The Scribble

Creeping quart ten, what were the four matters needing to be recorded? Longing for the paper scratching; the marking for posterity. For.... relief? Overnight two wakes, the first because of the little boy’s crying next door; a prolonged disturbance for the little mite over some night terror despite mummy and daddy right there in the room with him sharing the large bed. (No great problem on the other side of the wall; only ghostly reminders from the far distant past producing some wincing.) And then the second and final wake was it? Ah! One must chortle confessing.... A rejection from G— Street Press for a submission that was dispatched only a couple of days ago. But—saving grace—a hand written biro note it looked at the foot of their standard Rejection letter: “....the quality of the writing highly impressive, some of the passages recalled....” Sent one positively swooning. Golly! Certainly softened the blow; some positive to take away…. By jingoes! Mid-twenties one could understand the wild elation sweet enough to cream your jeans (or in this case bedding). At this ripe old age in deep unconscious life fretting like the little boy next door. And then wouldn’t you know it, the follow-up in the morning of the Upper-Tier Reject for “Islamic Studies (S-E Asian Hemisphere)” from Missouri Review. Not quite what they were seeking, but surely very much wishing keen to see more in the future please if you would be so kind. Signed, The editors. Not a personal note signed by a notable; not an explicit soliciting of further work; nonetheless, a crust for the starving. The second such from Missouri, one of the US biggies, long history with celebrated authors in the archive. Noted in the pages. In the cloud it did not earn a place in the Cock-Tease File; editors needed to do a deal better than that should they wish to enter those portals. Upper-Tier, and a reminder to fling them something again after a decent interval. (Some send mild jerk-off, only to add the sting in the tail: "...and please wait three/six months before submitting again.") The fourth matter slipped for a time. Delaying the record until the Wadi morning teh and newspaper one ran that risk.... Last night was only the single hour at Feidu, getting off submissions to Hobart—for their Baseball callout—and one to Masters Rev. for their competition (@ $US20). Later back in the room dealing with mails, 30 x 2 pushes and the reward of luscious orange following. (3 x 30 was left for early returns; the more strenuous exertion not such a good idea late night.) The noisy unmannerly Malays in the corner room blissfully quiet through the evening and indeed the whole of the night…. And then it returned, the fourth item. One needed patience. The news from Arthur last night on the phone during our regular Sunday evening chin-wag. Through the week rather than the Jankovic or Stone house being demolished, it had been the Dingley’s that was wiped from the face of the earth in Spotswood. The dark Maltese Dingleys, father, mother and four or five children, no further trace on that spot of dirt. Erased. Heavy smoker Mr. D, as was his fat wife in her dressing gowns. The two eldest children attained some kind of office jobs that meant skirts, blouses, collars and ties in the street. Youngest Michael, Mick had been a trifle troublesome with his motorbikes and sexual heat, very keen on our Polish tenant Ana a few doors further down, a gal with whom a young boy could play mildly indecent games in the back laundry. On Ana’s trannie the first pop music was heard, Beatles and the early Oz counterparts. Townhouses shortly; Arthur’s block and our own next in the firing line.