More Food - Uppuma

Chap comes in especially for uppuma. Cashier with the daughter who had studied Marine Biol. on the Gold Coast, near the colourful Reef no doubt in danger of destruction from Climate Change, turns in this direction to enquire. Asking at the Sweets Counter is she? A waiter in the back there around the corner?... Ah, no. In fact directing the question at the Australian regular, the scribbler, who ought to know. He had ordered it again this afternoon. A week or two ago one of the newer Chennai lads had rounded on the man. You wanna give something else a try one day maybe? Pongal very similar, rice flour instead of semolina. Very nice. The fellow had indicated a chap at the long central table who was also fixated on uppuma. Uppma, uppuma without fail whenever he visited. But on that particular day this chap had accepted pongal. (The last portion of uppuma had been served shortly before to you-know-who.) This might have been the very man: age, height, light colour, neat blue biz-shirt were all about right. Difficult to be absolutely sure. This same beefy waiter loves to clown, limited English no reason for shyness. (The above conversation must be understood as paraphrase of course—practiced readers will have twigged; the original with all its stumbles and mumbles could not possibly be reproduced.) Clowning in the lad's nature. Nandri, he offered the other day when he had been handed a plate or something else in order to aid his clearing of the table. Nandri, nandri — he had got it on numerous occasions and heard it liberally dispensed all round. Nandri and nothing else. Mocking. Another time the fellow had approached the table for a longer chat that began with the matter of the slow—in fact unmoving—Tamil acquisition. Two years here, soon to sign a further three year extension. Married, wife now pregnant. (A brief visit presumably.) Six or eight hours out of the city he was, still within Tamil Nadu. Mock military salutes, rapid steps over the floor, often sweat on the brow: proved his value to the employer. Out front the uppuma chap had been ready to turn on his heels in the event there was not available what he was after. A substitute would not do on this day, neither pongal nor anything else. The raised finger of the cashier had been misinterpreted and the fellow was beginning to pivot — spinning on a six-pence, the old chaps at the football club used to say of the earlier generation of deft ballerinas on the field. No pongal in any case today: earlier in the piece Beefy had said it was finished. Come down from his office tower the man, or on his way home, only the one dish would satisfy the growling tummy on this particular occasion; and take-out in fact today. Usually uppuma is a breakfast dish; two or three times a week one could get lucky lunch-times. This was getting on now: rare good fortune for the fellow. Coconut and green chilli one side, dried red the other with onion and tomato, split by a watery dahl on the silver serving tray. Uppuma does not in fact appear on either the display board at Komala Vilas on Bufallo Road, nor on the menu. A lucky chance found it once on the small Specials board opposite the register. $3.00, preceded for this palate by rasam soup served in a small stainless cup. (Add $1.50.)

NB. There are numerous Komala Vilases in Singapore—all off-shoots of the original—and apparently one or two established back in the homeland it seems (Chennai). Bufallo Road the tip, opposite Tekka Market.

Stuck

Couple of yellow helmeted Indians, tall and short, issued reflective safety vests and orange long-sleeved polos—remainder of the clobber their own responsibility: jeans & footwear. Pair is tasked this morning with removing the litter attached to the lamp-posts and street poles here in Geylang. Bag for refuse, bottle of water, pair of scrapers each; tall senior presumably charged with the responsibility of the camera for the record. Two posts on Geylang Road near Changi corner kept the lads ten minutes until the job was done properly, smooth clean silver gleaming and snapped for the Super. Illegal notices for room advertisements with the tear-away telephone numbers at the bottom are the biggest problem. The tape people use on these slips is very darn sticky; it is this that remains long after the paper has been torn away. What's worse, in the case of the larger lamp-post the fancy ridged sleeve wrapped around the pole earlier in the year for some urban beautification makes it doubly hard to clean. Some water needed to soften the tape. Unfortunately a bicycle is chained to this particular post and how to prevent the seat from getting wet? What to do? Quick furtive looks left and right. Luckily no irate owner leaps from the tables to upbraid the lads. Scrape, scrape both together, Tall bending his back. Blades sharp enough for the task? Don't look like it on a couple of takes from one and then the other independently. Scrape, scrape. Hands run over the grooves once, twice, three times does it. Not too bad; pretty good. Photograph. The Super not likely to hightail out to check every last pillar and post. Though square-edged and one would have assumed an easier prospect, the No-crossing post is not much better, its tape visible from ten metres away. Water again, scraping. It comes away with a bit of added elbow grease. But not really. Shit of a thing. Tall turns a beak in the direction; around on the other side Short angling contrawise for balance. A shot from a higher elevation will help with the evidence for Super. Tall raises the camera. OK, there. Difficult in fact to read this sign. No walking on the footpath? or from the upper path under the trees and onto the footpath perhaps in case you run into someone unexpectedly?... Ah, no. OK. Jay-walking. No jaywalking here across the busy four-lane roadway. Warning—not allowed: thick red line through the circled figure. Twenty-five metres away at Joo Chiat corner traffic lights for safe crossing. Some cloud this morning. Two posts done, get a move on. Off the pair troop; by lunch-time they ought to make the Kalang River where some shade is offered by the bank.

Picnic

Sunday afternoon soon after lunch. Young scarved women in clusters over the unmowed grass opposite, a pair against one of the Rain trees following the shade around the trunk. The Deaf came up from the rear a short time ago touching the flank of his friend and indicating the fan turned in this direction. Without it so hot it made you crazy, he signs toward the outdoors beyond the awning and then knob-twisting at his temple. The man caught some shut-eye briefly afterward until Cha the cabbie landed with his pals and started up a little conversational racket. Usually quiet and reserved, questioning more than talking himself—a listening ear behind the wheel you would guess—sometimes Cha does turn unexpectedly voluble. A Chin convert of many years now, Islam has taken Cha, together with the other two regular Chin converts here, away from his ethnic group. (Some estrangement has resulted in the families too in all three cases.) Sitting at the tables the scarved women could not escape a charge for drinks at least, and of course there was no bringing in of outside food to the Eateries. (Regulars went unquestioned.) The women have cooked at home this morning and brought flasks of tea or water. Next door in the neighbouring Carpmael house Lia the mixed blood (as she called herself) Filipina-Indian is being starved of food by her stingy, rich employers. Seven kilograms Lia has lost in two months there. Indian Muslims in a four storey house, two cars, a tailoring business and singing prayers in chorus regularly, begrudge the maid more than a small serve of rice and some curry twice daily. (Breakfast is coffee.) Lia is aiming to convert to Islam at the end of the year; currently she is taking classes on Islamic history on her free days in order to better prepare. Prior to this employment Lia had worked with other Indian Muslims, who though they sometimes had insufficient money to pay her treated Lia very well, as part of the family. It must have been their example that first attracted Lia to the religion of the Prophet; prior to starting in Carpmael Lia did not believe Muslims could be so uncharitable. Unable to hold back her hunger, an occasional apple is taken from the fruit bowl, a biscuit eaten in the toilet; last night again there was a long wait for dinner and only noodles served her. A special boy hurt in a motor accident and unable to communicate is Lia's particular charge; but the house is also large and with two cars much cleaning is required. All more difficult on an empty stomach. The goodness of Islam is everywhere apparent in this quarter; perhaps the goodness of the culture and community underlying—a lavender coloured two dollar bill just now drawn from a rear pocket wallet for a lame chap stopping at a table. Is it the strong enjoinder in Islam that produces the everyday generosity and promptness of alms-giving? Were Christian communities the same a century ago? (Sometimes the Malays will tell you Chinese beggars and tissue-sellers know to come over to Geylang Serai for the pickings they can expect there.) The small daily glories on this Changi corner in particular opposite the market have detained this author nearly forty months. There was no thought of anything like this term on landing.

Food Adventure - Fennel

An Indian of some description wants to tell you he doesn't know fennel when he sees it. Get off the grass Mr. Billy! You're kidding.... Bends close over the table squinting. Never seen nor heard. The new waiter knew the Tamil word, not the English. Useless for Billy. New chap is moonlighting for some extra cash; nights works as a welding inspector. (Chennai; Billy of Ceylonese extraction; second and third generation respectively, which explains.) Seeds brought up from lunch at Komala Vilas lasted the 15 minute walk and plenty left over. Uninspiring crowd; business shirts and skirts predominating as usual. Two pair of shapely legs, sleek fleshy femurs and tibias; but an old Dweeb art patron-tourist between needing a shot across his bows in order to collect the offering. Not worth the candle; might wanna talk. Talk art maybe and then Sentosa and the Night Safari. Shortly after at the bill man produced his discount card from the gallery next door. Sorry sir. Over $30. Manager Billy disappointing with finest consolatory smile. Oh!... Better luck next time, bud. Finally, ten minutes hence after a number of reconnoiters, Mr. Billy was seduced. Billy's grandpa might have been Singhalese. Converted to marry his Javanese bride — Billy converted that is; not Gramps. Sneaky old dog always kept his second wife hidden. All the talk was of the Javanese, the two boys to her in their late twenties powering ahead, one flying Garuda and the other on the way to same, taking exams currently. Proud as punch dad; now proud dad in his dotage to a secret six month old child here in Sing. No wonder all the hours and the side-line health products. Couple of his staff hooked and trying it on customers. Feeling tired, lacking energy? Fellow had just the shot. Good gear.... No, no. Nothing pyramid about this one. This one was different. One needed to keep an open mind…. Finally, overcoming much hesitation, induced to try. Ventures two single pellets pinched delicately from the napkin. The elixir of youth he kept an open mind on slugged immediately no doubt; an organic product proved over thousands of years from his ancestors? Gee, I dunno. You sure it's OK? What's it for?... Why don't you give it your friend? Indicating the Dweeb. Mr. Dweeb immediately understood to be a “friend” because of course he is white. We all hail from White-land where all the Whiteys hang together, eat at restaurants, drive shiny cars and visit tourist attractions. Goo and ga over art-jewels lighted behind glass in galleries and museums. What's $5.90 for a cup of coffee for the likes of us?... Yeah right Mr. Billy. Sure. …Wisely pretends he hasn't heard. Chew slowly now Bill. And don't swallow mind…. Nods moving off to a table where he had been hailed. Still a bit dubious…. Except for the gait all bird Billy, topped by a wavy dark crest that might even be undyed. Ought to have taken to seed more easily.

Strangers on a Train

Proud to be part of
Singapore for 5 years.

CIMB Bank celebrating anniversary with 5 surprises:
vouchers, specials on loans, rebates, &etc.
Full page graphic of crowded train carriage pulling into Raffles station, ten potential customers bunched around the elephant in the room, the giant, almighty $.
Eight of the ten heads are bent onto their screens; another is talking on his phone; number ten must be counted as indeterminate. (Two partly obscured unable to be positively included.) No exaggeration whatever: advertising carefully tailored to the marketplace. (The buses favoured by the uncles and aunties are a good deal better, but those commuters are not potential customers.)
Straits Times 19 Sept. 2014 p. A 15

NB. No "Climb upon the gravy train"; GET ON THIS etc. Simple blown-up graphic a la Roy Lichtenstein, minus the inspiration.

Fly on the Wall @ Paul — Mall Hunt

Something like half two empty on a Monday, any number of window tables available. No, this fireside one thanks.... Hard for the woman to find a response. Shall I cut the baguette for you sir?... Toasted sir?... Coming right up sir... Didn't notice the discolouration of the white China-made paper hat. (Not the Ecuadorian panama that had been requested as a replacement for the original worn out by sun and rain in the tropics.) Oh golly! WARNING BELLS. An Oz young biz/entrepreneur-type with an eye out for the opportunities in China. Cursed luck most cursed. Again, even sotto voce, could he and the companion have heard the accent ordering? By the looks alone no way they could be sure. No way. Lottsa Spaniards and other Mediterranos sought out the place after the economic meltdown back home. Uncertain whether older female or male companion. Without raising of eyes the blue shirt a definite — whether Julia's blue tie matching unknown. Passed on the tomato soup. Vegetarian, the helpful waitress added. Not after the item still sitting on a pile of pages on the desk as a paper-weight three months later was it? No thank you kindly. What preservatives could they use for shipment — something from the tanning industry? Gender still not clear. A bender kind of case either way.... Whichever clearly no romantic connection or coupling. Dark Filipina/Malay waitress obliging a couple of young Chin mini-socialite mums with a pic sitting beside each other babies cradled in arms. Selfies impossible. Oh dear lord! The lad mentioning the meritocracy, contrasting with the India scene where ..... (something) doesn't hold water; tough for business without the strict meritocratic order. Do you need more butter sir?... If you do let us know.... Well, some softening wouldn't go astray. Butter lumps. But that would involve more interchange, more stretchy smiles fishing for a solid tip possibly. Older couple English? newly arrived. All very French, opines Madam. Shopped for wine by the sounds of the clinking, avoid the exorbitant charges back at the hotel. Irish turns out, Northern possibly. Sparkling water: could it be delivered straight away? It was a small bottle the waitress warned in advance. There had been complaints; average sparkly at bubbly prices. Unlikely the Alps. (Paul was laid-on French—Louis XIV furniture, colonial-like staff, white aprons and smocks &etc.) Pair don't need their sandwiches warmed up, no. They're warm enough themselves skipping up from the taxi and between the malls. Holding the line on the sighting. No means no, terribly unfriendly albeit. Economics and biz both sides double barrel. And still no LRB next door at the bookshop — today makes the last issue on offer fully six weeks old. Hardship chomping with worn fangs, gaps and all. The teeth had "drifted", observed the dentist the other day with a little malicious flourish in her masterful English. (Pissed off when she was challenged on price for straight-forward front fillings where over-earnest brushing had made the gums recede. How to win?!) Thank you for coming. Make-shift purse bought from the Thieves Market almost made the old duck blanch. Byron next door to be expected of course — marketable blue-ribbon hippiedom; lottsa biz types winding down in caftans there now no doubt, shit yeah. Some of the latter tones strongly suggested femme, though countervailing had the odds the other way. No need confirm; gender unimportant in such cases. Watch this exit boys. Was it fully 20 minutes? The upper limit. Ion for good quality sandals. These native chappals are strictly meant for the house.... A shit-hole industrial city the poor unfortunate go-getter had to endure. Making $$$$'s on the Mainland required sacrifice, hoops to jump, not all picture-postcard picnic for the album.

Two Hours Later
Successful in the end three malls later: Ion, back to Takashimaya (where Kinokuniya and Paul are housed adjacent each other) and finally Paragon. (Yes indeed, the name of the last took some swallowing three years ago. Yes indeed no put-on. Mui Mui one side of the entry and something else the other. Not quite what the ancient Greeks had in mind. Transformed in the Democratic Republic of Sing.) Tangs would have been last cab off the rank as Lucky Plaza was investigated the week before. All five malls stand in a convenient narrow band on the absolute red-hot gold-plated A1 Orchard Road shopping strip, top of the retail global pops. (At least according to a French survey possibly like many other competitions commissioned by interested parties.) Somewhere thereabouts, not too far distant, where also the Orchard Mandarin Hotel stands, one would find Orchard Towers, within the halls of which the famous Four Floors of Whores (sic.). Nothing shady there: a registered bone fide business. Check online for confirmation and address.) In order to find sports-wear the prime fashion and jewelry boutiques at street-level at all three malls needed negotiation; needed to be passed, the light of the advertising boxes bathing, customers entering brushed against, perfume sniffed. Oh glory be, the well-preserved and maintained middle-aged in their fashion leisure-wear, cosmetics, cosmetic surgeries, stomach rings almost visible protruding. Fashion concentration camp victims padding by with vacant, unseeing eyes, dear weather-blasted angels. For those with some will-power guaranteed weight-loss outlet discretely positioned on one of the upper levels of Takashimaya encouraged with the example of a young lad on the window advertising his 8 point something kilogram achievement in so many short weeks. Hubbies dutifully followed more confident wives in their familiar domain; others were taking a breather on benches while their partners kept up the hunt. The young veterans of the mirrored and tiled halls, plugged most of them, cried out for pity. They had been wheeled through this precinct in their prams and joined mummy and daddy on their shopping expeditions and the recovery lunches that followed. The cultural manufacture powerfully, awesomely omnipresent, a uniformed army in strict disciplined formation could not outdo these battalions. Lazy slow Monday what was more. The sound-track on the Mandarin-Takashimaya corner had only been given a single short burst: I WANT TO FEEL.... the vamp implored. I want to feeeel.
         Online World of Sports was listed as within the Ion tower. No such luck. The girl at the Info desk knew all about short-term tenancies disappearing down the gurgler. They had adidas and .... something-something else under Ion's tent; not World of Sports sir. Low-end shopper: the charm emission was only so-so; perfunctory, lass barely trying, hardly any widening of the eyes and teeth no-where to be seen. But the Net says…. I just checked this morn..... Very sorry. Have a nice day sir..... Takashimaya had fuck-all of sport. One outlet only whose name slipped like fat from a chop on the barbie. Even though the boy said he was Not very sure — usually meaning No fucking clue — in fact the Paragon tip came up trumps: there on the Directory the fourth floor on the other side of the street, enter beside Mui Mui, the prize: Four Floors — no, World of Sport. And indeed a whole lot more of the same from which to choose for the convenience of shoppers. Compare and save. KEEN trekking sandals priced at $169, 20% can. Shit-load of dollars of course, but customers came back eight years later for a replacement shoe when finally their last had worn out, said the nice young pimply Tamil. Meaning the innocent had heard the story of satisfied customer purchases that had been transacted while she was in middle primary school out in Jurong. Never mind. Precisely what a man in need wanted to hear. The Wings, good as they proved, were too blasted hot on the equator. Excellent three years of pounding wear, hundreds and hundreds of kilometres unraveling phrases and opening paragraphs. It was time. The native chappals needed to be retired, pair Number Two repaired 3-4 times to date. (Not the same product as those hand-crafted by Mr. Yahya's father down in Geylang years ago.) It was past time. Next month Java, maybe even Bali briefly, lots of foot-slog. (Toe-capped.)

Loved & Lost (Nov24)

Newsprint under the fingernails? Yuk... Oh. Ah. Thank you. That was nice, much obliged. Scarf without warning shooting a close, very particular and broad broad-side smile. Yah! You don't get 'em any better than that served up on a platter. There you are. Catch!... Wasn't she under escort? Tall guy... All the folds and layers bolster it, puff it all up. Such ease in manner. Wrapped and shrouded they have more confidence, the inner lioness sitting secure. Camel colours; camel and sandy fawn, with a dash of red. Arab. Here he comes with the plates and immediately rounding back for drinks. Got him on a string, tall Indian, couple years her junior. Always advisable to survey the ground; fools rush in, &etc. Yesterday on the No. 7 just around the corner on Guillemard, tall lass mid-20s, girl-next-door type racing to catch her ride. Sometimes the Mainlanders are difficult to tell from the locals, plenty well-heeled in the condos near the river there. Good run, well done; made it easily in the end. Could not be local with that athleticism—Singaporeans groan and complain at two minute walks to the stop. Aboard passing close, the young woman needed congratulation. Good morning, she responded. No, not Good morning. Good running. Big smiles. Pleasure. Dawdling. Ahm. Ah, ah… We fail. Goes to take a seat in back. Hello; goodbye. Striking up on the bus rapido not unknown by any means; needs all the cards falling right-side up, however. The once or twice the young woman was subsequently observed the long veil of jet on the aisle-side curtained her bowed head down on the screen. Twenty minutes later somewhere near Grange Road, around Devonshire, Takashimaya and Kinokuniya not two minutes off, the figure glimpsed alighting. By that stage the shy Cavalier had taken a seat the other side of the padded post, For the remainder of the ride incommunicado. Twenty minute universe of reverie passing through the glass of the window to the outdoors in the usual mooning. Multi-verses to the end of time, the Big Bang and return. If only the pen was as quick as the brain. Sigh. Doors opening. Brief glance in the direction. Oh. Oh, there you are. Your stop? In an easy spring one foot onto the pavement. But then, wait. A turn. Oh! A look angled around the post indeed. Oh Gee. Fare thee well. Fare thee well. Smile the length of a mile and brighter than the day. Raised hand saluting too. Adieu. Darling. I love you.

The Price You Pay

Feidu, the usual Net place on Geylang Road near Aljunied, has standard charges of $2 per hour and 50c printing—with some cajoling $1 and 20 cents (ten for volume). The large, better functioning place around on Aljunied charges $1.60 weekdays and ten cents more weekends when the place is crowded with lads skype-ing back home to parents, wives and children; thirty cent printing (again ten volume). Most of the Kopi shops charge twenty-thirty cents for a glass of warm water—some people's choice of beverage on the equator; ice the same. The last couple of months Mr. Sharif at Sri Geylang has insisted on gifting his regular his favourite Ahmad tea-bags he bought in Dubai. London product; a treat Mr. Sharif is willing to share because he and his wife cannot finish their hoard and the tea loses flavour sitting. Thirty cent charge at the register, no matter Mr. Sharif is robbing his employer of trade. (When Ahmad the Money-changer was offered a bag carrying his name he declined what he considered floor-sweepings—not a sign of leaf anywhere. Of course mum's the word where Mr. S. is concerned.) In turn this reminds of the fifty cent per hour charge in Dunlop Street for phone re-charging. (A recent review at ID Express in Dunlop raised the possibility of hiking the re-charge charge to 80c., or even one dollar. On hold for the present time.) And finally, what had first come under notice three years ago, the girls leaning on the pillars under the busy Five-foot walkway just off Aljunied flashing the passersby Scissor, Paper. Scissor, Paper with a smile. That is unless you are a tall White with a fine hat, when it automatically becomes fifty—flat-hand Paper. A single moment previously twenty-five; then without missing a beat 100% hike! Trafficked young Thais, Sri Lankans or Cambodians possibly under the sway of hard-boy pimps who remain out of sight. You can only smile and wag a finger, no time for cry.

NB. In one survey highlighted locally last year Singapore's high-end Orchard Road outshone Times Square, the Ginza, Bond Street and the Champs Elysees to be voted Number One retail strip on the planet. This other concerns the infinitely more interesting and inspiring lower end.

Cat-loving

Sharifa's old aunt from the Galaxy tower here in Onan Road coming over to the morning table at Mr. T. T. to convey thanks for the contact of her niece the other day after two or three weeks of silence. The poor old aunt could not ask the brother with whom she lives in the apartment for fear of disturbing him. — Cannot ask, so busy, the woman explains. An old-style deeply loving sibling relationship, it had been apparent from earliest sightings. Zubir the name of the man, early sixties, always got his head in a book reportedly, or else fixed on the screen. Beard richly hennaed, quick Hellos on the street going home or over to the Onan mosque near-by. A raised hand, a quip. The older brother, Sharifa's father Hamza, had been a prominent writer and film-maker in the early days here; a good one too, according to Mr. Jamal his near contemporary and colleague. Some while ago Zubir's wife survived a cancer scare: shy smiles like her husband in greeting without ever meeting the eye; like her sister-in-law always modestly covered. In California another cat has been taken in by the niece Sharifa; that was why no time to call. The aunt had mentioned the first cat some months ago. Sharifa was busy, busy with the cat. From the outset here the Cat-women in the quarter had posed questions; mostly Chinese they were in this particular neighbourhood. While the kampungs remained one would guess there was little of this particular channel of tenderness; in Singapore the same as anywhere else. Auntie Helen in the front room of the Carpmael house is another; indeed as an older woman and with such excellent English a leader of the local chapter. The better class of feed Auntie Helen has delivered to her door is financed by her Market Research work. Rounding back from work or outbound Auntie always stops when she finds the window before the desk open. The petite old hunchbacked Cat-lady from one of the Haig Road blocks Auntie Helen is beginning to subsidise with her premium feed. Often the cheap food the local NTUC supermarket sells will be left half-eaten by the mogs. Not Auntie Helen's mix. Auntie Helen will not leave her estate to the Cat Society or RSPCA. Instead she will leave it to the local, independent old Cat-women whose commitment and dedication she can trust. Thousand dollar fines apply for feeding wild cats and birds in Singapore; a year ago there were large five metre banners raised near the Haig Road bus-stop giving warning.

Art Star Landed

Tall older smooth intelligent-looking guy in the kinda artist-restrained uniform of the earlier gen. of hippies walks into my cafe this arvo, vaguely familiar. Can't place him. Looked awfully like the London Review of Books he was opening with his one hand at the table. Had to be Oz. Jeeeez! it was the LRB. Needed to get up and go half-over to be sure. Yup. Sure was. That was a first in near 39 months. The crap they read here, bloke needed to be congratulated. Blah blah. Sydney, going to London. Preferred the London Review to NY cos of the editorial squeeze they enforced in the latter.... Blah, blah. Left him with his muffin & cafe. On finishing went over again later to wish him bon voyage. Ya, Mike Parr. Chat about Anna Schwartz, Morrie, &etc. Contemp. art here, some of the collection next door he thought pretty good. (The Dome cafe is attached to SAM — Sing. Art Museum.) A Merryweather (?) bloke from the Getty brought in recently here to try to lift the local game.... Listened politely to the local expert on this push by the biz-politico class of art, sport and other colourful entertainments in this republic. Strong-arm authoritarianism wasn't doing the trick any more here, soft power required, deft canny management... Pity none of Parr's work ever sighted, other than review pages. Made it a bit awkward. Very nice and affable. Early 70's when he first came to SG with shoulder length hair, g-friend unkempt, eyed off by the officials &etc. How did he lose that arm? Motor-bike? Drunken brawl/fall? It was somethin risque wasn't it? Was it somethin to do with the work?... Man mentioned Stelarc for some reason that can't be recalled. (The Footscray Greek in fact some kinda mates with an American friend here. Came over recently for a lecture or symposium.) Parr did kinda hard confrontational stuff of his own didn't he, not too far removed from Stelarc? (I see him only once a year....) Set for an outing to Kinokuniya tomorrow to pick up the London Review to checkout the piece the man recommended, some sharp fella with a Polish-Jewish name writing about Robbe-Grillet. R-Grillet's life really interesting, says Mike P. Better look-see. That was today after more submissions mailed Downunder. $40 yesterday on postage alone; today was a mere $3. Hopefully P's Good luck with the work goes through to the Art angels. (In Montenegro they respond in these circs: Iz tvojih usta u Boze usi! —From your mouth into God's ears!)

I know Dave is slack not writing; just hope yr studio-busy and not down with the sicks Av.
Cheers guys, might be outta here end of the month, after GF.
P

NB. A few artist friends down in AU needed to hear of the lucky chance. A full-term serious artist one does not meet every day — in SG probabilities rather lower again. (The Schwartz pair is a power couple of Art titans down in Melbourne, Mike P. showing at the lady’s gallery.)