running 12:00 am
Sometimes after I run, and stop at the void deck to touch my toes and stretch, I remember part of a film I once watched – a teenage girl and boy not-quite-couple (both beautiful, long-limbed and somewhat blond) running along on the beach, then flopping down and laughing, the girl saying, “They call it endorphins!”
On my not-quite-stretch-of-a-beach, I know exactly what she’s talking about.
It’s been raining the entire weekend – not the usual sudden thunderstorms that blow over in less than an hour, leaving the ground shining under the blazing sun after, but rain that falls in moderate yet relentless sheets. The skies remain grey the entire day; we have to turn on the light if we want to do some serious reading.
I gave up on running yesterday evening, even when the rain slowed to a drizzle. The path was too slick, and my running gait always ensures that I get the most amount of wet gunk on my calves and even on the back of my thighs when I run in wet weather (this is a conclusion reached through scientific observation… or rather, a comparison of my legs with other runners’ when they run in the rain as well!). Besides the usual mud and water, it’s not unusual for me to find leaves and twigs stuck to my limbs at the end of a wet run. I think I might have turned up a critter or two before as well.
So… instead of venturing out for what was actually a much-needed run, I decided to call up the soon-to-close hokkien mee stall at East Coast Road, and pre-order some warm, gooey hokkien mee for dinner. This was my second time eating it this week – I had only recently discovered it (too late) through my friend at work, and ieat!
The business is a truly impressive one, with at least four persons helping to collate orders on both the phone and from customers who had dropped in. There were at least 6-8 other people standing around waiting for their orders when I arrived, yet much to my surprise, the ladies at the stall were uncannily able to identify me immediately by my order, despite only having heard me on the phone!
The uncle was frying away furiously, blinking rapidly in the smoke and heat of his small kitchen, visible to us all. He turned out huge batches of thick noodles at once, shoving as much as possible onto a plate with his spatula. A girl standing next to him distributed the portions of each plate evenly onto takeout wrappers and secured the packages neatly with a rubber band each. Finally, the deal was sealed with the addition of a packet of pounded chilli and some limes in the red plastic bag.
The vibrant smells and bustle of the little coffeeshop stayed with me as I gingerly tread through the wet pavements to where my mother sat waiting, down in one of the little residential streets nearby.
I was spoiled back when I was teaching, but man, I’ve found the past tripless 5-6 months hard. (Oops, checked again and it’s only been 4 months!)
Replaying the memories of the most recent trip can only take you this far. But I guess I am not done yet, especially since Cindy and I haven’t found time to recount everything about our too-short stint in Italy & Slovenia in writing.
Some of my favourite memories from our time in Slovenia (only 4 days!) include:-
I wish we had had more time to sit in the cafes of Ljubljana, paraglide in Bohinj, and visit Piran.
reading 6:16 pm
I’ve been reading plenty lately – before Charming Billy, there was Agatha Christie’s memoirs on her husband’s archaelogical digs – rather dated in tone – Come Tell Me How You Live.
Paul Theroux’s Blinding Light wasn’t difficult to finish, but it was disappointing. It’s about a writer who finds his true writerly self on a drug tour in Ecuador – and he ends up writing what is basically erotica! Oh, and he goes blind, but that his blindness is even less interesting, if possible. I don’t really want to know what this novel says about Theroux and his ambitions as a writer…
Terry Pratchett’s The Truth deals with the press, photography, racism, and not enough with Vetinari, the most awesome non-despot ever.
Alice Munro’s Something I’ve Been Meaning to Tell You has quite a few short stories I haven’t read yet. Lovely, as usual.
I don’t think I read so much when I am teaching!
work 11:38 pm
The thing about working in the “real world” is that you don’t get seasons even of the more artificial sort. There is no academic year to align your vacation schedule with – you make your own time to escape. Then again, you don’t have to go on holiday with all the little critters and their parents during peak season, when it’s either too hot or too cold/rainy in most parts of the world. At the end of the working day, and during weekends, you can shut off your mind and do whatever you like, without having to worry about marking, worksheets, emotional burdens. And lunches can be leisurely affairs when no meetings await your attention, even if you have to make up for it by going home later in the evening.
I remember stuffing the last of my pappadum into my face before the bell rang (as it perpetually did) to let me know that I only had 30mins, 1hr, 2hrs till my next lesson, during which I could only hope to complete an infinitesimal proportion of what I had to do without being interrupted by colleagues’ requests, students popping in for a chat/consultation session, emails asking for logistical arrangements for this and that. Then I would promptly forget to bring my power adaptor for my laptop on my hasty way to class, and have to dispatch a student to fetch it.
Here, there is time to think, and a lot to think about. I can work uninterruptedly for hours at a stretch, with my shoes off. The results of what I do aren’t always immediate; they may even take a decade to come to fruition, or never do so. And despite where I’m deliberately headed towards, I think I will miss this strange kind of life, which is exciting and low-key at the same time. I have met some of the most brilliant people of my life at this job – not intellectuals, but impressive, awesome leaders. At the same time, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alone in the workplace, and this, not always in an unpleasant way.
reading 12:56 pm
My second Peter Temple was a much easier read, either because it was one of his first works, or because I had gotten the hang of Melbourne slang a little bit more (I looked up what “ute” meant!).
The protagonist Jack Irish is fairly likeable – a mix of a lawyer/private eye living on the edge, a former alcoholic-turned-apprentice of a carpenter, a frequent visitor to horse races and football matches (“Go Roys, make a noise.”) and a widower with a nice collection of fine art. He doesn’t differ so much from Joe Cashin of The Broken Shore, who also has a tortured past, a liking for odd literature and music, and a tendency to land himself in serious trouble – but somehow, you just know that Irish is going to be more fun in person (a “rumpled, predatory middle-aged man”).
I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve had little contact with Australian lit, but Temple’s humour is original and biting. His brand of crime fiction is less a whodunnit than an action flick put on paper, stunning in its vividness and pace. Here’s a sample exchange between Irish and a man he’s visiting on behalf of a client:-
“… Give me the gun back and I’ll tell you where to find ten grand. Go round the back and put the gun through the window. Ten grand. Notes. Old notes.”
“I know where to find ten grand… Everybody keeps ten grand in the dishwasher. And everybody keeps seventy grand in the airconditioner. Wootton reckons you’re short twenty. I’m pushing a receipt for eighty grand and a pen under the door.”
The Melbourne Temple portrays is bleak, sleazy, corrupt and crime-ridden. But it is also fascinating.
(PS: Four months later, I realise that I didn’t mention the title of the book I’ve read at all within this entry – doh! It’s Bad Debts, the first Jack Irish novel.)
running 12:24 am
Ever since I sprained my right ankle on July 29 (while running fast at night in the park, tripping over nothing), I’ve run but twice. I ran both times with an ankle guard (S$21.80) and not-so-faint twitches of impending misalignment on the inside of my ankle. I’ve had difficulty walking even in slight heels – or rather, I can walk fine in them, but start feeling the strain after more than 10mins. And in the meantime I’ve broken the thong-strap on my only functional pair of presentable slippers, which I wear to travel to and from work – this happened when the train stopped suddenly and I prevented myself from falling and possibly spraining my other foot (which thankfully my weight was on, and which I was thrown in the direction of) by deliberately turning it with great force on its side.
While everything has been slightly frustrating, I accepted the fact of the sprain philosophically. I had been peaking in my marathon training quite early, hoping to build a strong base, and get in up to 6 (!) runs of over 30K each over the course of my training (I was at 28.7K before I sprained my ankle). The more one trains, the more likely one will get injured, and especially in August, 2 months before the Chicago Marathon (which I am running), says my marathon guru, Hal Higdon.
I had also been too complacent in my personal relations, and in fact, had been thinking some cold thoughts right before I fell.
In addition, a few days before my run, I had been quite mean to some service staff in a restaurant, because they had bungled my order and did not handle my query well. I felt sorry immediately after but found no suitable way to apologise to the maligned lady (who had been the messenger of the mess-up, not the actual bungler herself).
I believe, in short, in retribution. And while it’s been most difficult for me not to run – to feel my carefully-attained fitness erode and my thighs turn into jelly; to watch runners take advantage of warm sunsets to run by the reservoir; to feel lethargic; and to feel my confidence about completing my October marathon within a good timing drain away – I also feel that I had had it coming to me. This enforced period of “rest” actually benefited me in other ways as well, forcing me to be less exacting on other people (since I could no longer be as exacting on myself) and… um…
I don’t really know what else, as inertia kind of blows.
reading 12:07 am
A result of browsing in the library and coming upon Alice McDermott – hmm I think I’ve heard of her before, the blurb at the back sounds good, and the first page reads well, so why not? – Charming Billy is of a perfect size and pliability (important, as you don’t want the book to be too tough to keep open with one hand) for morning train rides. Beautiful as the writing initially was, though, I found it pretty tedious after a while. I thought it would be akin to Graham Swift’s Last Orders – which is a gripping, solid eulogy of a dead man – but “Charming Billy” was sadly hemmed in by his alcoholism, one not-so-tragic tale of a summer romance with a treacherous Irish girl, and a long-suffering, quiet, plain wife. There really wasn’t much else Billy’s friends and family could contribute to his memory.
reading 11:54 pm
Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell is intimidatingly thick but the pages just fly by! Susanna Clarke’s first novel is hugely ambitious – strewn with fantastical footnotes and obviously densely researched – and yet, at the same time, entertaining, funny, spine-chilling and dramatic all at once! I love Jonathan Strange and Arabella, and the ending is somehow… perfect.
If only it were thinner, I think it’s one book my brother might like!
(Wow, I used a lot of exclamation marks in this entry.)
reading 11:32 pm
I found Peter Temple in a list of award winners for crime fiction – The Broken Shore was the novel that had won the award.
The writing is like nothing I’ve ever read before – sharp and witty in a dry, crackling way, but also obscure, as hard as reading James Joyce is. I don’t think I knew what was happening half the time. There was too much going on in this colourful, gritty Australian small town… most of it extremely unsavoury.
Although I had mixed feelings about The Broken Shore, I’m up for more Peter Temple, I think.
