Another Life

Yesterday the old kitchen cabinet was picked up from the nature strip within a couple of hours of being put out. Some of the items had laid out there four or five days without being taken and they needed to come back inside and carted to the tip. Sometimes on the fourth or fifth day just as hope was beginning to fade they might suddenly vanish. An old metal shipping chest and a nice blue barrel had both remained for a stretch before being taken. The tall three-door cabinet Bab had bought in the mid-sixties, a delivery truck needed from the store. The piece had remained a couple of decades in the kitchen, then the corner of the dining room. Later it was carted into the back bungalow and the old blackwood cupboard that had been in the house in the early days and that Bab had demoted to the shed made a return. The latter with its oval mirror and polish was much the handsomer item. It was strange that mother couldn't see that. Another of her failings coming from where she had come from, it had been concluded. The dumb waiter that had been bought for her in later years finally made it out on to the nature strip. Another fine piece in walnut with extended shelves either side and large, spoked and rubberized wheels. The first tenants in the family home had broken off one of the wheels and after leaving it in the shed a few months, then out under the carport, finally the decision was made to let it go. On the third or fourth day on the nature strip someone unscrewed and took the brass wheels and the remainder now awaits the next tip run. There have been five tip trips thus far this year. Prior to renting the house for the first time there must have been an initial five or six. Most of Bab's clothes went to various Op Shops, locally whenever possible. Some had gone out to St. Kilda as there were more bins stationed there. One afternoon an old grey-haired street woman was spied in a tram stop in one of Bab's warm, knitted vests. Going past the grey hair, stature and height had pierced the eyeballs like an arrow the target. The other day a friend who was undergoing the same kind of cleanout in his turn agreed it was always preferable to have the articles given another run by someone, rather than ending as landfill.

Flying Roofs

Pork roll for Arthur $6, boiled egg ($1) added as an afterthought. Without him today the roof sheet we got up could not have been secured. For the long overhang now how to hold the two sheets together? Pop-riveting was no good, we had tried that previously. Even pressing up from below failed to make the rivet pop. Arthur's answer was three small squares of corrugated iron cut from the sheet up the side that Cat was using to keep her dogs — one-eyed Ruff and old, lame and doddery Daisy — within the yard. Drill through the iron and after shaping the corrugations place against the hole through the fibreglass. Flat-head long screws were better than rivets (the rivets we had were too short in any case); green plugs attached underneath could be twisted on with a pair of pliers. Pannayoti the carpenter screwed down from the roof and beneath twisting with the pliers, while Arthur rested against the pillar of the side fence supervising, re-shaping the tin as needed and fingering through the cases and jars for the best screws. (Later he realised screws with washers top and bottom would have been simpler and easier, but one can't think of everything on the instant.) The new sheet's long overhang on the western side needed to be properly secured. Had Arthur been on hand from the beginning the overhang would have been placed on the eastern side, as the weather and wind in our corner of Melbourne arrived westward. To date the old sheet had flown off four or five times, landing in the neighbours’ driveway on each occasion. It had happened two or three times while Señora Anita lived there and after she sold with Chris and Jacinta in occupation, their two young ones, Xavier and Annie, in the firing line. A few weeks before too the bottom ridge tile had inexplicably fallen from the front corner of the house roof and shattered on the concrete. Another near disaster quite impossible to fathom. Could the westerly have sent the heavy tile tumbling? (Presumably it had come loose over the years.) Arthur thought the canny old possums that he watched evenings scampering over the roofs and through the trees might be responsible. With Arthur the replacement tile had been cemented in place a few days earlier, the two of us working either side on a pair of ladders. Inestimable aid from our wonderful neighbour. For the first forty odd years we had never spoken with Arthur. Some words were passed with his mother and father while they were alive, never Arthur. Many years before Bab had passed parsley and potato over the side fence on that side and received lemons and plums in return from Mrs. Spiers. It was Slavo who first broke the ice with Arthur when he replaced the spouting for Bab. When Arthur appeared there Slavo had offered him a beer and we all took off from there. At the bakery the two varieties of onion were omitted for Arthur's roll. Carrot, lettuce, crushed peanuts and tomato (which was fifty cents extra) was OK. Buttered.

Herstory (Svetlana)

A pause. A breath. Deep. Every few pages. Sometimes there are no pauses between segments, but only ever a short, limited number of pages manageable. Poetry needed to be read like that; yet here the language was simple, direct and straightforward. The witnesses and participants have of course seen remarkable, astounding events through the course of the war, and a large part of the effect comes from that burden. But then the way the story forms in the telling, dredged up from so many years before, reveals a great deal of natural artistry. Reading segments to a friend from Secondhand Time a few weeks ago there was understandable suspicion. This was oral history?... No mediated hidden hand of the author lurking?... One who had worked in the field and listened to old storytellers had complete confidence. The example of the Nurse Aide wheeling a barrow of bread and discovering the nature of her own heart was a good case in point. The final fragment in the section titled “Grow Up, Girls…. You’re Still Green….”

NB. Svetlana Alexievich, Unwomanly Face of War pp. 68-9

Inauguration Celebration

Incredible! That was a familiar voice in the café. What? No, it couldn’t be. An East African political commentator for Al Jazeerah perhaps, or otherwise diplomatic corp. It did sound like a wind-up set piece. Lots of Oxbridge old boys in those parts too, sons of the forerunners, the political elite. Highly unusual in the café where there were no screens, either large or small. None blaring certainly. Sometimes the men were concentrated on their hand-phones but not often. They came to the café to meet their own, to drink coffee and talk. At the evident curiosity the chap in the tall hat that momentarily looked like a Russian fur motioned to come over. With some more rolled phrases it did need a quick look. Swinging up out of the chair, three paces. The first screen shot caught the audience in their chairs – the white crown of the bantam Tony Tan, the retiring president, who as a patrician type had recently been contrasted unfavourably with the incoming. OMG! What in the holly blazes? Why was there an ear for that propaganda here in this place?... ‘S not propaganda, the chap in the beret holding the phone horizontally declared. –….Madam President…. must remain impartial….  Blimey me. Too right. The voice of the Singaporean PM had not been heard more than two or three times on odd occasions. Some of the other lads had been informed a couple of weeks ago of the upcoming investiture. A Muslim attaining the post of President in a notable Western democracy. Pleased as punch the chap in the beret and wouldn’t hear a word against. ‘S all propaganda. Everywhere…. He was going to enjoy it and didn’t care.

Alexievich Vol. IV

Life-giving the milk with ginger and honey at Abdulrazak’s, a second shortly after the first. Something rather more profitable than the café for AR – one guesses that was the calculation in the stony visage when the follow-up order was made. (The other possibility was Abdulrazak’s fixation on the virgin he was pursuing in Vietnam, a very pretty gal to be sure. Abdulrazak had brought her over for an introduction during a skype a few weeks before.) Anh Nhi the waitress commented that in Vietnam the beverage was taken “for the blood” – broad smiles suggesting an aphrodisiac perhaps.

         On a cool, overcast day after a light lunch an appropriate choice reading another volume of Svetlana, the fourth now during the current calendar year. Her introduction thus far to Unwomanly Face of War explaining and defending herself, her quest and method. She was writing a history of feeling and spirit, in this case women’s during the course of WWII.

         From her journals on the book in the introduction a leader of a small Red Army unit recalls executing two German captives. After some days of familiarity with the men the younger teen members of the party could not be given the task. (Coming under fire on dangerous ground the men could not be taken along.) Another fragment from the journals delivered a young woman serving in a hospital who had been unable to grant a dying soldier’s wish to show her breast. The man had not been so long with his wife, he explained. To date the woman had never been kissed and had been unable to oblige and when she returned to the bed an hour later the man was dead.

         Honeyed milk with ginger just the thing on a march through a forest with danger threatening all round.

         A woman had survived Stalin’s Ukrainian famine eating horse dung, which many could not stomach. Dried or better still frozen was more manageable.

         Small, so-called common people often became heroes through their suffering, Alexievich suggested. Another slow reading with pencil and shortly carting on the plane to Bali.

         The day after these first pages of Unwomanly Face the Ukrainian plumber Mihail returned the earlier volume Secondhand Time that had been lent a month ago. Mick had read every word, he said, two hour sessions every morning. During a visit to his house the book had been found mounted on a reading stand with a large clip employed. Mick started his plumbing apprenticeship at fourteen. Something of a reader, his library at home ran to over fifty books, he guessed.

         The point had been made of Alexievich: like Tolstoy, the rare case of powerful language that was quite direct and straightforward.

         The night of Mihail’s visit too an impulsive mail to Zlatko, who had bought Secondhand Time on recommendation. (Zlatko the engineer is a great Slavophile, having read almost the whole of Dostojevsky and now married to a woman with a Russian heritage – some connection to royal Tzarist circles what’s more.):  

Samo da ti kazem Zlace: kad se cita ova Alekievich covjeh je ponosan s svojim Slavenima.

S punim srcom se njene paragrafe citaju.

Sad naceo Unwomanly Face of War.

Today my Ukrainian plumber Mihail, near 80, returned Secondhand Time. Borrowed a month ago and just finished, reading 2 hours mornings. Your dad met him a while back.

Just to tell you Zlace: when Alexievich is read a man is proud of one’s Slavs.

With a full heart one reads her paragraphs.

Now started on Unwomanly Face….

Cherophobia (email to George)

hmmm. chero - from cherubim? love darts and stuff maybe? would be interested in the etymology. a made-up i reckon, slightest reference in the specialist literature, Latin or otherwise. you think the romans an greeks were scared of happiness? wary of any fixation of course, and tragedy the whole box and dice for them. but fear? nah. bullshit. a walk through the top end of the city grid this arvo, hill of content to pick up a couple volumes (alexievich just released new translation & an old LA hollywood gal by the name of eve babitz who laid lottsa big names). very easy to see why the advertising, most liveable &etc. beautiful physical fabric, old stone adjacent cannily designed towers, some beauties in the mix catching the light. green patches strung  below blue and some crimson overhead—the park at the lower end of Latrobe looked mouthwatering with a solo yoga chap arms akimbo. little traffic, some slow walkers on the Sunday paths, trees might have been in bud. if only there was some kinda meeting and channeling betw, some kinda coming together, to a point. meaning. pellegrini's 6 yrs later the same fella serving the cakes and fruit cups. even he had been to bali, the beach was bewdiful. $14 for the shallow-plated ministre now and add 4 for cafe. nearly fell offa the stool. poor blinking junkie gal walked into the side window by the machine made you wince—after sin’pore you can magine. poor darling. you remember mat arnold in that famous essay? while such-and-such expires like that in this city let no man pronounce us content or happy. can't recall the phrasing now. so many asians strolling about in the wonderland like they were at a majestic stage-set invited by the studio head, some not even taking pics only looking. there had been a row of trees in blossom somewhere, maybe nth melb cutting through, the churches on victoria near the market chosen as settings, esp the closed entry doors. had not been to the top end in these almost 6 months. the salvos opp pellegrini's was hard to judge, refurbished for another bar it looked like initially. but the beauty was sizeable after all.

NB. Email to George six years later at the top of Bourke Street

The Skids (April24)

A dramatic day in how many acts today with the sun in and out? – mostly the latter. While the Viet lumberjack was sawing down the 7-8 trunks that needed to be left for the bigger blades, cutting across came two distinct skids, as Arthur terms those sudden showers. At the first Arth had quickly ducked indoors. While a cap was fetched from the shed the Viet had kept on, quite unaffected. On the second occasion Arthur took refuge under the low eucalypt that had sprouted beside the compost bin against his side fence.  (On the other side of the bin three of the sycamore trunks had sprouted and 5 or 6 against the back fence too.) The first shower had fairly pelted, slanting over nor’ nor’west on drifts of wind that were not noticeable on the ground. Beneath a cap and four upper layers the work had continued our side, raising the pile of handsome logs against the garden shed. From the sawing with Arthur’s antique Woodpecker of the week before a pile of slender cuttings had been raised against the iron fence opposite, thus creating a fine seating corner for the springtime ahead.

         At lunch at Huong the waiter came over to tell his tale of woe at the owner’s abrupt manner with him a couple days previous. As usual, on full moons the place had been very busy and tempers frayed. Shortly after tears had followed from the boss, good contrition and apology for her intemperate words. The dignified young fellow had made clear he would not endure the like a second time.

         Finally at Fausi’s after another skid that had not been noticed through the window of the café, there arrived a fine rainbow of four distinct colours, pointed out by the Dinka with the injured hand at the front table. Announced in the man’s quiet way, it had proved worth the inspection.

         The usual wishy-washy early September that was more exciting than usual after six years on the unrelievedly grey equator. People of those middle parts who were unable to afford air travel could never believe the blues of picture postcards.

         The Dinka man had spent twelve years in Kenya en route to Australia. We heard of the stolen election and of Kenyatta’s killings, which the Dinka said one day would rebound on him. Earlier, Kenyatta’s father had done precisely the same, the Dinka reported.

         A week before the NYRB had cautiously soft-peddled the US involvement in the matter, John Kerry featuring stoutly defending the regime.