The Other Side of America(na) Sunday, Nov 16 2008

The very cool eatingasia has a post on Americana, which captures so much of what I love about the US – not just the big, ritzy cities, but also the forgotten towns and wacky highway stops in-between (I so want to visit New Mexico).

Jonathan Lethem’s The Fortress of Solitude, which is about a white kid growing up in a predominantly black Brooklyn in the 70s, delves beyond that picture-postcard perfection, though – I’m nowhere near done with it, but it brought back recent memories of Kathy’s and my quest for good food in the suburbs of Chicago. On our way to Hot Doug’s from the nearest El-stop, we had walked under a bridge where the homeless barely stirred from their blankets between dark pillars as we passed by at 11am. The tunnel stank unmistakably of pee, which left me gasping a little, but which Kathy, having lost her sense of smell somehow, was unable to detect. The area between every two pillars defined the living space of one individual – old hotpots and pans bundled together in boxes sitting at the foot of stained bedlinen. When we passed by on our way back (past noon), only these objects bore witness to our silent guilt, post-binge.

Then there was the fact that the students attending the high school near our motel were carrying see-through backpacks, which Kathy informed me was a “bad sign”. The sidewalks were splattered with thrown eggs, and some kid asked if we belonged to an “Asian gang” (!). In another neighbourhood – pleasant and verdant – we saw a sign.

I seem to have a knack for putting myself in unsafe situations, whether I land in the US or Morocco, or stay home in Singapore. Fortunately, during no part of my recent trip to the US/Canada did I feel truly “unsafe” – but I did realise anew how a short Asian girl wearing relatively clean and expensive running shoes could be viewed. And these stereotypes, no matter how complex and layered and removable they are, prevent me from truly feeling at home.

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Local Colour Tuesday, Nov 11 2008

I am naturally lazy about reading the newspapers, despite my nagging at my former students to keep themselves updated on what’s happening around the world. In my defence, I did read the papers every day, or every other day, when I was teaching, but now that I’m no longer in school, I scan the headlines desultorily, read the sensationalistic articles (“Yet Another Chinese National Murdered”) or those containing some degree of “human interest” (veering dangerously close to being the target audience for The New Paper), and watch the news on TV when my dad is channel-surfing.

So it happened that when my dad was relaxing in front of the TV after “Ten Brothers” (anyone remember that show?), I found out about this delightful middle-aged security guard who thwarted a bank robbery attempt (just a 10-min drive from where I live) by a man dressed in woman’s clothes (???), pretending he had explosives on him. Here’s the security guard’s response, when interviewed by the media (imperfectly recalled):-

So he told me, “Don’t try to play the hero. You’ve got only three minutes to live.” I tackled him and everyone quickly go one side! [laughs loudly] Erm, but the staff was quite helpful lah…

How was the staff helpful, I wonder? Did they call the police from their safe vantage point? Or less usefully, did they fling words of encouragement to him from afar? Inquiring minds want to know.

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Mad Streak Tuesday, Nov 11 2008

Some varied reading this past week, done at a fairly manic pace, as I discovered that this is double-up-your-reading period at the NLB.

Val McDermid’s Booked for Murder is subtitled “The fifth Lindsay Gordon mystery”, but I found this out only after settling down with it at The Arch on Seah St, waiting for Su-Lin and Cindy. I also found out, a little to my surprise, that the novel was as much about lesbian relationships as it was about detecting – perhaps even more about the former than the latter. The case wore a little thin right from the beginning, when it was divulged that the victim had died through a particularly dramatic method (exploding beer bottle) in the style of the murder described in her most recent, yet unpublished novel. There’s quite a bit of white-collar crime mixed in there, but this ain’t no Peter Temple. Disappointing overall, but I’ve heard good things about McDermid’s later novels, and will probably check out The Distant Echo soon.

Next was John Banville’s The Untouchable, which mainly comprised the plotless ramblings of a former Russian secret agent whose identity had been exposed by his native Britain in his dotage. The blurb was misleading, referring to “Cambridge spies” – I thought of boyish students being recruited by mysteriously dark figures while happily punting along. While there were dark figures, most of the protagonist’s youth was elided over. The protagonist’s homosexuality (discovered later in his life) also seemed incidental to the novel.

Still, the novel is rather like a pointillist drawing – admirable because of the artist’s demonstrated skill and patience.

At the same time (rather incongruously), I was reading Pratchett’s The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents, which was pure genius, as Pratchett usually is. Not only do I now comprehend the full meaning behind Suyin’s blog URL, I now try to refrain from spinning my life into a story wherever possible (yeah… right). I also have a fresh appreciation of pictograms.

And finally, I’ve just finished my first Raymond Chandler – The Big Sleep. Philip Marlowe, Chandler’s famous private eye, is a sleek, tired Bond rounding up crazy naked women, hired thugs, and racketeers with one hand tied behind his back. Chandler’s writing reminds me of Edward Hopper.

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The Long, Hard Road to Recovery Sunday, Nov 9 2008

(This was meant to have been written quite some time – 2 weeks – ago but I got lazy.)

Post-marathon recovery is something different.

After my past two marathons (both in Singapore), I had taken a vacation in cold Canada and done nothing except feast – quite often on junk food.  I was keeping myself warm, I rationalised.  It was Christmas and I had made these really nice buttery brussel sprouts with chestnuts. It was too hard to walk on the black ice down the steep slope to the grocery store, much less contemplate running.

I took the experts’ advice to “rest” for 26 or 42 days (depending on whom you speak to) quite literally, put my feet up, and didn’t look back.

This time, I came back feeling good. I barely hurt, even after sitting mostly still for the 20+ hour flight back home. I felt ready for the next race I was running – barely 7 days after the marathon (a cross-terrain 10K on 19 Oct). I had been exhilarated, rather than depleted, by my experience in Chicago.

But when I started running 4 days after the marathon – a short 5K or so, which had felt like a breeze when I did it as a warm-up run the day before the marathon – my legs felt a little like… lead. My heart pounded uncomfortably fast, and I couldn’t contemplate going any further.

This failure of imagination was what threw me off during the post-marathon period. Again, it seemed impossible that prior to the marathon, one had thought nothing of doing a 20K (12mile) “medium” run in the middle of the week, and that after the marathon, the same distance seemed nearly insurmountable. Or rather, I had thought it didn’t, but changed my mind rapidly when I panted and ploughed my way through various short runs throughout the week – doing OK for the 10K race on Sunday, but teetering on the verge of dehydration the whole time.

Strangely, I now prefer to run in the mornings, before my mind is fully conscious, so I can trick it into some exercise before the “exigencies of work” and the pull of dinners with friends let it slide into a catatonic heap by the end of the day.

Worst of all, I feel heavy all the time as I now consume the same amount of food I did pre-marathon, without the corresponding mileage to take it off me.

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The Murder Room Sunday, Nov 2 2008

I’ve been reading P.D. James all out of order, I realised, as The Murder Room comes between Death in Holy Orders and The Lighthouse both of which I’ve read before.

I dislike Dalgliesh’s staff more with every novel – Kate Miskin has got so much baggage, and tries to prove so much as a woman on the force, that she comes off as a most unlikeable individual, while the other males tend to get the better of one another by making snide remarks about each other’s masculinity.

I did like The Murder Room though, mainly for the character of Tally Clutton, the housekeeper of the Dupayne Museum where the “murder room” is housed.  Tally’s contentment, her love for London, and her resolute independence from her daughter, are described in convincing detail.

Again, the solution is not much to speak of and I find Dalgliesh’s autumnal relationship rather redundant, but oh well…

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