Language Lessons

Timing same again, the ful chosen today en route somewhere through Seddon cycling over. Three days of noodle salads with spring rolls would have been overdoing it, the threat of msg added. (The nice smiley butterfly at Huong assured the Southern Viets used it sparingly; it was the Northerners who gave liberal lashings.) Prior to the plate being delivered we spied an Orthodox long-beard priest opposite in full-length dress doing some shopping. Plenty venerable. A kiss of his hand would bring you your dearest wish, advised Abdul Razak cheekily. Go quick, catch him while you can. Too late, chap was into his late model 4WD KIA and away. Nice motor; an appreciative flock. Egyptian or Greek was Abdul Razak's educated guess. Today Alex behind the counter was parading her Blogger tee again before a real, true blogger, one with a score of publications now across four continents. Do you think the lass gave a toss? Not blooming' likely. Of course she had no idea of the fuller import of the doing it better she was advertising and she couldn't be told. In Footscray over half the people on the street would remain blissfully ignorant. One of the chaps was attempting to teach Alex Tigrinya Thank you. Vastly difficult first hearing. Yakan belle. Another chap when he came in would regularly razz the lass, Why you crying Alex?... Again you crying.... Poor lass failing to turn on all the bulbs with these African smilers needed an uplift. Almost certainly none of the chaps from the Horn here would hit on Alex. For one thing among them there was almost no interest whatever in white, yellow or brown. Forget it. The uncovering alone was a major put-off. Somehow during her studies at the nearby university Gia Khanh Nhu Nguyen - called Na at home - had settled on 'Alex" as a handle in the new country. (The accent and intonation of course vastly difficult.)

NB. For Viet Thank you a fairly straightforward two-step that has delighted waitresses the length and breadth of Footscray: gam' er (hard "a" as in argue).

Conversational Carousel

Bureaucratic lawyers fair bet couple tables behind with the tones reminiscent of Julia Gillard and the rest of that Labour salaried crowd. Pair entertaining her mother over lunch. They have a dog or cat at home, a herb garden and water tanks. (She mentioned the second; other kinds of plantings were too difficult to maintain.) Three mentions of his: a recent movie’s plot outline and the main character; a tennis match featuring a bearded player such as himself who lost to Nadal (some daft person said he looked just like him); then at two o’clock there was the auction. (She had asked for the time. House auctions one of the chief pillars on the green coastal fringe of this country, providing compelling theatre.)  Earlier she had mentioned gentrification with the usual connotation. (Perhaps her parents had lived the early years of their marriage in the west; hers was not eastern or bayside inflection.) Recipes. Chap knew his way around the kitchen, shared chores &etc. (A cleaner once a week or fortnight.) Federal pollies as distinct from state for the mother’s benefit – the youngsters prepared docs in one of the departments, drafting position papers and answering constituents. The brighter ones in their circle did if not them; in which case theirs was more routine work. How to manage the parking? Go move the car,  or they could return home and…. There was a French bakery down the road that surprised the mother. Yes, French (in Footscray); the daughter hadn’t patronised as yet. (The café available at a Viet place hardly.) Hardly a squeak from the old mum throughout despite all the talk being directed at her and channeled through her. Little of gaps and the poor dear might have found the going hard. Not football fans; not one single mention in the half hour. There was a women’s competition now heavily promoted by the league and in the media, gender re-balancing, fuller community participation &etc. It was not for her. (Camping, bushwalking, wine and movies more like.) What else? The pollie notables was the longest thread in a fast moving conversational carousel. Did mum recognize any of the names? would she know the faces from the  television? If they were not ministers or shadow doubtful. There had been a fear the former No. 1 Dude/Hombre who had slept with Jules in the Lodge might in fact suddenly appear with his bird’s nest down onto his chest. A hairdresser had another shtick altogether, but the best of them were highly adaptable with their rattle. Bo De Trai Vegetarian on Hopkins Street opposite the market for a change. Glimmers of some of the beautifully simple interiors up on the peninsular, one particularly recalled in the back streets of Malacca

Publication News: "Wasted Kiss" - Citron Review (US)

A LA online lit. journal called The Citron Review has recently published a short from this blog titled "Wasted Kiss."
The piece dates from the period over New Year in Johor Bahru, Southern Peninsular Malaysia.
Here is the link:
Hope you regulars like it.

https://citronreview.com/2017/04/17/wasted-kiss/

The Lemon (April24)

Six years without pruning the lemon outside the studio had shot up, almost touching distance now from the upstairs window. Two preliminary attempts at cutting back thus far have hardly made a mark on the tree. Arthur thought the small fruit was because of the lack of water; none of the tenants or the new owners in front had taken an interest in the tree. The fruit however was plentiful, scores of yellow dots throughout the branches. This morning what sounded like light rain had woken after almost seven hours undisturbed sleep, some light patter against the window and gurgling down the piping. Finally rising for an early breakfast the glimmers of raindrops in the tree seized the attention, a sprinkling of small jewels viewed from on high. There had been little of drizzle in the tropics and in Singapore precious little of any near greenery. In the urban centres all the greenery in Singapore was ornamental planting along paths and roadways. The thrashing of tropical rains were something else of course; trees, plants, leaf forms something else. What the forests and jungles may have presented the hikers and others would know. Here outside the studio an apple one side of the drive and almond the other, the former wild and latter likely planted by Bab. (At Bab's beside her own driveway another wild apple had sprouted, yesterday the remainder of its fruit picked. Over the four weeks the tartiness had significantly lessened.) Beside the almond there was a stunted plum, likewise possibly planted, and an apricot in the same cluster that reached out over the pavement. Around in front of the old house the peach had been removed by the new owners, a line of bottlebrush started along the front boundary. The plum that mother had planted too close to the front veranda there, that had developed a trunk that stretched horizontally at ground level over a metre, had also gone. In the garden in front of the studio two or three other natives were planted during the construction phase, all a bit too crowded in there now these years later. A proper, sturdy ladder was needed for the remainder of the lemon pruning.

Serious Child's Play (Offensive Writing)

Today the life section (the exclamation mark quietly dropped in recent months) carrying a feature on the importance of child’s play. ("Taking play seriously" on the cover and ROOM FOR PLAY for the piece.) One stay-at-home mum on the floor with her two youngsters "believes in encouraging independence;" as might be guessed from the colourful sheets of insects she has distributed on the laminate. An expat has bought a bespoke step climber for her little boy and also a custom-made Pikler Triangle. Third "letting loose daughter's creativity" has constructed a make-shift play area behind the living-room sofa. 

         The state of play among enlightened Singaporean parents. 

         Our Jono on the other hand, concerned about the shuttered environment for his only child, has ventured further, renting his Tampines flat and taking a lease on a bungalow out at Changi replete with grass, vegetable garden, trees and a short walk to the water. Last report visiting toucans delighting his little girl.

                                                                                                                   The Straits Times

NB. A piece just revised from the March files, somehow popping up here in the update. Blasted technology! Sorely missing my tech man, recently head-hunted by Google no less.
Greeting from Melbourne town.

NB2. And now this piece has been published in a pairing with “The Sandpit” by the Canadian journal, Anti-Languorous Project, No. 6

The River

A disappointing river somehow this afternoon six years on. Five dollars for the crossing; weekends a government subsidy halved the price, the skipper reported. The length and breadth of the water was flat somehow and failed to shimmer. Grey skies possibly a factor, there was no glint of light on any side. New gangways had been built and the fishermen on the Port Melbourne side stood on what appeared a neatly fashioned shore-line. A small container ship, child up on the seat of the Punt encouraged to search for fish, the old salt at the wheel, none of it added up to much. On the other side the bike paths had been up-graded and there was re-vegetation of native plantings over the grounds.
         Fitzroy Street was surprisingly down-at-heel; then later on Bay Street a great number of bejewelled shops along that strip catering to the new apartments thronging the quarter.
         Lunch was at the Grocery Bar up from the George.
         From Zero to Naked in 1.2  Bottles of Wine. Alcohol May Not Solve All Problems But Neither Will Water or Milk. Trust Me You Can Dance. Wine How Classy People Get Wasted. Wine Me Up and Turn Me On. I Am an Official Wine Taster Just Buy Me Up and I'll Taste It. This Wine is Making Me AWESOME. Good Wine Good Friends Good Times with graphics on the three pillars either side of the entrance and window looking out onto the street. Once Bitter Pots 3.50/Jugs 12.00 All Day Every Day.
         Reminded one of Marko's daughter Alice puzzled in Jogja when she was taken to Semesta, the coolest young student hang-out in the town.
         - They just drink teas and Cokes....
         The dark sides of the moon respectively.
         Tattoos and dogs again and even more noticeable the work-out physiques like Roman gallery items. Many of the younger could do both wine and gym in tandem and of course the other too in the mix.
         Was there a single body-builder in Malaysia or Indonesia in almost six years? Falling to one's knees five times a day, or at least living in the midst of the prevailing practice, discounted that. No doubt in corners of KL, Jakarta and Bali the same could be found.
         It may have been the vacancy and placidity of the suburban streets brought down onto the river-side and carried across the water, then through Westgate Park with its plantings and iridescent pools that had appeared on ABC  while in Singapore, drawing reassurances from Parks and Gardens. A different placidity to Singapore of course, where the colour and ethnicity of the people always acted to draw one out from the Western zone.

Meeting (The Zen Man Allan Ellis)

Great catching up with old friends here, slowly in order to savour properly, usually only one every 4 - 5 days.
Last night Alan Ellis, former hippie, wonderful guitarist & drummer, zen man and poet, told us he had seen the Beatles at our Festival Hall in 1964 (?) when he was fourteen, and also the Stones a few years later, TWICE, at the Palais in St. Kilda (Melb.)
Alan introduced me to many great writers & thinkers, dissidents that had not appeared on uni reading lists in my time at least. The Ellis clan on this western side of town are well-known autodidacts from way way back. (Cousins Tony and Barry have their own talents.)
Wonderful to see the old lion again, looking damn well i must say. (The walking-stick for recent onset gout.)
Thanks to John Goodman for his (unexpected) documentation.
A wintry street in coastal Williamstown with sandals and a light southerly blowing off the Tasman.

.... Winter woollen cap, zipper top and three layers beneath all from the suitcases stored in the back shed where cedar pieces kept the silverfish at bay. Passing strange donning the old gear for these meetings with old friends over such a stretch - a paradoxical kind of reverse disguise. Strange too staying in the studio again that Carl has vacated for the term. Seven or eight new families in this stretch of the street (running about two hundred metres), including in one of the houses Milan Maric built a woman with three much-loved poodles and late model Merc garaged.

         Cycling down to Williamstown along the water the big textured sky had one muttering and shaking the head as in years past. A phantasmagoria more narcotic still after the time in Singapore.
         One little story of Al-pal's that has inevitably stuck in memory: During one of the old hippie's deeper ventures into Zen Al had joined a group across in neighbouring Yarraville, where a Vietnamese Master presided at the temple, a woman in this case with little English.  After Alan had declared his intention to join the regular gathering, for introduction to the practice the Master assigned the new devotee the task of cleaning out the toilets. Unfazed an old Zen student such as Al of course, though the attendance did fall away in subsequent weeks.

NB. Five years later, a written piece with the same title published by Pendulum Papers in Australia (Aug 2022)

Basho Autumn (Melbourne)

Gulls crossing the dark screen of the Lenovo sitting on the cafe table gifted by Nance after the 2G system was shut down in Singapore. (A couple of days ago impossible answering Altaf's call for directions for a meeting in Footscray.) In six years without pruning the lemon had risen within touching distance at the Studio window. Behind from the kitchen window the pittosporum against the side fence and Hazel's plantings nearer; in the small square of the bathroom the native with the pale yellow belled flowers teeth-brushing and shaving. More still of stars and clouds crossing the roof windows that are the size of the new TV screens. A few days ago the introduction to little Angus in the front house occurred under lunar auspices. (I saw a moon, said he; duly confirmed through the lemon branches after we retraced our steps.) Tentatively too a sense of the different breezes distinguished through the various foliage and vestiges of the scents. After five years in the confines of Singapore the eye and ear were keen and caught by surprises one after the other. (Some unconscious channeling of Basho, in whose language particular words differentiate wind through many kinds of foliage; such as bamboo, maple &etc.)

Mighty Oak Felled (updated Dec23)

 

 

Our big Croat-Russian Ivo might be down for the count. Ran into his nephew collecting belongings for the run to the hospital. Couple nights before his uncle had fallen in the hallway of his house and not wearing his emergency buzzer wasn't found until morning. Broken hip. Three years ago he had broken the other. Since the return, four visits had been made to the house without sighting the old man. On the last we had spoken through the curtained living-room window and then the screen-door, both having left old Ivan invisible... Who are you? What do you want? Idi u picku materinu! Go to the cunt of your mother!... Six year absence, Ivo struggled to identify the voice. After all the home invasions of the last number of years in Melbourne the elderly were extremely wary. Surprising tears for the old man. Perhaps it was the buried echo of mother's fondness for good, firm, honourable Ivo. One of the earliest memories was his carting concrete paving blocks he had made around at his place over for the Montenegrin widow. Around the side mother wanted them, Ivo wheeling his barrow as directed. At his house beside the milk-bar around the corner we were petted by Rose, Ivo's Bulgarian partner. An architect who designed Ivo's house, Rose was treated shabbily by the big lanky Croat; and told exactly that by the neighbouring widow. A postcard was sent from Singapore, though Ivica returned to mind more often than that. Over a number of years in his back sunroom fine, unsugared moonshine of Ivo’s brought tales from earlier days. The station-master father in the Croatian capital misted the eyes of the old storyteller. During WWII Ivo's father, a communist sympathiser, needed to keep his nose clean. One day young Ivica returning from mass told of Cardinal Stepinac's blessing of the Ustashi troops that were preparing for engagement. At one of our houses, where in the early-60s the newly arrived migrants were tightly packed—like in a piggery, Ivo described it—Ivan earned a punch on the nose from a Croat boarder, who didn't like his countryman's politics. Ivo was proud of his putative Russian ancestry. A gravely wounded soldier in the war against Napoleon had managed to reach Zagreb, where he founded the Kombol line.

 

The Hood

Another day without the journal in play not good; too much rush and scamper. The next three months will be a difficult period to negotiate. Five point nine years of single focus on the pages was as good as it gets; pay back time now. Without a watch or phone even hours are guesswork, a customer at Bo Viet Veg. & Vegan in Irving Street Footscray obliged with half three. (Light lunches and sometimes skipped thus far in this topsy-turvy time re-adjusting.) By the way, did this waiter recommend the goi cuon rice paper rolls because of the fantasy hard rock verisimilitude perchance? Certainly a fine butterfly there fluttering, gleaming and glittering beside the table. Bouncing on his pins. Golly, at this ripe old age a stick still required, blush for shame! (The chief frenemy/antagonist/senior writer in dear old Sing will be rolling his eyes at this juncture. Gabby, you must credit the truth. We honourable soldiers are sworn to the banner willy-nilly.) Eight bucks pretty steep, though indeed they do be chockfull of carrot, bean shoots &etc. Good chomping fare. The overlapping mock pork sausage slices  the rice paper carries rather off-putting. Tan coloured in a tone too too close to home don't wanna think about it. Chappie will be rounding back shortly asking if there was appetite for anything more.... bubble, wobble, hot foot dancing. Uncertain whether there's a peep-hole behind watching this wide gobbling. On a fine marquee autumn afternoon the old Footers street not living up to the hype. Hipsters, skateboarders, dog walkers wherefore art thou mateys? Grungers have shipped out and not a single solitary sign of one user. (By reports the latter trade has moved exclusively to Richmond.)  For these engorged dildos the plenty spicy sauce that the lad warned about is the usual piece of cake, water off a duck's back for an Eastern Euro; tea damn fine when you're thirsty. Central African Republic banner at the entry to Nicholson Street Mall (car-less precinct; not the other kinda mall) a fair representation of the quarter, at least that particular strip. Sad to see the evidence of the fire at Saigon Market that took a number of homeless on the night. Search coming days for the right Viet to ask after Le Van Thai. (One continues to think pre-Google.) The old painter would not be drinking at The Royal any more that's for sure - minor untutored jazzing as far as one can see from the street. Bo V. tables scaled for midgets/dwarfs what is the current terminology here? Good deal of muscle tone through the  window again in evidence; the default devotion, both genders. Far less of it on the equator where the other focus took such precedence. Shapely Viet tight jeans opposite a fine show in her passage along the footpath recently washed sleek curtain of hair like the Sunsilk and Revlon TV advertisements used to feature tossing and turning for the camera. Perhaps this boy isn't game to slip his number, too many customers crib his style. New pot of tea when the other had gone cold he thought. Can't have that. Let me.... On the equator both girls and boys yellow, brown and brindle felt blest scoring the White guy. Measuring stick for the post-colonial fretwork.