Super Chrissy

St. Kilda Beach in Melbourne trashed over Christmas by revellers, clean-up bill running into thousands of dollars. In the media photographs close counterparts of the dark faces commonly employed here keeping this famed republic on the equator famously squeaky clean. In Sydney it was a similar story, 16 tons deposited on Coogee Beach by a 10,000 strong congregation. Here in the Straits Times today there was another iteration again reported at Kuta in Bali, where the partygoers could be safely assumed to have a large proportion of Australians, difference being in this instance the clean-up turning into colourful theatre with Superhero costuming — Supermen, Batmen & Daddy Christmases all in festive spirits on the ends of the rakes. Garbage swept away to restore the site for NY partying, Disney, Warner Bros. and the others giving the affair gloss.
         In Geylang Serai we celebrated with ginger tea while receiving numerous greetings on the occasion, the matter of the Orthodox calendar mostly let pass.

Publication News: “On the Horn,” published by Pendulum Papers

An Australian literary journal called Pendulum Papers has recently published a piece of mine centred on one of my locales down in Melbourne, an East African cafe that I first wrote about in 2009. (Available in the archives of Wet Ink.)
In the current piece, titled “On the Horn,” there can be found Orthodox priests, Eritrean Muslims & Christians and suited former Dinka herdsmen. Something for everyone hopefully.
Pendulum is freely accessible, here is the link

http://www.pendulumpapers.com/current-issue/on-the-horn


Best
Pavle

http://www.pendulumpapers.com/current-issue/on-the-horn

Christ Is Born

Reminders of purity from the lost distant past in the black unsweetened tea. (Teh o kosong.) Reading the T’ang poets again clean rivers, patches of burning flowers along waterways and green mountains in the north set the appropriate scene. With Christmas around the corner the younger owner at the Al Wadi counter thinks he knows the reason for the variation from the usual order: ginger and condensed milk put aside for the commemoration of Christ’s birth.
“Hristos se rodi.” “Vaistinu se rodi,” the Serbian Orthodox will greet each other outside the churches in a fortnight. “Christ is born.” “Indeed - in an archaic old Slavonic - he is born.” (The Julian calendar marks 7th January as the day.)

NB. “Five T’ang Poets,” in a compelling translation by David Young.

Hammer of Thor

Osman from upstairs popping over again for another respectful “five minutes only,” this time with a magazine of a Malay “national” political party in hand. Based here in Singapore it must have been, though never a word heard previously. High gloss paper similar to the Workers’ Party Hammer; title in this case in Malay was missed. Osman wanted to draw attention to an item in a highlights column on the second page. Written in bahasa, a translation was required and duly provided by Osman. Article such-and-such of the Singaporean constitution perhaps in question—or else act of parliament promulgated some while ago—stated that the government must ensure, must devote all energies, always strive for.... the welfare of the Malay peoples in particular. Underlined, highlighted, carefully enunciated; and yet honoured more in the breach than the observance, was Osman’s point. A sorry state of affairs, Osman suggested. A foreigner ought not be drawn into such domestic matters and neither was that Osman’s intention. Yet this was something that needed to be brought to light; on this particular Sunday there was a need to unburden. Osman usually did not involve himself in politics and certainly not political disputation. This today was unlike the man. And when the matter of the new, recently elected—albeit in a walkover—Malay President was raised, Osman uncharacteristically continued with more misgivings still. Something about a political fix one had heard whispered, a strategic manipulation artfully conducted by the long-ruling, entrenched powers. Again, unusual indeed from Osman, a shopkeeper, comfortably middle-class; contented one would have said. Mostly concerned with matters of business climate and the education of his daughters. Regular outings with friends provided relief from the daily round. Something of a ladies man Osman, with a keen eye retained into his mid-seventies. The five minute sit the day prior had centred on that field of the human drama touching congress between the sexes. That afternoon Osman had brought a small plastic container for an opinion. To date Osman had never resorted to such-like pills himself; a friend had given him this newly launched line, one costing two hundred and something dollars for so many capsules. Soon after the political theme had run its course on the second afternoon—the Sunday—Osman had promptly switched back to the old stand-by. The usual parade on the weekend offered the young pretties in their finery beneath the rain trees on that last stretch of Geylang Road. Always reliably engrossing. What to do with political fixes after all? They had us over a barrel. It was not just Singapore of course; take a look at the great spread-eagled eagle if you will. It was all sterile and unproductive. Springing up suddenly like an acrobat, Osman launched himself from his chair. Who can take my Hammer of Thor? asked the neat and dapper, always shirted and dyed Osman, of the live and moving street by Al Wadi there near the hot-plate, the old hydrant and entrance to the hot-plate. Was there a candidate who might emerge from within that pageant? One lived in hope. Properly fortified the challenge might be met.

“The Biggest Name of Them All” - published by Aethlon (US)

“The Biggest Name of Them All,” a tale of a famous Yugoslav football star from the 1950s, was published in September by Aethlon, a US literary sports journal.





The pair of albino brothers aside, among the rest of the black faces there
was only this one other white. The man was vaguely guessed as Macedonian
perhaps. No, Montenegrin, he said. An Albanian—or more properly Shiptar—
from down in Ulcinj near the border. Not many eighty years olds were so
upright and firm. In fact at one time Chika Churovic had lived a couple of
streets away in our neighborhood. It soon turned out we knew fifty people in
common.

— I would say one hundred, Chika Churovic corrected, smiling broadly
like older men rarely smiled.

At first sight the man had appeared unapproachable and forbidding. Well
dressed and a strength of character one immediately felt. The fullness of feeling
in speaking of the past and about those who had been dear to him—his young
orphanhood, his mother, proven friends and relations—only confirmed the
impression later.

Such numbers of mutual acquaintance, now mostly dead. One was in
a wheelchair with his wife the same, their junkie son having OD-ed in his
twenties. This man had been the trener, the coach of Footscray JUST soccer club,
where for many years Mr. Churovic had been a stalwart.

As the conversations unfolded slowly dozens of other mutual friends and
acquaintances emerged.

Former club president Chika Ante who founded The Vineyard steakhouse
in Acland Street. Old Mr. Jankovic in our street who passed away only last year
at one hundred and three. (Chika Churovic had heard Mr. J. had had a German
wife.) Our tenant Vlajko killing himself on the road rushing to get his rifle
after being beaten up by Hasan the security man at a Gertrude Street bar. The
muscle Hasan was still around the traps, Chika Churovic revealed, even in his
mid-seventies a powerhouse.

There was much to wonder at and much to mourn.

Chika Churovic was close to all these men, regardless of race or creed. In
the 60s and 70s the Yugoslav ideal had reigned strongly and all had found a
place under the JUST tent.

Inevitably, the most famous name in Yugoslav football soon came up.

In youth Chika Churo had been a player himself; one of his sons had even
worn Australian colors. Back in the old country Chika Churo had been an avid
fan of Partizan, founded by the then Yugoslav general Franjo Tudjman, who
after the disaster of the breakup of the country became the first president of
independent Croatia. Chika Churo had caught trains and even planes to see
Partizan play.

With football such a large part of the life, by the second meeting the
brightest, most remarkable star was dealt like a joker from the pack at the café
table.

— One name stands above all others in our football, right Chika Churovic?

— …. Well, Sekularac.

Ah, yes indeed. None other. The incomparable.

The old stories from forty and more years ago were elicited. One could
never tire of them.

The events themselves featuring Seki were now sixty and more years past,
but those former tales continued to gush so many decades later. A pleasure to
have them recreated by another source.

At a match in Brazil between the respective national teams of the era Seki
had turned to tell the great Pele.

— You are the king of the blacks; I of the white race, Sekularac informed
the young star.

There was no record of the other’s response. Likely the Brazilian was as
flabbergasted as the rest of us.

Seki had won the right to speak like that to the great Pele. A famous story
that had been told by numerous Yugoslavs of the time, though the place of the
meeting had not been known previously.

Had Seki been English, German, anything but Yugoslav, there would have
been no end to the fanfare, many had held.

At that famous meeting of black and white grandmasters—not in Rio;
another Brazilian city; perhaps Sao Paolo—one hundred and sixty or seventy
thousand people had packed the stadium, Chika Churovic informed. The
number was still a world record. What was the MCG or any other global arena
by comparison?

Seki in a more famous game still, against the Russian national team.
Again, in the tellings of forty years ago it had never emerged where this famous
match had occurred. Somehow it had been assumed it was played in Belgrade
sometime in the fifties or early sixties, perhaps a decade or so since the brave
Yugoslavs had stared down the threat from Stalin and won for themselves a
measure of independence. The Third Way. The Non-Aligned Movement. In that
period Serbs, Croats and Shiptars cheered the same teams.

Numerous hearings of this famous tale of which one could never tire as
a youth, even a youth who had had no interest whatsoever in the round ball
game.

So many years later Chika Churovic’s authoritative manner sealed the
matter.

The 1956 Olympic football final, Melbourne. The decider for gold against
the Russians.

Sekularac takes the ball away from so many Soviet attackers in the Yugoslav
defensive half. A technical supremo showing great flair and control. Signature
dribble. Feints left and right. A scorching run across the ground leaving hapless
opponents floundering in his wake.

After the dazzling dance through the penalty box at the end Seki rolls the
ball to the defending goal-line, where the stadium was brought to a collective
drawing of breath as the man stopped dead.

Having beaten eight or nine men with such remarkable maneuvering, such
élan and grace, a moment’s deserved pause like at the completion of a favorite
aria at the opera.

Possibly Seki needed to catch his own breath too. The fullness of the
crowd’s appreciation raining down upon the audacious sprite.

A foot raised onto the ball like a ballerina, one had pictured the famous
moment.

Chika Churo revised that image by having the tearaway drop onto his
haunches to actually sit upon the leather. Something like a smoko playing to
the mass of fans across the tiered stands. Unscripted sporting vaudeville of the
most extravagant kind.

What did it matter that Seki failed to see the sly Ruski creeping up behind
like a thief, a contemptible pick-pocket? Swing of the leg. Goal to the Russians.
1:0.

(Did Seki land flat on his face when his seat was rudely kicked from
beneath him?)

Russian gold at the expense of the better team. The great star and brash,
arrogant showman to blame.

In none of the earlier reports was the outcome of the game revealed, much
less criticism of the villain. It was only the brilliant, reckless taunt that had
featured.

Gumption beyond all compare. Something from the children’s playground
enacted on this great stage.

Again in the initial telling of Chika Churo’s the same questions had hung
unasked. There had been no time or opportunity.

After the breathless moment, after that gargantuan gall, the ultimate
outcome had been inconsequential.

Olympic gold? Who gave a rat’s for that!

Forty and more years ago the story was first heard. Heard from fans and
also from men who had had no interest in football and never attended a match.

A German opponent had once asked Seki for a gift of his pair of boots. Why?
the star had responded. Well, it might bring some luck, some of the prowess, he
was answered. It’s not the boot that make the player. It’s.... Seki knocking his
temple like Chika Churo demonstrates at the African cafe in Footscray.

The disaster of knocking down the ref in the game at Nis, in southern
Serbia, remained. Inevitably that had to come too.

Seki was wild and reckless, right? Totally undisciplined?

There was no express agreement from Chika Churo, who would not add
his own word to the common reservation on Sekularac.

On the park at Nis a dispute had developed with the referee. First a hand
placed on the official, followed by a blow of some description.

Down the man went to the turf, with a name thereby forever immortalized
in the annals of sport.

Tumbas, Chika Churo pronounced. Pavle Tumbas. A nobody by this means
finding a place in the history of the world game.

Was it the end of the career? Was Seki the same player afterward? It needed
follow-up with Chika Churo.

A surprise that had not been previously revealed was the great Seki’s
ancestry.

The man belonged to none of the Yugolav ethnic or religious groups,
Chika Churo announced. The igrac sva vremena, player of all time, had been a
Macedonian gypsy.

Another remarkable layer to add to the myth.

No more perfectly apt lineage could be imagined for such a star, a kind of
Hollywood script having him hail from the caravans and gambling dens of the
Roma.

Something of the wild dance before the campfire in that genetic inheritance,
brawling and knife-fights over card games and beautiful women. In forest
clearings across the Balkans Seki’s ancestors had told stories and shared the
pickings of the day. A talent scout had spotted the boy kicking a bundle of rags
across a field perhaps, recruiting him to famous Red Star Belgrade.

(One could not trust Google for the less colorful record.)

Twilight years saw Seki playing in Latin America and the Bundesliga,
followed in the early ‘80s by one of his last involvements in the game as the
trener at Footscray JUST.

Not surprisingly, there was little noteworthy from that latter period. A
second wife and child; poker games in the JUST canteen after training; a man
of correct and dignified bearing, Chika Churovic noted.

How did the team fare under the former maestro? Had there been
championship honours? The Greek and Italian teams had dominated that era.
Even Maltese George Cross often figured more prominently than our JUST.

The thread was never taken up again, Ramadan intervening and an illness
in the family at Chika Churo’s.

Last report had Seki living in retirement in current day Serbia.



NB: In the official record Dragoslav Sekularac was surprisingly assigned a
Montenegrin paternity; his father had worked in Macedonia. Surprising news
for Chika Churo, and one would have thought of some interest. Not in fact the
case as it proved.

Publication News: Rambutan Literary - "Singapore 3"

Hello all
Rambutan Literary is a free online S-E Asian journal which in its 5th issue has included three of my pieces under the collective title, "Singapore 3":
Jungle Thicket
Mary Poppins on the Equator
and A Conversion Story

See how you fancy them ladies & gents.

Best
Pavle Radonic

P. S. After a decent interval I'll re-post them here.

More Ancients Still

Yes, remarkable enough, the old guy this afternoon who stepped across to the table of the poets and sages. Guess how old?... Well. Ah…. Had there been afforded proper chance one may have guessed say, mid-eighties. In fact if the informant could be trusted, the man was one hundred and three.... Oh. OK. I see. One hundred and three and not a day less. The fellow could be told of the two meetings up in the village the first time round, a pair of centurions living in their old stone and thatched houses cared for by their kin. Not unfamiliar territory these aged; no big deal. There was old Mr. Vic across the road too…. Ah. I see. Where was that?... Melbourne. Well, there you go.... Chap was from Melbourne himself. Where were you from in Melbourne?... Oh, you are in city? He was from Dandenong himself. Endeavour Hills to be precise, outer-most suburban graveyard. Didn’t want to hear about Mr. Vic and his digging of his storm-water drain across his front lawn at one hundred and one. There was nothing wrong with Endeavour Hills too for an old Chinaman escaping his Singaporean pigeon-hole. Fellow would be there still were it not that his son had called him back to look after the grandchildren. (The wife tasked no doubt, leaving time for his own attendance at the library forecourt for these gatherings of the Hakka group. Doubtful this particular fellow would have anything to contribute to the poets and sages there. You would lay odds.) When the maid returned after an hour for the ancient, the reed-thin, steady and upright old survivor, the man was clasped wordlessly by the arm and promptly rising to his feet. Quiet and obedient. Earlier the man had spoken more than a little and had the audience ringing round listening carefully. A fine old man who would never give any trouble to his charge. His kids, the Sir and Madam, must offer a good position for the girl, decent and respectful, good pay and perhaps the four legislated free days a month. Perchance they might even be providing extra funds for her children’s schooling back in Indo or the Philippines. Such does occur occasionally here. Perhaps the son and daughter-in-law would take their turn with dad on the off-days. Firm hold on the bicep as the maid had been taught while the ancient hoisted himself. As the pair paced back toward the road the precautionary hold had been maintained. The woman only removed her hand briefly to return the old man’s cap right way round. Had the chap sat so long, the entire hour, with that teenage flip of the lid without being noticed? It must have been because of all the memories that had been raised that sent the mind spinning and the inner eye reeling.

Time-Piece

You doubt it. And there’s so much questionable news and commentary in all the media. But still. Still, you would not put it past the best creative minds; seasoned, canny and sharpest ad men. (Less so women.) Page 24 item today on the neighbouring politician Novanto and his (known) $10m scam. The story had been running on-off for months. On the page 10 banner prior highlight of the story ahead. Eventually trawling onward there on page 24 the poor drowned rat was pictured, hauled up before the KPK, by the looks of it finally cut loose by his Golkar party and reportedly suffering five days of diarrhea with the anxiety and prison diet. As well as the “at least US$7.3m (SG$10m) in kickbacks” there was also “a Richard Mille watch worth about US$135k for his role in....(the rort).” Well may your jaw have dropped at that point if not at the chief matter itself…. Here these horological items feature in advertising throughout the republic, no pretender to real social standing on this island and the wider region goes without something of the kind on his wrist. One has heard of Rolex of course; Cartier and maybe Heuer. The Rich. Mille was unknown to this former kampung boy at least. However, and here is the present matter: flip back to the full page ad on page 5. Was it got right first glance? Was it?... WOW-WEE! What do you see? Engineering to cream your jeans. Highest top-most precision and styling with encrusted jewels arranged in finest artistry. Mouth-watering truly. A co-incidence? (Never noted previously in the pages of the Straits Times. Not once; not the Rich. Mille. No two ways about it with that ingenious branding. RICH. Mille! Not likely that would have gotten by.)

NB. As for where the pilfered funds had been specifically routed by Novanto — in “some overseas bank accounts in Indonesia and overseas” — anybody’s guess.

Pessoa’s Tobacco Shop

Fernando sends one reeling from line to line, and often within his long single lines too.

         First 3 - 4 readings of the third stanza’s opening failed to grip like it did on the 4 - 5th reading:

          “Today I’m defeated, as if I learned the truth.”

         (The Reprobate unexpectedly approaching in the little park beside City Plaza this afternoon, by the stagnant Geylang River where he’d never been encountered before, had that kind of knowledge inscribed on his upturned face when he came up close for Hallo.)

         Pessoa’s street is “Real, impossibly real, certain, unknowingly certain.”

         The reader reeling down those cobblestones with that overpowering sense on that particular day of all days.

         And the familiar street outside his window mounted on wheels like a theatre-set about to be transported to the back-lot asphalt, Signalman’s whistle shrieking in his head like a piercing kettle, like a death knell in the courtyard of a church.

         A reader left gasping at the thinness of the daily scene some days.

         Living in the tension between the real and the dream-like in the end lines of the first page in this poem.

         Sometimes a single poem can open a door to a new, unfamiliar writer.

         Not often one can read poetry before 6AM.

         (Earlier in the week a competition winning poem at a prominent US lit. journal had begun on the right hand side of the page and progressively angled down leftward like a thunderbolt in a child’s drawing; two French words included in the short lines.)

NB. Fernando Pessoa & Co. transl. by Robert Zenith; “The Tobacco Shop,” p. 173

Crossings With Pessoa

Easy on the girl serving nervous with a white guy particularly. Tip-toe smiling and nodding. Those chairs are too hard honey, sorry. Bench seat always the preference at Crossings, pillow behind making a fair perch especially when there’s no managerial Christian table within earshot. Where in the heck do they source those blue striped shirts in the name of the Lord?! Pearl ear-ring with the bob cut was the fem. counterpart for these soldiers. Don’t show a long or tight face whatever you do. Charitable and kindly. Show ‘em how it’s done Buster…. The archbishop (a pal probably).... the spiritual whatever. Go with the flow, easy does it. Nothing to do with you. Ah, made the dear girl smile, immediately understood the good sense in declining the sugar and replacing it at the counter, no sense wasting. Sores around the mouth from picking. A very good initiative certainly; they did the same with the waiting staff at Hanis at the library, customers often taken unawares needing a while to cotton on. Year or two ago they were up the other end near the Art Museum with more dressing up, table-cloths &etc. Oh shiite! Bloke starting in now with social responsibility, Eco. grad cutting his teeth initially at City Bank CAL and no doubt finding that soulless, only for the faint-hearted. Giving out grants was more in his line; corporate responsibility.... Never occurred to him how that spruiking accent might grate, never in a million years. Do they think in Singapore they’re on safe ground?... In the garden of St. Pete & Paolo’s just now a question for Gabby what the INRI acronym above the marble crucifixion scene might denote. Rather better that than the filigree trumpet-blowing angels in the gardens of the cathedral a stone’s throw away, give it that much. Man oh man!... Pessoa certainly was the perfect companion within these walls, a providential choice. Excellent purchase no regrets, almost every page a spurt of energy and insight of some kind. The Gods Grant Nothing More Than Life; Ah, you believers in Christs and Marys; From Here, With No Other Apollo Than Apollo: 

         “....far from Christian sensuality
         May the chaste calm of ancient beauty
         Restore to us the ancient
         Feeling of life.”
Fernando! Justly were you celebrated in royal style by the old Swedish choristers. A dozen years ago puzzling finding you in the list of Harold Bloom in Al-pal’s volume in the bungalow, wondering what in the heck a complete unknown like that could be doing among the elect. Blue-Striped interviewee answers Pearl and her Blue-Striped co-interviewer his top-most scale of 1 – 10: Vision first and foremost; then unity of purpose....and la-di-da-da-di. Later chap bemoans the common problem of divisions and sects: People wanting to grow the organization, while others want to close it.... The trials of doing good and delivering outcomes.

NB. Fernando Pessoa & Co., transl. by Richard Zenith; pp. 102 – 107

Socratic Dialogue With Mr. Ee (updated Mar24)

Hearing Mahayana and reading the same on the page brought immediate approval from Mr Ee.

— First class Buddhism, said he, possibly a little surprised to have the term delivered to himself.

Westerners often went for other forms, perhaps. Nice horse-head nodding from the old, former reprobate sailor turned serious adherent.

Every few days Mr Ee went off down to the Tibetan Centre by Lorong 27; and every day the man carted what he called the Buddhist Bible, a thick tome that heavied his shoulder bag. A few years ago the title of the volume had been recorded in the journal.

Late-seventies and possibly even early-eighties Roughrider like Mr. Ee made an unusual figure bent at his book on the end table of the Haig out by the road. There was certainly no counterpart anywhere in that quarter, whether Buddhist, Muslim, Christian or other.

Paid up Roughrider membership no slouch during his days as a Pump man on the tankers in the region and the Gulfs of Texas and Mexico. Bars, dance floors, whores, the lot. A rollicking merry good time, with the specific segue for the other pursuit unexplored to date.

There had been numerous conversion stories heard in Singapore. Too many.

In the paper in Jakarta there had appeared an interesting piece on the Borobudur reliefs, a story of truth-seeking drawing on the Mahayana tradition that was illustrated in the stone. Once Mr. Ee had joined the table the mention provided a ready conversational line.

One particular detail in the old story included the fact that among the rank of the young seeker’s encounters with monks, nuns and traditional physicians, there was one high class prostitute consulted. 

In Mahayana it was underlined that truth was not the preserve of the usual class of dedicated thinkers and cloistered ascetics alone; truth rather was found in the wider domain and might arrive from anywhere, indeed from least expected quarters.

One of the first laws of Western philosophical discourse: dismiss not the drunkard’s voice, nor any of the other so-called lowest of the low.

Times past Mr Ee had spoken not only of compassion for the wastrel, the drunkard and the prostitute, but indeed understanding and respect. Mornings at the front table at the Haig Mr Ee sat bent over his book in the very midst of such-like all round.

Well, then, Mahayana offered something fruitful. First class Buddhism. Coming from someone like Mr Ee a certain confidence was inspired.

Thereupon, further elaborations.

Dharma constituted, according to Mr Ee, the sum total of all Buddha’s teaching that all we beings carry within ourselves day and night. The fullest, best, universal and cosmic spirit perhaps; in each to greater or lesser degree presumably, and of course in the Buddha pre-eminently. (Incidentally, a great Sufi like Zainuddin would include among Moses, Abraham, Isa and the usual other forerunners, the Buddha and Zoroaster too among the early Prophets.)

As for sangaya, well, even the Nepalese monk down at Lor 27 could not explain that concept. The chap concerned possibly had good grasp in his own language, but in English, forget it. (Mr Ee seemed to have enquired.) For Mr Ee’s own part he could include sangaya in his mantra without needing to drill down into the A - Zee.

Mr Ee’s lunch, a cheaper packet brought from elsewhere to the Al Wadi table—the Haig was still closed for cleaning—consisted of nasi, a brittle dried fish, some roasted peanuts and a sachet of curry that Mr Ee spent a long while working through the rice. 

A cup of teh halia was subsequently accepted. The illegal Gudang Garam was now $6.50; after his lunch Mr. Ee would take a stick. Seemed the man had cut down.

During the course of the conversation and after the Mahayana we arrived at epistemological questions, during the course of that in turn Mr Ee was delivered the old Russian perspective. 

The Russians held man sought truth and knowledge all his life; strived for it, looked hither and yon; yet unhappily, still in the end a fool went into the grave.

Free smiles from Mr Ee, looking up from his greaseproof paper, despite the fact an outlook such as that could hardly accord with the hopes offered a follower of the great sage. A serious, earnest, dutiful and humble right follower.

Therefore, once due acknowledgement was given the point of view—in the quality of the smile first and foremost—Mr Ee had his retort to such a wise guy as this old grisly Ruski.

Should a rogue of that stripe appear among us at Geylang Serai, Mr Ee would throw down the gauntlet. 

— Well my dear man, tell me then what it is you know,

Clearly Mr Ee would like to get his claws into such a fellow. Smart arse.

And following quickly upon that, would it happen that Mr Ee himself was asked the same question, asked to reveal the extent of his own knowledge, Mr Ee would not be left dumbfounded. Not found wanting. 

To this question Mr Ee would know what to reply.

An implicit challenge between times. Opportunity here provided to submit one’s own position... 

Be my guest, Mr. Ee invited by his prolonged silence. Lay that one on me then…

No way. Hardly likely unprepared like that. Such angled exchanges with old lions could never take other than the particular ordained course.

Well, Mr Ee my friend, the field is yours. If you will.

— ...I cannot answer, Mr Ee slowly, eventually, unburdened himself of his ready retort... 

I cannot answer, Mr Ee would reply were the same interrogation levelled at himself, what I do not know.

Nicely done. A little package that one knew immediately even before full import might be grasped. Stopped you in your tracks and left you pondering. 

As often with Mr Ee, a good deal of Socratic method seemed embedded in the works. Most particularly it was the wonderful Death of Socrates that returned to mind recalling the conversation in the hours later.

Later too in the night one recalled university days, early university not long after football and its related had finally been put aside. On the one hand there was the unexpected intellectual excitement of that period. The questions the great writers and the philosophers had always considered were precisely one’s own; the crucial ones not all properly formulated, but nonetheless, concentration and delving into the very same. Yet many of the lecturers and tutors were in fact arrogating to themselves presumption of deepest knowledge and insight; those turkeys were making claims for themselves by their airs, by the way they conducted themselves in their fiefdom of good and evil, love and passion, fate and tragedy. Such gumption and highest pretence needed challenge.

More Days Than Life

Took a numbers of years figuring this. Whenever Babi used the expression she never provided any kind of gloss, leaving it entirely up to you to catch her meaning. And in this case it was not an easy task. Vise dana no zivota—in mild exclamation. Usually of course one needed to get on with it, chop-chop; get a move on. Ne ostavljaj za sutra sto mozes uradit danas—which in later years would be playfully twisted around for prodding, Better leave it for tomorrow and we can do it then…. Latter days the first occurred much more frequently, if not for the first time in fact after her mellowing had begun. Once Bab had accomplished her life task of saving, protecting and shepherding through she could afford to be more relaxed and sanguine. Vise dana no zivota. More days than life.... The life term was short: the days stretched far beyond. It might wait for the morrow; let it be, enough for now. Likely it was her mother’s expression. Nothing that had come down of her father, nothing of his talk or action, nothing suggested from the forbidding photographs, would suggest the man could have uttered anything of the sort. Last night on the bus from the airport after there had been a delay following a thunderstorm and an unnerving holding pattern, looking out at the remarkably, utterly other Singaporean streets around the stops, another of Bab’s sayings had returned. It must have been the sight of some figure plodding along into the night; some everyday sense of hardship and labouring along toward bedtime. Nije bog nikome sve dao, niti sve odnio. Neither did god give any all, nor take all from any…. Years that had not been recalled. So long now, with the six years on the equator submerging segments of that past world. Bab used the expression both for cautionary reminder and at other times also to show gifts and talents where none might have been expected. A few days ago on ABC online in the review of demented Charlie Manson’s life his early years of utter dysfunction with his hopeless mother had been reviewed. Like all such examples, in the most notorious criminal justice cases there was no room for weighing formative moral squalor and degradation. Looking out the dark Singaporean window the thought firmed one could not remain long in this milieu, not this time. Twenty-five days had been recorded on the immigration declaration. Even that would be a stretch. A few years ago the average stay in SG had been reported three days. The authorities were attempting to devise ways and means of detaining visitors with more attractions, discounts and tie-ins. Not long after emerging from the Changi tunnels a hoarding for a cafe it may have been had teased with prospective uplift of the soul; one of those striking examples of unsophisticated, junior grade Singaporean copywriting. Then soon following, not two hundred metres on, pasted sheeting anticipating a new gym opening with a range of activities for the whole family. The encouraging tag prompted with the same religious fervour, Rejoice in the Facilities.

Niqab Portrait

Niqab woman arriving late for breakfast was one of the teachers of a small group of mid-teens. Four girls sat at an adjacent table and a half dozen others separating themselves down at lower ground. A madrasa excursion perhaps, though these were not of the lower class poor. Traditionally many poor families sent daughters to a madrasa at least in part to relieve the burden at home. These were middle-class girls, well-dressed, albeit modestly and covered. All wore the scarf, though none followed the example of the teacher. The pillar screened the girls at the near table and mostly the niqab teacher; her male colleague sat in direct line of vision. Bringing up the plates there had been pagis, good mornings with the girls in passing, both at lower ground and by the pillar. Late arriving, the niqab teacher had not witnessed that exchange. An experienced woman of course would notice the altered state of her charges, the alertness and tone of the giggles. Shifting in the chair now and again through the course of the meal the black niqab came into view a number of times and once when the woman had lifted her flap for the food. Earlier the eyes and segments of forehead had suggested a woman in her mid-thirties, which was confirmed by the jaw and mouth. Male colleagues and other men would develop a relationship with the niqab woman reading expression from her eyes, her gesture and tone of voice. Smiles would be suggested by the stretch of fabric; annoyance by subtle hints beneath the glossy black cloth. One could not help wondering whether the woman was disturbed by the presence of the bule.

Woody & Elie

You find yourself in some crazy situations. Your girlfriend has a gig as a set designer for a community theatre compliments of her ex-boyfriend, the one you displaced. Oh, gee! How exciting. Endless prep and brainstorming, rehearsals, alterations, working into the wee hours, supervising the carpenter (you got him for her cheap). Dizzying. Woody Allen—the particular item escapes right now. A Jewish theatre group annual show; a second run after the year before something a little challenging had been met unfavourably by the audience. She's German, intensely professional; Elie like Woody is Jewish, the star of the show. (You smashed a fine reconciliation of hopelessly, disastrously, impossibly contradictory assumptions there.) Elie will do Woody better than Woody does himself; no need faking angst, disabling incertitude and self-doubt. Weeks of nothing else but fretting, hiccups; an illness almost derailing entirely in one fell swoop. Opening night was long looming threateningly. Oh my gosh, can we get everything done on time? the right Op Shop props and authentic furniture? books from everybody’s shelves at home? time for the paint on set to dry? All the work on display for the gathered masses and their easy criticism. Then one morning suddenly the house phone at your mother's where you stayed the night rings. Turn on the television, quick. Something terrible. Catastrophe in New York, plane hit a tall building; then confirmed another, a second plane. New York. In the midst of all their endeavor only a couple of weeks out. Act of war. Horrendous inferno. The flying man. From the kindergarten Bush went down into his bunker. America will respond in due course to this act of cowardice. Sontag wrote what she wrote, pulled it after the pressure and recanted. Whispers of cheering across a range of countries, jubilation — that story was killed rapidly too. But they did hate our way of life, clearly. In Melbourne what to do with the show? It can't go on surely. How can it? What, after this? However you looked at it. Disrespect to the victims wouldn’t it be? For another thing what about the skyline outside Woody/Elie's apartment windows? Long ago it was decided as the obvious no brainer scene-setter. It would not be the same any more. In the midst of the grief to put on this little piece of fun?... A super graphic skyline from an architecture office in Docklands with a GINORMOUS printer had been blown further still somehow, perfect backdrop while Woody/Elie took phone calls from the girl, readied himself for the date, his best friend might have visited for angst-mulling; then, oh my god! the date herself at the door when he wasn’t really ready; legs crossing and re-crossing on the couch, W/El mixing drinks, flipping nervous chat and on his knees no doubt pleading. The details actually cannot be recalled; it was bad enough witnessing once during the performance. What to do now? That skyline could not possibly be used in the aftermath. Come on, you’re not serious? You can’t all pretend the thing never happened, surely. Maybe you can pretend about the whys and wherefores, but not that for crying out loud. You mean to go right ahead and ignore the whole thing, all of you?... Trickling details emerged of the coward pilots — on the contrary Sontag had initially called them heroes to some. In fact they seemed to have enjoyed some of the Western lifestyle and values, drinking, porn, nice tailoring. It wasn't that maybe they wanted to bring down in burning ashes. While prep for the show went on, war prep in the Western capitals. Bush elevated to Christ the Redeemer by the ally in London (the ready Australian Deputy Sherriff turned man of steel; former double-plus whimpy suburban lawyer). Remarkable footage of Bush/Blair meetings; the fawning, the sanctimoniousness. Brilliant performance beating down the carping opposition; Colin at the US General Assembly useful in that black skin, with Condie support. Cover for the crew in Melbourne striving to put on their own show. The show must go on; we could not let the terrorists win. (Yet to be adopted at the time that particular line.) In South Yarra the hall had been booked, tickets sold. Gala opening might have been early October. Evening dresses, heels, possibly there may have been opera glasses. Celebrations followed and thanks to all and sundry, including in the notes to the program the new b-friend of the set designer for something or other, infinite patience perhaps.

Fun and Games

Trial now this kiddie hangout on Sabang, only 3kms out from Tanah Ab. The food chase and tolerable net the drivers; further exploration always additionally. The Nat. Gallery opp. the stasiun few days back terribly saddening for the hurry-hurry art catch-up with the first world. The foundation era architect, pal of Soekarto’s—Frederich Silaban, who was exhibited in one of the side rooms—had been commissioned to do the other catch-up for the newly independent city’s landmarks. Well, you can’t get a teh jahe with susu, ginger tea with milk to save yourself anywhere in this city, but the T. T. not damn bad. (Yesterday at the Nacional Perpustakaan—modeled on the Singaporean forerunner no doubt—in the little kiddie corner cafe there they actually produced the former on the spot it seemed, with numerous real ginger pieces afloat. Almost ordered a second. Rp23 here, close to 2.5 dolaro was cheeky. The aircon and low lighting had been the attraction from the street. Then the red velvet bench seat (all occupied) and wooden furniture. Clearly good wifi—the kids with expensive Apples arrayed. Curious passersby wonder to themselves from the other side of the glass whether they fit the bill, whether they are cool enough to be received indoors; precisely as you yourself had done in your own time you kampung boy from the Western suburbs. Before you turned into the koolest Daddy-Oh, hey ho! at least in these parts with such little, uncertain and inadequate competition. Good to see an older scarf join a pretty pixie co-religionist with her boy. Poor sweet and scarfed Anita back in Sing had been stung hearing an oldie say to her husband as we passed, Well, will you look at that. (Words to the effect.) Heavily Chin weighted you might have thought initially. In fact that was only the joined tables in the window with their 4/5 laps. Casual cool such an extent none of the staff could give a damn rat's about serving and it was fun to make the phones jump in their hands behind the counter. MBAK! got the girl’s attention alright, for all that the intonation might not have been spot-on. Shit a brick! Jogging round quick smart almost tripping over herself, while the lads in back re-settled again after the earthquake. Apologies for the lack of jahe, wished she could have made it magically appear on a saucer. As the paramount exemplar now laddie, show ‘em how it’s done with true style, effortlessly and natural pretty much, casting over the walls and out the window pen raised, you've got a strong chin and jaw-bone still, unpurse those lips thatta boy. Let them feast their eyes. Really serious need of the newspaper for the latest Setya episode. The railway station was out; hopefully they would still have one at Gramedia at this late hour. Seems the car accident was indeed faked. Presumably the docs at that particular Emergency department could be relied upon to write up adequate notes for the Korupsi Kommisars on the poor man’s tail. A fave of Trumpet’s no surprise, wanted a cut at Freeport few years back and when he was caught on tape answered it was all a joke. The US interests must not have taken kindly. Still, unlikely they can lay a glove on him here if he spread the dosh around judiciously. Poor ol’ Jokowi like Barack can sing Dixie for all his earnest efforts. Good theatre watching that kinda insect squirming now and then for temporary relief if nothing else, can’t be easy on the ticker. Hopefully Gramedia not sold out.

NB. The recent head of the Corruption Commission here was photographed in Singapore a few days ago where he is receiving eye treatment after an acid attack. Not so funny.

Blown Away

First drops climbing the stairs at Thambrin, followed by an unexpected pause and then wind. What passes for wind at least. Five and more years back one recalled a time seeking the term in bahasa. Sun, rain, heat had been acquired; wind was logically next. It took quite some while; and what was with those looks of bemusement on the faces? that long-faced angling?... Well, there was basically no wind on the equator, certainly nothing worthy of the name. An entirely abstruse question... In Sing the strongest breezes were generated by the fans mounted on the pillars over the famed five foot walkways. Were a chap caught at the head of a row of these he might jump to very much the wrong conclusion. How the real thing was missed! Strange but 'twas true. Did the blows exist perchance before the forests were uprooted and the concrete cover? One felt less a dolt now too over the errors reading the sky, where timing was concerned. Here the young barefoot ojek payungs with their umbrellas had come out prematurely. Thambrin usually offered rich pickings from all the shoppers with expensive baju and hair. Lads might be unlucky today, cloud actually blowing over and nothing to show for it. Such handsome items again held aloft by suchlike as them, nothing whatever of that disposable variety after a single use. Capacious, all bright colours and strong wires. Lads of course don't mind getting drowned themselves, you often see them tiptoeing unblinking through the deluge behind the shrinking ladies shielding themselves. One little baby by Lotteria might still have worn diapers.

Fishing @ Grand Indo

Balik the mall after a week in Bandung. The latter’s mall nearest the station was nothing to compare to Grand Indo. Slight momentary disorientation at the landing on the third floor: Hang on a cotton picking minute, something not right here.... Check the signage on the arm of the escalator: Ya, 3rd. It was third for Gramedia, right? The East Mall... Planet Sports.com double-fronted sparkling like a jewelers, like a museum, ought not be there. Lad at the tee rack giving merry thanks for the patronage to a fellow hot-footing out.... Yeah, nah, it was alright, no need fear. The bordered-up place in that corner was open now, and resplendent. Toxic glue odour during the works had been dispersed by some means or other, not the faintest trace. Right you were bud, onward, leading with the chin and taking care the schnoz was not raised overly high. Infinite compassion for the shopgirls as is your custom. The first prayer in the slum must start them going at the make-up mirror, no payment for that first hour. Onward, softening the visage as needed. Cleaning lad retrieving a lost card with his rod from an awkward corner for a nice lass fretting beside him arrested the march. Swing back look-see.... No, wasn't credit, but still, something she wanted retrieved. You Can't Touch This tantalising new lure on a case in a phone shop, new release no doubt, breath activated if not brain wired. The compassion does not extend to the shoppers I’m afraid, one does need to draw the line somewhere; nor the cleaners and the lower rung. The latter were not in need; they knew what they were about. The former?... Well, not meaning to be cruel, but that crowd was impossible to reach, even here in this country that was only recently suborned. That crowd didn't seek your cheap pity in any case, not by a long shot. Tell you to FFFF off you loser! Who do you think you are?... Aduh! Disturbed by a boy collecting a scrunched receipt the scarved ladies had left on the bench—the bin was too far for them to stretch. Almost invisible, even on the black melamine, but not to a lad with trained eye. Super no doubt a proper prick. There were hundreds, nay thousands, like him waiting in line for a chance to grab a fine uniform, pace the aircon, eat with the lipsticked lasses on the breaks. Earned his spurs and ever vigilant this chappie. Rounding off after his scoop the
SA
  LE
sign by the escalator splitting TOTO Kitchen and erafone was spied not standing parallel and square to the glass balustrade. No good like that. One little hoof was not quite enough. Lagi. OK, that did it. Right as rain now. Off for further scouting yonder.... Going down Red Army Watches must have been newly opened too surely to god. It could not possibly have been missed on so many passes. Contemporary Putin nouveau riche & gangsters.