Not A Clue

I'm often surprised by the sterling good sense of most of the young people I teach. When I try and remember the details of being seventeen the strongest emotion I feel is one of embarrassment. In fact, I find it very hard to recall coherent details, which is a sure sign of repression.

Oddly enough today I found myself getting most closely in touch with  my younger self by listening to The Decembrists' gorgeous Lake Song. I never went near a lake at that age but I was certainly terminally fey. Isn't it strange how we can so easily project ourselves into that which wasn't and isn't ours - but feels as if it should be? 

Hard Graft

Realised today that a mind-numbing admin task I thought I could put off until next year needs to be completed pronto. This is not good news. The irony is that all the lessons it relates to went well and, in a small way, were a pleasure to organise. But you can be assured that the associated documentation is cunningly designed for maximum misery. At one time I would have found this extremely frustrating, but now I roll with the punches, as they say. Just wish the punches didn't hurt so much.

Signs Of Hope

Just had a natter with John who seems to be in a good way. He was complaining a bit about the loneliness of his situation but it looks like that might be alleviated this week since he's expecting that Maureen will be sent home. She has stopped drinking completely and 'sounds like a different person'. It seems that social services are organising some kind of 'package' for her return and he's just waiting for that to be put in place. I'm hoping the handover involves stringent checking that there's no alcohol in the house at all. Unfortunately the simple fact that Christmas is approaching doesn't exactly fill me with confidence.

It's a bitter irony that the season of goodwill in my homeland has for many people become deeply entangled with a general sense of woozy intoxication such that the two are synonymous. But I suppose any day of the week at any time of year can pose a threat to the addicted, so it might not be a bad thing if they're together with enough clarity of mind to behave responsibly at a crucial time.  

Not So Involved

I'm roughly halfway through John Keegan's account of The Second World War, borrowed from the library, and not too sure that I'll press on to finish it. Odd really since Keegan's The Face of Battle is by far my favourite book related to military history. Somehow Keegan fails to bring alive the visceral experience of war in the later book. 

Actually the main reason for my borrowing the book was to have something in print to supplement my listening to Anthony Beevor's book on the conflict which I've been doing, usually when I'm shaving, since it's easily available on Youtube. But Beevor's account is so much more gripping than Keegan's that the print version seems curiously bloodless - a very odd word to use in this context.

I hate giving up on a book, so I can see myself continuing, but it'll be a thin reading at best.

Next To Normal

Attending Friday Prayers this afternoon felt odd simply because it came close to business as usual. It's now a lot easier to book a slot as the numbers allowed to attend have greatly increased. For the first time since the restrictions kicked in I was able to make it for the first shift - i.e., the normal time for the prayer. There are still gaps between worshippers, of course, but the masjid is beginning to look reasonably packed. The car park was full and it took me a good half hour to get away in contrast to the last time I attended when I sailed in and out with ease. I suppose that because I've not been able to attend prayers for the last few weeks due to my iffy leg I've missed out on the gradual move towards things as they used to be.

I also managed to pray without the aid of a chair, which is a key indicator in my physical recovery. If you'd have told me on Saturday morning I'd be able to pray like normal by Friday I certainly wouldn't have believed you. So a prayer of thanks for the excellence of my back doc featured in the afternoon's proceedings.

Nothing Was Revealed

Finished Cloud Atlas today. Enjoyed the six stories in themselves, but didn't see how the whole thing was meant to cohere. To be honest, I felt the dividing of the stories came at the cost of narrative momentum, especially for a reader like myself who easily forgets detail.

A Bit Lost

I've been reading David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas and finding plenty to enjoy, not least his command of narrative voice. There's an astonishing range of voice and point-of-view in the six narratives involved and a wonderful sense of linguistic exuberance. And it's easy to be get involved in the stories themselves, though the central piece, Sloosha's Crossin' an' Ev'rythin' After lost me in places.

However, I must confess to having doubts about the structuring of the text. The reader is given five incomplete stories before the central Sloosha's narrative is given complete, with the stories moving forward in time from the mid-nineteenth century of The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing to the post-apocalyptic future of the narrative sitting at the centre. But now I am a fair way through the second half of the book with four stories complete in the telling I'm not at all sure what links them together.

I'm hoping for something revelatory about the text as a whole as I work through the final eighty pages, but I'm doubtful.

Mending

It looks like whatever the doc gave me on Saturday is doing the trick. I've felt something close to normal moving around today. Am now able to sit on our sofa again without my back feeling frozen when I lift myself up.

Of course, there's no guarantee that the improvement will last and, inevitably, I'll face further back-related difficulties in the months to come. But I've learnt to relish the profoundly simple pleasure of feeling well and I'm enjoying that relish even as I write this.

Beyond Reason

Listened to Act 2 of Mozart's Don Giovanni this morning. Noticed for the first time how deeply odd it is that the great womanizer actually invites the statue of the Commandatore to dine with him despite Leporello's fears - and despite the fact that they are inviting a statue, albeit one that nods and speaks.

But the dream-logic of this works completely. It's what we expect our hero/villain/scoundrel to do, and to do with that calm insouciance that stands in replacement for any form of reasoning in the Don. And similarly when the Commandatore invites him to dine with him in return and we all know where that dinner will take place, we are not in the slightest surprised that there isn't even a hint that the notion of redemption enters into Don Giovanni's mind: ch'io non mi pento. He refuses the offer of salvation six times on my count.

In simple moral terms Mozart and Da Ponte present us unequivocally with Il Dissoluto Punito (The Rake Punished) as the full title of the opera lets us know, and we are horrified, but I'm not convinced that condemnation of the Don is drawn so easily from us and one awkward aspect of that is how we cannot help but admire the courage of the unrepentant rake despite our knowledge of all the damage that's been done.

Peak Relaxation

My end of the year appointment with my back doc couldn't have come at a better time. The crankiness in my left side has shown no signs of subsiding. Even on days when I've managed to avoid the sudden, sharp shocks of pain that have characterised the problem (as on Tuesday and Wednesday this week) I've had a haunting feeling of vulnerability and an intuitive sense that the shocks will return (as they did on Thursday and Friday.) I wondered if the drive to the medical centre might provoke an attack or two and, indeed, walking from the car into the centre featured two moments of gritted teeth.

The doc decided that the problem called for a magic jab - which, unusually, was a bit painful in itself - the donning of a patch to ease the pain, and a lot of pills designed to relax my muscles. It was a relief to think that, with some luck, the problem might just disappear before I see him again, two weeks from now.

After the appointment Noi and I went off to Arab Street for a cuppa, and a visit to Wardah Books (which is temporarily located in different premises.) Apart from enjoying a bit of a browse our visit had a definite purpose - to get hold of the latest CD from the esteemed Ramli Sarip. Noi had read an article about how the bookshop was one of few places where Papa Rock's album was available for purchase, and purchase it we did.

I was very sure indeed it would be a great listen and I wasn't wrong, but I didn't quite realise just how memorable that first listen was going to be. Getting back home I took the first round of the pills prescribed with a distinct sense of feeling a mild high as the jab and pain patch were kicking in. I did the Zuhor Prayer with an awareness that if I didn't pray right away I wasn't going to manage to do once I lay down. And lay down I did with Encik Ramli as entertainment, though the word doesn't do justice to how beguiling Rasa is. Beautifully played, sung (RS has never been in better voice) and produced it held me spellbound. I can't remember ever being quite as relaxed as I was for the next three hours. Almost worth the three weeks of discomfort preceding.