A Little Bit Of Heaven

Wednesday is generally a busy day for me, and quite enjoyably so since much of the afternoon consists of getting dramatic. Today was typically frantic around 7-ish as I rushed to complete the transition between my day-time job and my duties on this particular evening, also incorporating prayers along the way. However, one glorious moment of stillness surfaced in the headlong rush, involving a cup of tea and a muffin, courtesy of the Missus. Gentle Reader, let me tell you that said muffin not only saved the day, it illuminated it with a rare and precious radiance. And, boy, did it taste good.

Peace

 

Not quite sure why, but this evening I found myself thinking of those moments of peace that, if we're lucky, sometimes mysteriously descend upon us and remind us that, despite appearances, everything's really okay. Sometimes being exposed to something or someone or somewhere exceptionally beautiful helps precipitate that kind of experience. The shot above is of the interior of the Blue Mosque in Istanbul and I took it just after performing the Isha' Prayer there, on the last night of our December holiday in the mythical city. I felt sensationally privileged to be praying there and perhaps the picture might help you understand why.

Missing Out

Saw a news item the other day about the low percentages of small children in the UK whose parents read to them at bedtime (and other moments in the day, I suppose.) Found myself completely unbothered by the figures, I suppose for the simple reason that no one ever read anything to me as a kid and I can't honestly say I regard this as a terrible deprivation. Come to think of it, we never had books in the house.

I suppose what might be regarded as somewhat unfortunate circumstances were more than adequately balanced by a wonderful public library system and the spirited encouragement of reading I encountered at school and on the telly (through children's programmes, particularly on the BBC, that promoted books with gusto.) I'm pretty sure that lots of energy still goes into the promotion of reading, in the UK, and decent resources remain available to the vast majority of children. So if kids choose to miss out I'm sorry to say it seems to me a choice, rather than something that can be blamed on negligent parents or social inequality.

Do I sound uncaring? Probably, since I find it very difficult to care about this. Now tell me that access to books is deliberately restricted for certain children and I'll have something to genuinely care about and deeply so.

Extremes

Saw Osman this morning. We were able to enjoy a cuppa with Rohana & Man ahead of his admission to NUH for another round of chemotherapy. He remains in amazingly good spirits. Funnily enough I'd been talking about how just how positive he is last night to Boon & Mei over dinner. They'd asked me about Maureen's health and I was attempting to describe the strange sense of hopelessness that seems to wrap itself around her. We were all aware of the dangers of being inappropriately and harshly judgemental in the face of depression and addiction and I'm not at all sure I really avoided that trap. But comparing the different attitudes involved in these cases came from a desire to try and understand the range of human reactions to adversity.

That range is bewilderingly wide. I know which side I'd like to think I'd find myself on in a test - but I also know I'm not at all sure which way things would drop for me.

Not Too Hurried

Gosh, James Merrill is such a demanding poet. I've just finished the first of the sequences in the Collected Poems, First Poems from 1951, and it's amazingly confident and assured for the young writer he was then. Each poem has a kind of certainty in the way the thoughts weave in and out of the often very obviously formally complex choices of verse such that you can't help but feel inadequate at those moments when the subtlety of those thoughts leaves you trailing behind, which for me is often, I'm afraid. But not so often that the work is inaccessible.

I'm more than happy to read on, but with more that 800 pages to go I can't see finishing the full volume any time soon.

Not Exactly Real

Just back from watching Haresh Sharma's Those Who Can't Teach as performed by a very young, very enthusiastic cast. Highly enjoyable and unexpectedly thought-provoking, for this member of the audience, that is. I suppose it was watching a play about something I've actually done for a lot of my life that made me think about the nature of dramatic mimesis. Why is it that I can't think of any play or tv series or film that has come anywhere close to conveying the reality of being a teacher? This isn't to say that there aren't fine dramas and films dealing with the idea (including the play I watched tonight) but these can only point in the direction of what it means to teach; they never capture the texture of the experience. 

Could it be that any drama dealing with any form of work can only gesture towards what that work is really like as a lived experience?

A Legal High

Posted reasonably good numbers on the elliptical trainer today, the first time I've been able to make such a claim in 2018. Not quite approaching the highs I achieved pre-Istanbul, but enough to feel satisfied. A faint echo of how a serious run would make me feel in my younger days. A week or so ago I observed to a class that I have a distinctly addictive element to my personality. Thank goodness I discovered at a fairly early age the joys of addiction to stuff that's actually good for me.

Illuminations

I took along a nice little cache of CDs to KL on our recent visit intending to luxuriate in sweet sounds. Sadly, this was not to be. The main stereo system suddenly decided not to play CDs and I had no back-up. So I was reduced to groovy listening in the car only. Fortunately I now know how to play my iPod stuff through the car's system so was able to appreciate just how good Bill Frisell's Disframer is as driving music in addition to simply being great music.

Also it was my good fortune to have plenty to read including the December 21 holiday issue of The New York Review of Books, which was something of a bumper issue. I'm still only halfway through it, but the quotient of deeply rewarding articles is already extremely high. My two favourites so far were a fascinating article on Goethe, the one obviously great classic writer whom I seem to know next to nothing about, and a very moving piece by Pakhaj Mishra concerning the plight of the Dalit caste in India. Both articles illuminated some dark places.

Floored

We've spent the last two nights in Melaka, travelling down on Sunday evening when we able to admire the vast amount of traffic flooding into the Malaysian capital at the end of the Chinese New Year weekend whilst we were able to drive unhindered south. We're hoping for similarly unencumbered roads later today when we travel even further south to our usual Far Place.

I decided to switch things round a bit from our usual practice when resident at Mak's house. Bearing in mind the aches and pains manifesting in my back the last time we were here at the New Year, I opted to kip on the floor, hoping a hard surface would give my spine the necessary support that a soft bed just doesn't. It seems to have worked. Although I found myself aching considerably doing the Dawn Prayer, later in the day I've felt reasonably normal - a very happy place to be indeed.

This all serves as a reminder that I'm not exactly a stranger to sleeping on floors. I spent a fair amount of time at university and the years immediately following finding ways of getting comfortable on a hard surface. It's a skill well worth practising.

Wandering

Found ourselves a bit lost but mostly found in the centre of Melaka in the afternoon. We were attempting to let those good people at Astro know of a change of credit card number, which means we’ve not paid any bills so far this year. Fortunately they’ve not cut off our service. Unfortunately they seem to want to make it as difficult as possible to actually pay them, being reluctant to accept my trusty credit card, despite it, in a previous incarnation, having provided them the necessary shekels for a number of years. Somehow we managed to give them the money they so richly deserve, though a trip to a small 7-Eleven store was necessary to actually get the cash into their hands.

But aside from this adventure we found ourselves loosely exploring Noi’s sort of hometown, which has changed considerably from the days we frequented Mahkota Parade on a regular basis. There are a lot more shops now, but that seems to be an inevitable feature of modernity. On the whole I’d say it’s a cheerful sort of place, despite the commerce. And I even managed to post today's update from there, using my phone. In itself, a bit of a first.