As Others See

I've been watching the mini-series centred on the O. J. Simpson trial on Netflix in fits and starts. I'm not at all comfortable with the ethics of dramatisations of real life events, and I wondered if The People vs OJ Simpson was just going to be high class trash, but I've reached the sixth episode and been impressed by the acting and general production values. I get a sense I'm being shown something close to the truth, at least in terms of the basic facts. To be honest, I'm a bit surprised by how much I didn't know, having followed the saga from a considerable distance back in the day.

Watching Episode 6, which generally focuses on Marcia Clark, the main prosecutor, was in many ways quite a painful experience. I'm not sure if the real Ms Clark would have wanted herself portrayed on screen - actually I wonder if seeing herself depicted might have added to the pain she suffered in the course of the trial, horrible thought - but for this viewer, at least, it was illuminating to see first hand, as it were, what a woman in her position had to face. Before watching I think I might have brushed off the idea that the media paying attention to one's appearance is a big deal. Now I know a lot better and am so much more aware of how that necessarily looms so much larger for women - even one as obviously accomplished in so many ways as Ms Clark.

I suppose that if there's any justification at all for this genre (apart from providing interesting television) it's the possibility that the viewer might grow in sympathy and understanding of others - especially those whose perspectives are so foreign to us.

On The Edge

Listened to the first act of Mozart's Don Giovanni this morning. I'm growing in understanding of what's going on in the music in relation to the drama, but there's still a way to go. Mind you, if that implies that I'll be listening to this and the other operas for years to come then I have no objection.

The whole mythos of the good Don (or, rather, emphatically Bad Don) in both high and low culture is fascinating and disturbing. There's a weird energy about Mozart's central character that seems to break every frame he's put into. Talk about living on the edge.

Making Progress

My progress on the first volume of the Collected Poems of Archie Ammons stalled for quite a while when I reached his 1969 poem Essay on Poetics. Odd really, as I assumed that as a longish piece at over 700 lines I was likely to enjoy it as I've enjoyed every one of the longer poems I've read. But that was not to be. Or rather, I would need to get through the maze of the first 100 lines or so and tune in to the peculiar concerns of the poem before feeling reasonably at home with it.

It turned out that once I really got going on the poem I was able to read it in a couple of sittings today, and I think I understood what the poet was exploring - though I'm not convinced that poetry itself is the main concern, despite the title. I suppose a reread is in order, but not for the time being: I need to maintain my forward momentum in the volume as a whole. I'm vaguely targeting completion by the year's end.

I also made some progress today on one of the Connections volumes of New Plays for Young People, this being the one from 2013. It's been on my bookshelf for some time and I've decided not to pick up any kind of novel until I've read the ten plays in it - and another ten from a companion volume I possess.

Mr Teh Tarik - 4

We were downtown at the funky Funan Centre this afternoon. We parked there to do some business down the road at Peninsula Plaza, but spent more time pawming around the Funan Centre. It was there that we came across the Makanan Bollywood Restaurant and even at a distance thought we might just be able to get served teh tarik gajah, to happily discover we were not wrong. I suppose the name of the establishment was enough to suggest it was our kind of place.

Anyway, the teh tarik I was served was suitably gajah and tasted just right. I detected a mild back taste of ginger making it highly satisfactory. Just one very minor complaint: it was hot enough, but not very hot, if you know what I mean. It needed to be consumed speedily, but I had no problems doing so. A pity the place didn't serve kueh, though - but you can't have everything.

Not Much Changes

Was looking back just now in my journal at what I was up to on this date twenty years ago and fifteen years ago. In 2001 I was moaning about feeling tired and having an aching shoulder and had just embarked on a reading of Proust. In 2006 I was moaning about feeling tired and having an aching back and was reading Neil Gaiman. Funnily enough both days fell on a weekend and it was clear that relaxing was the main thing on my mind - though I was fasting for Ramadhan in 2006 and that was pretty prominent as well.

At a distance of years from both days I'm struck by how deeply boring I was and am: a cause for minor celebration, methinks.

Above All

It had been my intention to finish Madeline Miller's The Song of Achilles over the weekend, but that was another plan that needed to be abandoned along with several other aspects of my life. On Friday I'd reached the bit where Patroclus is setting out in Achilles's chariot, posing as the great hero. I was pretty close to the end of the novel, but there were enough pages left to make me wonder how Miller was going to continue the narrative after Patroclus's death (he being the narrator), since I was aware, as most reasonably savvy readers would be, that he wasn't going to last more than a handful of pages. I suppose I was as much invested in the fascination of how the writer would solve a major narrative problem as in the fate of a character I'd come to feel close to.

I now know Miller's 'solution', having completed the novel, and it's artistically perfect - clever, yes, but in keeping with the integrity of the text (I'm thinking of Joyce's integritas here) at every level: thematically coherent and true to her characters. And, above all, emotionally devastating. The final paragraph is gorgeous.

It now seems odd that I felt so detached about the novel initially. The writer succeeds in almost every way I can think of, helping us to a deep understanding of the classical world's understanding of ideas of nobility and heroism, reflecting with unerring precision the reality of the brutal violence of that world, and exploring the equally compelling realities of sexual passion and abiding love in all our worlds. Indeed, on closing the novel I couldn't help but think of how much of what we know of humanity in the twenty-first century is strangely reflected in its craftily fashioned pages.

In Recovery

As I remarked in Sunday's post, last Saturday was a particularly taxing day in terms of what needed to be done work-wise, and the necessary travails spilled over into the Sunday itself. I must say that I thought I'd recovered from the mild trauma of it all by Monday, but just now I found myself uncharacteristically knocked out after the Maghrib Prayer, so I reckon I still need a good night's kip for normal transmission to have officially resumed.

I won't bore you with the full gory details of what took place, Gentle Reader, since it's the sheer boredom of the details that was so taxing. Suffice it to say that after happily completing my marking target for the day by 1.00 pm and assuming for the rest of the day I would get my life back, the sudden need to carry out some very urgent contact-tracing which landed on my plate (and the plates of quite a number of colleagues) an hour later reconfigured the day (and the next, to some degree) in an unappetising cocktail of ferocious activity and mind-numbing detail.

I suppose I knew this kind of work must feel like that for the poor souls who have to carry it out on a regular basis, but actually doing it introduced a whole new way of knowing based on very real experience. The thing is that you have to get the details right, otherwise you're going to unnecessarily mess up quite a few people's lives for no good reason. In a sense you're trying to help mitigate the spread of a very, very nasty virus, of course, but there's a kind of halo effect involved in terms of what it will cost in terms of huge inconvenience to provide uncertain protection to the community.

I allowed myself a good moan about it all - with Noi on the receiving end - in the middle of all the action; but, even then, the understanding that compared to those serving in the absolute front line of protection my grudging contribution was small, indeed tiny potatoes, helped give some much-needed perspective.

Having said that, am hoping the experience need not be repeated.

The Mind Is A Strange Thing

Remembering things that never happened. Forgetting so much that did.

Not Exactly Resting

Yesterday was one of the toughest days of my teaching career in terms of sheer busy-ness. And it was supposed to be a relaxing, weekend day.

One day I'll tell the story. But not today. (Still busy.)

Autumnal Almanac

We popped out to Arab Street in the late afternoon, after I got back from the third shift of Friday Prayers. (How odd that sounds, yet how routine it has become!)

We went with a purpose, and I mean something more than the statutory cup of tea and curry puffs. It was our intention to visit Wardah Books to obtain a newly released CD from the estimable Ramli Sarip since Noi read about it being on sale there.

In the event, Wardah turned out to be closed by the time we got there, I suppose because of a lack of the usual business at that time of day. But we were able to sit and slurp at the Kampong Glam Café, and enjoy looking out at the rain which poured fairly steadily. In fact, the dark clouds over our heads made the scene distinctly autumnal in quality, most suitable for the first day of October - though the cosy tropical warmth seemed to contradict the gentle melancholy of it all. Ray Davies's wonderful Autumn Almanac sprang to mind - and I'm glad it did.