speeches. Not from politicians. Not from educationalists. Nothing from the great and good. Just twenty or so students. And it was great. The missus came along, and she agrees. Which says it all.