A Question Of Adjustment

The leap year brought with it a minor crisis in my life with regard to the management of my trusty Casio timepieces. Why can't they take account of the extra day? I found myself asking, in an irritated little panic. Then my less than trusty, indeed rusty memory dredged up this post from A Far Place, exactly four years ago. And the problem was solved again, probably to lie in wait for the next leap year.

Too Much

Yesterday's comment on Infinite Jest was unfair, as I suspected even as I wrote it. I suppose it's a tribute to the novel that it's so obviously outstanding in almost every respect you can think of that it seems to demand being judged by the highest possible standards. I did so, prematurely and inappropriately, partly as a result of the sheer power of the text.

The place to look for the stillness I was talking about is in the self, not in a work of literature, no matter how fine that work.

I find it in prayer. The discipline of the five daily prayers in Islam is not an easy one to live up to. But it teaches you things you need to know about necessary stillness. And isn't it fascinating that all the major religions in their own ways reflect this concern with locating the still centre of the turning world? I can't think of any other genuinely practical way of dealing with the fact that this world is too much with us.

Energy Levels

There's a lot of talk about energy in what might loosely be termed the theatrical world (well, in the little bit I inhabit, anyway.) It's difficult to define exactly what it is, but it's obvious when something being put on stage hasn't got it. This has little or nothing to do with the amount of actual movement on stage; certain kinds of stillness can be possessed of an extraordinary energy. It's hard to do nothing really well on stage, but very important to know how to do it, and when to do it.

David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest is an amazing, stunning, overwhelming exercise in reflecting the manic energies of a certain kind of society, a certain mode of life. But this reader is longing for some sense of stillness. 

It's strange when faced with such abundance to be concerned with something a novel lacks. And I'm not at all sure it's a fair comment to make on the book. But it's something I feel I have to say some 240 pages in.

Out

Noi's gone over to Melaka for the day, taking Kak Sabariah along to massage Mak and various other lucky folks at the kampong. Being left to my own devices I thought it might be a good wheeze this afternoon to have a walk out to Holland Village and back - and a good wheeze it was. I enjoyed the cup that cheers at the Coffee Bean place there, with David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest as stirring company, and also found time to peruse a couple of articles in a freshly purchased NYRB. It was a bit hot, but I remained sensibly unbothered - though slightly depressed over the fact that it looks like they're knocking down one of the big buildings in the area along with its cheesily iconic windmill. As usual, anywhere I really enjoy being in this Far Place stands little chance of lasting much longer.

On the walk back I noticed there's now a park of some kind at a spot called One-North. It may have been there for a while for all I know but escaped my rather limited notice. Thought about checking it out and having a bit of a read there some time, but today wasn't going to be that day. When I was a little lad being 'out' was infinitely preferable over staying in, I seem to recall. The older version of myself, whilst enjoying a bit of an escape now and then, no longer minds so much being 'in'. The day's been quite exciting enough, thank you.

Half Baked

Some great lines from an episode of The Great British Bake-Off we watched the other night: Presenter (to sobbing contestant): It's just a cake. Contestant: It's not just a cake. Presenter: It is just a cake!

Of course, as everyone knows, no cake is ever just a cake.

(Thinking back to my comments a couple of days ago apropos the notion of a literary community, I must say I'd much rather hang out with a bunch of bakers than representatives of the literati. They are so obviously much nicer people.)

A Climate Of Fear

I've just been watching the breaking news about the report into the Savile scandal, the bits involving the BBC, that is, compiled by Dame Janet Smith. There's a horrible fascination about all this, and I don't think it's of a prurient nature. The material on the abuse of the victims is depressing and revolting, very far from fascinating. But what all this has to tell us about how easily organisations go wrong is where the fascination, and perhaps the lessons, lie.

We're told, I'm sure correctly, that a climate of fear prevailed at the BBC (and still does, it would seem) that means grown-up, intelligent men and women of much ability found themselves unable to do the right thing and take action against the abuse, by exposing it. On one level that's extraordinary, but everyone who's worked in an organisation will be aware of how it could come about, and just how easily.

It seems to me there's a moral imperative involved here, and a difficult one to live up to: the cultivation of fearlessness.

Not Entirely Communal

Listened to some engaging speakers this morning, addressing the notion of the creation of a literary community with much enthusiasm, good sense and good ideas. Then later in the day found myself beset by some cynical but rather bracing thoughts. It suddenly occurred to me that one doesn't exactly think of groups of writers, critics and lit academics as embodying warmth, goodwill to all men and bonhomie. The kind of spats you get in literary journals are pretty good evidence of what I mean.

I reckon a chap in search of the quiet life would have done well to avoid the Lake poets and their ilk. Would you have wanted to hang out with Byron?

Senses Working Overtime

Sight of the day: the bowl of scones that greeted me as I stumbled into the kitchen to put on the kettle this morning. (Cunningly baked by Noi after I'd gone to bed.)

Smell of the day: the odour rising from said bowl as I bent over to appreciate its contents close up.

Taste of the day: pretty obvious really - but quite beyond my powers of description. How do you do justice to the perfect scone? Well, several of them, actually.

Touch of the day: there's a certain texture to a perfectly baked scone. Not too soft; not too hard.

Sound of the day: munch, munch, munch, munch, munch.

Making Time

Here's a strange thing: I was just glancing back over my diary of ten years ago, reading a tiresome litany of complaints to myself about how hard work was at that point, when I realised that I had the  most vivid recall of all the sort of 'artistic' things I had managed somehow to cram in to those over-full days - books read, music listened to, that sort of thing. And it was only minutes before opening the diary to glance back that I had decided to write this post on how precious a few similar encounters with the 'artistic' over the last day or so have been to me in a vaguely similar busy period. Nothing really changes.

But that's not exactly the point, for today, at least. Here I just want to briefly celebrate the curious truth that when you haven't really got time for reading or listening or viewing, the little time you can carve out takes on a peculiar and rewarding intensity. The  other day I had the good fortune to listen to White Willow's Ignis Fatuus followed by Bill Frisell's Disframer, albums I know very well, and it was like hearing them for the first time. Both utterly beautiful.

Later this evening I'll be falling asleep to the glorious discordances of VDGG's Present, an album that continues to grow in my estimation and I almost can't wait. Except it means the end of a day and its possibilities.

Togetherness

Just back from the gym, whence I was accompanied for the first time in a little while by the Missus. She's been busy of late with all sorts of bits and pieces, like cooking for her chums, as she was doing when I went on Friday, which have precluded her doing her thing on the treadmill. There were no excuses tonight, though, and she looked in good form. It's a lot more fun when the two of us are involved I can tell you.