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