It's the steps that count; not the count that counts.
(I was thinking about compiling a set of my finest apothegms, but since the above is the best I can come up with for now, I've decided not to bother.)
I miss my involvement in drama at work. That came home keenly to me when watching the play at our amphitheatre the other week. On the other hand, I'm loving basketball. I don't think I'd have ever been much good on a court myself, but shouting at the guys on it is distinctly life-enhancing. The funny thing is that watching the guys play feels so much like directing a show: huge amounts of nervous energy meaning I can't bring myself to sit down and relax. And the pay-off when we win is the equivalent of putting on a show that really works.
It's an interesting mental exercise to try and draw the lines between Sport and Art. I suspect that, in the final analysis, it can't be done.
Over the weekend I found myself idly browsing through one of my prized possessions, this being a rather battered copy of The Calvin and Hobbes Tenth Anniversary Book. I'd been inspired to revisit by a splendid article on the greatest comic strip ever drawn & written over at the also somewhat splendid Open Culture. Now thinking of acquiring the complete three volume version of the full run plus extras, but maybe that can wait until I finally retire.
By the by, aside from his artistic genius, Bill Watterson, the man (and really just one man, alone) behind the brilliant strip is up there as one of my ethical heroes for his unbending stand against the merchandising of his creations. Much as I'd like to, I'll never wear a Calvin and Hobbes t-shirt unless he endorses the production thereof and happily (or a bit sadly as well) that'll never happen.
Just got back from visiting Boon at the KTP Hospital out in Yishun. He was looking pretty good for someone who'd recently suffered a heart attack, I'm glad to say. He reminded me that his first one happened around 15 years back, which put me right since I was vaguely telling folk I reckoned it was some 6 or 7 years ago. Time flies at supersonic speed, eh?
We'd engaged in a bit of post-Raya visiting in the earlier part of the day, which was gently joyous in its own way - especially the part involving the consumption of freshly prepared prata. So a fruitful day overall (even including the work-stuff which claimed my attention in the morning.)
Oh, and Noi intends an end-of-the-day treat with a few slices of home-baked cake of the fruity variety adding to the general sense of well-being.
A message from Mei we received this afternoon, whilst we were out for a tea and epok epok, caused Noi and myself more than a little concern. Boon has had another heart attack, following one a few years back, and at first it wasn't clear just how bad it was. Fortunately it wasn't too long before she followed up by letting us know it was relatively mild and there's no need for a by-pass. I didn't get overly worried, even when the severity of the situation was open to question, reminding myself that Boon had actually driven himself to hospital on the first occasion. But in that first fifteen minutes or so there was still a nagging doubt that this time things might not turn out for the best. And the worst might have finally arrived.
Awareness of mortality - one's own and that of one's contemporaries - is inescapable once you get to my age, I'm afraid. And, in a small way, I am afraid.
But, for now, at least, it looks like Boon and I get to go on and enjoy time's mercy.
I've just been listening to Prof Jonathan Haidt talking what strikes me as a lot of good sense about The Hidden Dangers of Social Media. Not sure how much of his analysis applies to young people in this Far Place, but I have the uneasy feeling that the answer is: an awful lot.
Considering raising a ruckus when I next find myself at a workshop predicated on the worship of our Tech Overlords. But feel like I'm getting too old for all this. Having said that I can't help feel a certain stupid complacency over the good fortune of being born at the right time.
Am certain I would have been addicted to video games if I'd ever have played them.
It's been quite some time since I've taught anything by Federico Garcia Lorca. Am now well into Act 1 of The House of Bernarda Alba, a play which in the ordinary run of things doesn't do all that much for me. Yet this time round it's all electricity. The power!
The thing is, though, that I can't go for more than twenty minutes without thinking of the murder of the great poet, great dramatist, great man. And when I remember I get angry. And deeply, deeply sad. Somehow he has come to represent all the desaparecidos for me, from another time, another dark place.
