The Passions

Is it Petkov Day, Saint Petka, indeed? Tomo Mirkov of our clan will be the only one celebrating in the traditional fashion. The priest calling into his house prior to lunch being served to bless his bread, mention the dead in his prayers and disperse the frankincense from his censer, if the last was remembered right. Somewhere round noon this morning a talented muezzin gave his call while we made love again in the darkened room under the aircon, the voice from out behind Room Satu-umpat-nam perhaps one hundred metres off, not more and not amplified it seemed. The chap here had found a closeness to God and could encourage others with smoothest gentle hopes. In her pleasure and with her everyday familiarity Ni seemed not to have heard the call. Back in Geylang on point of departure cheeky Mr. Ah-ha-ha Chan had suggested in her deepest throes a woman would forget even her father's name. The man of the Land of Brothers, the Tanah Abang muezzin, kept his earthly passions in check, made love with some sense of Allah's bounty in mind, or possibly even remained celibate. At the other end of the spectrum stood Mr. Ah-ha-ha Chan, with a great deal of unaccountable jostling between the poles. It had been surprising to hear the call to prayer in Ni's kampung near Magalengka, especially the ashar and maghrib, was often sounded by a young primary school-aged lad not yet in his teens, as she revealed later in the evening. Nothing of this kind had been heard or reported in the region previously. A short way from Hotel Kalisma on Jl. Tubun another scamp of some kind had scrawled on a pylon in English, Take Acid & See God.

Ah-ha-ha (Nov25)

 

Booked for Jakarta Saturday. As expected, a single week here after return feeling toey. On the walk up to Al Wadi Syed the fries lad had called out from behind. Ah! Hallo. Hallo. Bleary eyes after 10AM. Man was running late for his shift, not surprising coming off fourteen hours the day before. Was that Syed's usual? Certainly twelve was the standard. Overnight sleep had been hard for Syed with the pain in his legs. You know, varicose veins? Stockings he had already bought and was wearing; another pair he would buy too, perhaps because the first were fraying. Leaving him at the stand and heading for the teh, Syed was explaining himself to big Ali the supervisor. Mental and also journal note: nevermore complaints over the heat or anything else to Syed. Ever! Mr. Ah-ha-ha Chan tootled along to the table, flitting eyes ever-and-a-day. At that age the old former players were rarely as keen, nay, as possessed, as Mr. Chan. What was left in one's mid-seventies after a lifetime's recourse to the pleasures of the flesh? Mr. Chan had been all over the world. Was it Tahiti where he had found the most luxurious delights? That was a place where people only fished, ate and made love. Indonesian women continued to captivate Mr. Chan, still. Something we shared in common. With the Haig Road market closed, Mr. Chan was to be found morning, noon & night at Al Wadi, head back-tilted, eyes flitting, laughing in his signature style. How long had it been since Mr. Ah-ha-ha had held a girl in his arms? Memories were clearly insufficient, but what chance now that former softening & ease? In Mr. Ah-ha-ha's case it truly did seem that there was nothing to compare; nothing other of interest for this old sensualist. Would another three or four years make a crucial difference? Into his eighties Mr. Ah-ha-ha would continue in the same vein. (Was it seventy-four or six he owned?) Few knew Mr. Ah-ha-ha’s family name. It had been the Batam gals who had christened him with his moniker. For the past week swallowing had been a problem. The food at Wadi was bland and unappetising, but also getting it down proved difficult... The new Cultural Medallion winner announced in the morning's newspaper had been met at Mr. T. T. couple of years before. Indonesian-born and growing up in Geylang Serai, the man had said at the time. (The newspaper omitted the first this morning.) At time of meeting Omar had pronounced the chap a minor author, nothing of much value in the oeuvre. In his person and talk the man had seemed more substantial than that. And on the walk back to the room crossing paths with Mr. Ee near the bus stop, smart, freshly laundered green striped shirt rather fetching. His recently widowed sister-in-law was taking good care of Mr. Ee. Still the shirt looked as if it had just been donned that moment: not a single crinkle or crease. Was it that the man had just emerged from his temple up Geylang Road, the quiet sit there resulting in that perfection of bearing?... Such collectedness and calm. Mr. Ee had stopped under a thin palm frond waving in the breeze. No. The aircon at Tanjong Katong Complex across the way, up on the bench by the supermarket entrance. That was a common roost of Mr. Ee's and many others, in the afternoons usually.

The Patch

In line for the first teh halia kurang manis in seven months, the Deaf suddenly leapt out of the queue. Hey! Back on the big bird?... Just landed?... The Deaf brought his cupped hand down to a kind of fighter-jet-landing-on-aircraft-carrier…. Good to lay on eyes man. Lookin good. Mr. Syed the honey trader immediately too. Could not ask whether he had managed to intro a second wife into his house at Bedok, not right off. And the heat failing to overwhelm; in fact hardly at all. Because of the charm all round it could only have been. The little Viet mite tissue-seller over for Halloo could be given a greeting in his own language now: — Anh gum thiew…. Gritting teeth for the last, but still taking a short while for the boy’s reception. Ah! Oh! Wah! Word came from one of the lads Beefy was still on the loose, no change, all well. He was at such-and-such a club watching the gee-gees. JOHN!... One looked around thinking the old call had been sounded. (Not from Beef: for some unknown reason his preferred was “Oscar.”) Not just yet. Opposite the so-called Malay cultural centre had risen three-four storeys. The Deaf had shown the upraised light bulb too. Seven days of it powering down and no relief in sight. Fanning his face; blowing cheeks. Phew!... Rain before that it may have been, or due perhaps. Mr. Hussein the bastard street peddler all his born days footing past. “Hussein Dodol,” from the chewy caramel-like Malacca sugar. As the night wore on and the heat began to press Beef rocked over large as life, big gut straining against the same white tee. Only just back himself from the wife and kids at Tanjung Pinang, where he had gifted his girl a two mil. moto, the third in the family now. Beef’s next acquisition would be one for himself, a black Ninja no less. Stuff sharing with the wife, Beef was heartily sick o’ that. Fella thought he could discern some muscle in his pal; a filling out all power. (Lugging ladders, timbers, painting, lumberjacking had left its mark.) Stay like that, counselled the Beef. Beefy's product was continuing to sell well, lottsa takers, deliveries all points of the compass and no heat any direction. Divy up $200 lots into fifties, nice earnings. It would not take long to acquire the Ninja. Report from the same source that the Singing Cowboy was no more. Demise. No mistake. (Two years ago the man had been prematurely consigned to the ground and spooking a fellow popping up one day suddenly.) Two AM in the back bathroom at AlWadi, cops, ambulance, the corpse dragged out. The whole thing dragged on until mid-morning.

Soaring (aka Flight Jan26)

 

 

 

All smooth, apart from the roadworks on the Ringroad that might have cost $20 alone that stretch. Total cab charge, $71.20; touch over one third of the airfare itself! A couple of ciggies with the lads out the back of Bab's had been a bad move, but what to do? The event needed to be marked. What was left of the bottle of sljivovica was drunk between the three of us, nicely downed by the Rasta man Robbie and Carlo the filmmaker—the latter taking over the studio down the road that had been home for almost seven months. Nice North Indian driver who earned $700-800 weekly behind the wheel: six days x 10-12hrs. Wife was doing a Biz. Admin. Masters, which they hoped would get them PR. (A greedy migration agent wanted $20k. Hopefully Djamal the Eritrean would do it for a third of that when he completes his studies.) A free seat between the big guy African in the middle row toward the tail made things easier. Chap was an unlikely looking Nigerian businessman who had been living in Sing twenty years, with full PR. It made one wonder. Recently George recalled the statistic of one million people at any one time up in the air in our contemporary moment. Many of them nervous campers; how else explain all the runs to the bathroom? Again, it was George who remarked on the matter on his recent LA trip. IT guys like Carlo & Mischa would positively enjoy cloud-surfing. The achievements of engineering, programming, production & maintenance, especially in the case of the best carriers. What a joy Brit. Air must be, first class, say! Beds, the best of food, smiles and pampering such as those who had climbed to the summit deserved. You've earned it, sir. Enjoy. Ayn Rand territory. Then private jets, self-piloted by enthusiasts. Saint-Exupéry territory, Capt. W. E. Johns. A good number had ordered food, releasing seductive aromas. The two young, large gals in front tucked in with the others, two portions over the 7 1/2 hours. (The Nigerian settled for single.) Well, one had saved, what? $45 for the bulkhead legroom; $20++ the grub. Canceled out the cab fare. Months old muesli slice sufficed. (That was The Road, Cormac Mc’s survivor scavenging whatever could be found.) Curbing the intake seemed worthwhile, minor mark of solidarity with the little people, the moochers & proles. The planes flew over the lot of them, regardless. Millions every moment.

Crown

Stretching out a dozen odd shaves with the triple blade Turbo whatnot was pretty good going one thought, until Arthur upped the ante more than a little a couple of weeks ago. Arthur had tried the quadruple version in the past before reverting back to the triple again. There had been little to differentiate between the two according to Arth. and certainly not enough to justify the more expensive quad. – the triple was expensive enough. A meticulous, delicate groomer, Arthur sometimes did not shave for five or six days. Still, even then his bristles left a fashionable salt and pepper dusting beneath his cap, the delicate growth always coming as a surprise as if produced on the instant like rabbit from hat. Fine rosy cheeks all weathers, Arthur’s cap always crucial in the rather fetching effect. Almost invariably the cap was screwed down securely, faded blue cricket branding that must have come down through the family somehow. (Arthur would never have worn secondhand apparel and neither was he ever a cricketer.) Sometimes evenings receiving his bread and fruits at the side gate Arthur might emerge bareheaded, shiny, pockmarked dome nakedly uncovered. But the razor. One guessed 6 - 8 weeks deployed; even 10 Arthur might stretch it; a dozen weeks perhaps with more sporadic use. In fact a single triple blade Turbo razor Arthur could retain a year or more, he estimated. Champion saver. Improviser. Scrounger and repairer. There seemed to be no sharpening or special maintenance for the triple blade. Warm water no doubt, good lather and patient, careful strokes. (Thinking further about the matter, it was somewhat surprising that Arthur did not favour the old cutthroat that could be sharpened on a strap.) When Arthur was at his toilette he could not be disturbed; however urgent the matter one needed to wait on those occasions. Five years ago at Peter Mac when Arth. had been waiting on the hospital trolley outside theatre with his face marked for the removal of his melanomas he had taken fright at the last moment at the prospect of the disfiguration that would result. Up and outta there without further ado in his skimpy gown, down to the station and the train back home to Spotty. It must have been a march over to Flinders Street as the unfamiliar underground would have been too confusing. Smooth, clean, a little handsome too – the visage was preserved. Arthur had no regrets. A range of natural remedies discovered mainly online seemed to have retrieved the situation, only the growth on the right ear lobe proving unresponsive. Yesterday going out to pick up the 2005 Proton Jumbuck he had bought in Rockbank 23kilometers out of town Arthur had flashed his license that was needed for the paperwork. Briefest glimpse had been enough – a striking picture of a thick wavy crown topped a face that was almost completely unrecognizable on the card. Golly! A knockout. That was really something, impressively audacious. Arthur had guessed that the flash had been received, the revelation seized. Have a look at me license, quoth he with one of his giggles, relaxed and easy now with his neighbor of so many years. He was not going to look like an old man in the photographic record, Arthur explained. Of course it was legal and in order, a hairpiece not a problem for the ID. A cap would have been a different matter.

Impro. (Carlisle Street)

Black runabout on Chapel corner promising LIQUOR Delivered in Under 60 Minutes. Impossible to conduct the conversation here whether in the suburban streets, the biz. or culture quarter, among the BBQ, footy, travel & adventure set. No where. At the pedestrian crossing opposite the fruit shop woman with window down irate at the cars entering from the side street: And you too….People, get yourselves an attitude. On a board next corner the burger joint advertising organic beef: Good Karma…. Thirsting for chai and a seat after that lot within the 100 metres, the preferred possie occupied. Frizzy-haired young lass head burrowed in her book took a time to catch – IMPRO: Improvisation and the Theatre. Yoga at the end of the row and real estate brochure adjacent. At the other end there was emergency teaching woes. Was it the LA yoga operator who was ridiculously flexible, stronger in his ankles than the poor lad in his…. something? Had the young Harpo Marx been properly observant she might have taken the polished gestures laid on beside her: with pen and paper (both hands and fingers re-paying close study); answering the smiling waitress exiting the washroom, No, all good, with only raised hands and palms half surrender. Discreet inward palm and pointing fingers raised to eye-level subsequently shielding the cough. Spectacular lessons entirely lost on the unobservant waif. – ….change my life…. heart rate. (Yoga pair.) All the rich movement too over the soy latte: scraping a modicum of honey; drainer deftly placed and pouring carefully tea-ceremony-tidy without the merest hint of drip. Re-place the drainer in the pot, stir with some vigour now and sip without gulping. Who needs a cigarette young lady? Effortless. Much to learn people-watching, forget all the manuals; a wealth of matter within the crowd. (“I believe that no man liveth who can grasp the whole beauty of the meanest living creature:” Dürer from some recent reading.) Minor, minor erotic later undirected with the remainder of the honey: a pity to waste, enviro friendly thinking of the global poor. Three-four forefinger scoops abstracted/concentrated let ‘em look. But by then the lass had departed immediately following her pee, another missed opportunity. The Nepalese lad in the kitchen with a helper on a busy Saturday unable to be placed in North Asia earlier in the week lustrous hair like that and oily skin. In Afghanistan would have come under the eye of the cameleers who went both ways. Once he had revealed his nationality the Burmese Te-Zu-Dje-Bade, Thank you had been mistakenly offered him, – luckily Harpo not having been in attendance….. Nice white floors…. more advanced. (Yoga unending, the Jewish girl doing most of the listening a familiar face from years past.) The trad. Jews absent here at The Wall and missed more than a little, invariably they usefully leaven the mix. In the dark cavern-like ex-butcher shop (kosher) lighting advantageous under the gaze of these young waitresses smiling in excess of routine, fine quiet tributes glimpsed in passing, if the author was not greatly mistaken. Middle-aged crowd – the young actor could not hold herself up long on that stage. On the benches outside awaiting the calls the dark Indian Ubereats.

The (Former) Heartland (June26)

 

A new dish and history lesson imparted with it.

There had been no spring rolls for couple days at Huong, the Buddhist nun aunt of the owner who made them buckling under the pressure, perhaps. The place had certainly been packing them in lately.

Not the bun rieu, Viet crab & shrimp tomato rice vermicelli soup, the young Hong Kong waiter ventured. Try the nam vang instead. It had been successfully recommended to many Westerners. 

You know, the old Asian capital city?... 

Ah...We had played that game before. What was it now?…Hmm. Ah... Oh yes! Nam Vang – Phnom Penh indeed. Which recalled some earlier phase of Viet presence, possibly, one more overt than the current.

Very tasty. George could be introduced to the variation, though that man might be hard pressed to pass on the noodle salad with spring rolls.

At the delivery of the dish the HK-er could be returned a round too, with a trialing of another discovery from the day before, courtesy of Anh Nhi at Abdul Razak’s place.

Listen in now young fella: Ang gum thew?...

Two and three times before proper reception. Ang gum thew?...  Ang gum thew?...

Two tables back the neatly dressed lady against the wall had received almost immediately.

HAHA! of delight, swiveling round in her seat.

Tall Westerner in a fine panama trilling like that.

There had been no surprise whatever at Ang gum thew? The counterpart of the Mandarin Ni chile ma? Have you eaten?

Near neighbours sharing the practice could not surprise. No one in China or Vietnam, at least the old Han & Viet generation, would ever come to ask at an encounter how a fellow was faring. Instead, at the first, before anything else, would come enquiry about the possibly empty stomach. After all, if the tummy was grumbling, how could a man be well?

Excellent. Stands to reason. Tenderness & solicitude more than average touching. One wanted to spend one’s final days in those circles where suchlike passed amongst the citizenry. The heat and humidity could be endured, the loss of the footy, backyard BBQs, good coffee, gigs & the beach.

Not unexpectedly, the vowel had not been chewed long enough here. 

Anh gum theeeew. OKOKOK.

In Balaclava earlier hemp seed oil (organic) was eventually found on the shelf of the heath food joint, $13 odd. Immediate relief provided from the rash at both wrists that had developed almost certainly from the dirty water in the flooded streets of Johor Bahru late last year. (Such an array of ailments lately storming in.) Following that purchase, across the road a new, achingly lovely geisha girl had replaced the former aching lovely at the sushi counter. (Since moved 50m along the street.) 

Teak away?…

If only it were possible.

All softness & liquid movement. Magnificent.

The old roué Kawabata had emphasized how clean were such bewitching compatriots in the teahouses of Nippon, once upon a time. Millions and millions of miles from any hint of dirt, slovenliness and everyday humdrum. Every careful gesture, every word from the other side of the counter, fell well short of effect. It was impossible. Out of court of course, the lass being what, twenty-four, nearly -five?  

Miracle creature light as a butterfly and equally evasive, her hand quickly slipping away when the packet was collected.

Finally, the Croat Iraq vet., godly Marko, stopping at the table yesterday and confidently assuming a seat.

The Anglo-Ameri dragon gobbling all before it. The Setan above all Setans. Dominating the former Eastern Bloc, the Mid-East and every place else. (With the Jews wagging the tail of the dog. How many of them were at the topmost ranks in any US admin.?)

If only the put-upon Slavs could unite against them, forming a front that would stretch from the Adriatic to the Northern Pacific.

Back in the day, Bishop Strossmayer had dreamt of just such a brotherly union. The godless communists had presented a perversion of the concept; five hundred thousand Croats alone were slaughtered by them.

Marko had been photocopying NO leaflets for the plebiscite the other day. The ABC’s propaganda for the foul proponents disgusted M. Agitation to maintain abortion rights and introducing euthanasia equally disgusted.

Whether the man was suggesting that the pedophilia white-anting of the religious institutions was orchestrated from the devil’s lair was not perfectly clear; the seat in the Arizonan desert like for the drone HQ was it?

When the quiet St. Pete-burg fellow mustered the courage to join us, drawn by the Slavic, Marko became unsettled by the suspicious South London accent. Such fellows had crept around in the military too, sending good men to their deaths. (Saddam had been a stooge of the Americans, all well known, up until he decided to trade oil for gold, rather than the US greenback.)

More thoughtful and reasoned the Ruski, the St. Pete chap. What that man could not comprehend was Putin’s failure to intro. true democracy, rule of law and freedom of the media. Why did he need to savage all the outlying states so badly, Georgia, Kazakhstan, &etc? Gorbachev had raised such hopes. Lost. Betrayed.

Nice fellow the St. Pete, the junior grade comprehension of power, domination, contest and greed never mind. What had been most interesting about the man had been his name – remarkable to hear the Russian variant of Innocent, like for the lusty old Popes.

An old Russophile had never heard the like. Did the Spanish still give their children such fateful names?

Only in mature adulthood, nay middle-age, had Innocent asked his mother what had possessed her.

 

 

NB. Иннокентий

 

                                                                                                      Footscray, Melbourne