A Pitcher

Wouldn’t mind betting the new Uncle here collecting the dishes at Kwan Inn was the prodigal son of the owner, the locally famous lady who took the casino to court over a disputed win and distributed the award to her employees. Good, proper Buddhist ahma, dealing in vegetarian fare, catching rainwater for the dish-washing, considerate and generous to her staff. Fair chance the monks frequenting her tables got their meals for free. The entire block was occupied by Buddhist outlets of one sort or another—books, fragrance, candles, calendars, lanterns &etc. The silver spoon was another kettle of fish altogether, running up against it in the usual way and coming a cropper, you would guess. Very much got that look about him. Tall, thin scarecrow pulling deeply on the fags on his short breaks on the grass. Chap was one apart, entirely different class compared to the others clearing those tables and dicing the vegetables. There were no tattoos visible, neat dyed cut and tidy manner—nothing street level and pigeon-hole about this one. The wide smiles were something in excess of ease and gratitude over the simple, everyday offerings gifted us. Purest silk the batik shirt the other day might have been; NY motif linen today and smart trainers didn’t come from collecting dishes. Not long ago the man had been wrestling fire-breathing dragons, if this Scribe knows anything from years on the sidelines watching the skittles fall all round. Get a load of that silver on his hand for another thing too; and the watch-face between the jade beads. Laid down the law the old lady; lad holding firm to date, quick on his feet working with a will and no complaints. Just returned from a retreat in the hills of Taiwan, or even the Mainland possibly. Few biz types got to the tables on Sims Avenue, the vibe was all in the other direction. Quiet, contained people who meditated and prayed, hardly a brand among any of them in these three years of patronage. Buttoned in front the NY apparel turned out, in the baseball style cut that was likely limited edition. Tempted to ask the lad himself, who was well into his fifties; perhaps one of the Viet kitchen hands might be more politik.

Subversive Farming - published by Wild Roof Journal May20

Moringa—the last number of months Nance had been drinking a medicinal tea made from the leaves, she thought. There had been a lot of recent hype about it seemingly. (Next morning one of the lads at Al-Azhar suggested a narcotic effect was received from moringa.) The example here stood about three metres tall. Sour sop was sighted for the first time here, another small tree; in the sorbet form it made one of Nance’s favourite desserts, with sugar or a dash of honey added to combat the tartness. The No Monkey Tree might have been one of the jests posted on signs throughout the farm, if it had not been for a number of repetitions of the same at the base of these impressive trees. Monkeys could not climb those trunks perhaps because of the sharp nodules over the surface, which was something like the outer casing of the durian, a tree that oddly seemed not to be represented in this farm. It had taken eight years in the region for the first sighting of the ginger plant, the bulging root exposed at the base of some of the potted stalks in the examples here. Oodles of bananas were represented in numerous varieties on the farm, including some particular black kind, a label indicated. A small pond near the resto held within the fringe of reeds what could only have been loudly croaking frogs, though given the locale one would have been forgiven for thinking amplified recorded nature. (By the outdoor eating area there was a plaster B/W heifer cropping the grass at its feet. In some of the open fields of Singapore awaiting development more playfully cartoonish figures of the same kind featured, the urban planners entirely unconscious of the twisted irony in this concrete jungle they had created.) Ivy Singh who was the spiritual force behind this farm at Kranji was by no means any kind of typical Singaporean, certainly not of the contemporary form—which was most clearly apparent in the sign near the entry that suggested an equivalence between politicians and terrorists. An old sign it seemed this that dated a couple of decades back at least. You Cannot Serve Both GOD & MONEY was another risqué sign here in this turbo-capitalist republic that remunerated its leaders so handsomely. Ivy lived on the farm with a Chinese husband; her surname suggesting a Sikh heritage perhaps partly explained her strongly independent cast of mind. One of Ivy’s Bangladeshi workers testified that the woman was a fine sort, good-hearted at bottom; and that made everything easier for himself and the other workers, the man said. (A tough lady you got the impression, as the farm itself suggested. This was no pretty, decorous affair of flowers & herbs created with photographing tourists in mind.) Our Kashmiri Tufail had some decent Bengali from an extended stay in Calcutta in younger days, where his father had kept a shop for many years. There was no time to take notes, the extensive unfolding of this secret garden in the far west of Singapore did not allow it. A lake full of water lilies they must have been was happened upon all of a sudden behind a stand of greenery. Like the explorers of undiscovered country, the three of us lads came to an immediate halt before the sight. (Attacked by mosquitoes, Nance our driver had retreated to the car.) The flower petals of a banana, at least one of the varieties, revealed itself after a few minutes of standing before a particular tree—just out of reach three metres from the ground, dull crimson colour in three or four long, elongated spears. Three or four days before the flower that had been sheathed might have come into full bloom. The farm and the garden was the work of a lifetime, the product of true passion and calling. Many of the people in Singapore did not know of its existence. Koels and other birds had discovered the quarter. A small pigeon first made its appearance by the lunch table; later it was found along the paths and within the greenery. It was not the same as the common pigeon, Sameer the other Kashmiri had rightly suggested. Sameer had read some Robert Fisk, knew of Chris Hedges and Noam Chomsky. He needed time to absorb what he had seen at the farm, he said over a Winston at the end of the tour. After a long campaign the Singaporean authorities had finally managed to get their Botanical Gardens on the World Heritage list; few of the technocrats would venture out to lunch at the “Poison Ivy” restaurant at Kranji.

                                                                                    Bollywood Veggie Farm, Singapore

Its Own Reward updated Oct23

Difficult to credit. Hard to believe your eyes. A young teen pacing along at the Haig in front of the shoe store, with her mother couple of steps before it may have been. There may have come a sour mouth flash of disapproval at the gaze. (If only the lady could credit; if she could know the brief.) Thirteen or fourteen, no more. Chinese, simple cut, glasses; the holidays offering an opportunity for a short outing. There had been a market visit earlier; no maid by the looks. Modesty of attire like that indicated a tight budget. There was still modesty of various kinds to be found on this island, in this republic; even among that particular age cohort. It was still reasonably common, though rarely flagged quite in this style. Black bold caps on white, in an arc high across her chest. (Well above the girl’s ripening breasts.) Never the like seen previously in eight years of eyes keenly peeled. VERY GOOD. Can you imagine those of you on the other side; in your distant lands?

Macedonians, Dalmatians, Slovenes, Montenegrins & Bengalis

In the mix overnight Dragi Jovanovski had somehow put in an appearance, emerged from the scrum of foreign workers here no doubt, who shared so many of the features of our own crowd from that earlier era of the 60s down on the Great Southern Land. This morning at the kitchen sink the little Bangla lad through the window was sweeping the Void beneath Block 9. Wielding a brush-broom and swinging into his improvised shovel (from a 20l. oil can), the earpiece he was wearing delivering tunes or news from home no doubt. At one point the elderly man on the iron bench facing the carpark seemed to lift his legs in the time-honoured way in order to give access beneath. Down in Spotswood Dragi—“Dear” literally—enjoyed Engelbert Humperdinck and Tom Jones on his little trannie in the room at the end of the hallway. When he finally returned to Macedonia to bring out his wife and son Dragi left a suitcase with us for safekeeping and cried out back before departure. Tall, dark, chain-smoking Dragi, quiet, cheerful and respectful, with his cans of Spam and jars of chili. Once over the choice of a TV channel after Bab had finally relented and bought the box, a young teenage scream had told Dragi where to get off. Like Godfather Luka, Dragi made a frightful sight in the hospital at his premature end, unfit to be seen by youngsters. Frane the Dalmatian—or Islander, he liked to correct, being from Pag in the Adriatic—with his wife Ana the Slovene, took Bab out to the hospital. The look of the group on return made you wonder about the other side of the screen.

Dumbshow (updated Oct23)

Crossing in front of Darul Aqam a greeting from the side. It happened often enough, you were dreaming sauntering along with the morning newspaper under your arm. No kind of surprise. Who was this, then? On the right a metre off, there low to the ground and almost past, it turned out the showman Deaf in fact, bright and chirpy as usual, giving his signature salute. The call had emerged very close to the standard in these parts, a touch rough around the edges, but by no means incomprehensible. Perfectly intelligible and immediately understood. It had been a first with that kind of crystal clear enunciation from that particular quarter; certainly neither of the other two Deaf were capable of anything of the sort. Once or twice in recent time this man had been met, if not in fact bested, in the ceremony of greeting there by the market. Sprung out from the side suddenly directly in the middle of the path, first of all there was an abrupt plonking of the feet as if for bracing, Sumo style. Slow-slow-slow unwinding of hand from behind that forced the man to stand back, as if observing a bird taking flight. Iceberg drift imperceptibly circling in a wide, impossibly high arc. Hold your breath! Steady on and patient. CLAP the cymbals. Thumb-rub or pinkies and thumbs both together. Ha! How. About. That! A day or two prior the chap had been sighted on the other side of the concourse at the Haig passing the first row of tables at the head of a little posse of Batam girls. Lasses from the neighbouring isle were following almost in single file in their newly laundered attire, behind the finger the Deaf held out high before him. In the deplorable old flicks the Cavalry had charged on a sudden raid behind precisely such a sign from the leader on the horse out front.

Don’t Let ‘em Get the Wrong Idea

Common story of daughters, mothers and maids, re-told many a time here. Children who have been cared for by loving maids—or nannies in other parts—when they reach adulthood will call the latter in order to share their burden, relieve their anxieties, share triumphs and happiness. (Often the maid rather than mother or father indeed.) When they marry they will insist on the former maid attending the wedding, no expense spared flying them over. A maid will have the password to the house wifi disclosed secretly by the children. —BUT don’t tell Mummy, Auntie. Don’t whatever you do! Ni a couple of days ago was gifted a new phone by her employer’s daughter. She had explained to the young woman, a piano teacher, that she would be unable to reply to her messages from “outside,” not by text at least, as that function had become inoperable on her old Oppo. Oh! Oh!... The young woman saw the problem; the button on the side was missing and the cursor would not land. OK. OK. She would try to get Ni a new one. Some kind of old substitute, Ni had thought. Next day, lo and behold! a new Redmi 8A still in its box and wrapping. Wahallah! Nice. Just what the doctor ordered. How much, Cathy? Perhaps the young woman would allow her to pay back in monthly instalments. Merry Christmas, Auntie. (To the tune of $US100/6,499 Indian rupee. Not top of the range, but not bad either; new, gift horse and all that.) But golly, don’t tell Mummy. DON’T TELL! In this particular case Ni had only been with that family a couple of months.

Careening Volunteering

Bright bubbly volunteer in pink fluro, lanyard and plastic covered clipboard. Ruby lippy, subtle scent and simple, straight cut. Hello sir, sorry to disturb you. I am actually…. crueled by the rain. A wad of tens stretched longways was clipped to the top of the board, the red note bearing the familiar first Malay President of the Republic: Yousef Somebody. (It recalled the old dodge of Slavisa’s supporting his harmonica-playing pal Uros up on stage: spitting on a $50 and slapping it on the musician’s forehead to indicate the rate for requests.) What impressed above all here was the end of the forefinger indicating a paragraph on the board to which the lass wanted to draw attention. WOW-WEE. Indeed & forever! That didn’t look like false tack-on. Might have been all original cuticle, 25mm at a pinch and possibly 30 from the quick. Tapered here what was more almost arrowhead form. Softer tone than either the polo or lips. The gal had planned ahead at the salon for this gig. The Us here commonly followed the model in the States, including a compulsory social service unit to the courses in aid of community, assisting the needy, fostering public spirit; &etc. The industrial strength hardener here was difficult to conceive.

Murder at the Haig - published early Oct by Open: Journal of Art & Letters

Readers have advised that the link on OJAL's site has not been functioning for a while, so here is the piece:



Murder at the Haig

Glimpsed in passing feeding the pigeons and only once upon the lady did the realisation strike. You could not stop and stare. Possibly the woman had made a more certain ID herself immediately. A couple of weeks before she had been met in the yard out front of the house. A rather awkward meeting in fact. This is her, Helen had announced proudly with some kind of winner’s smile. The pair had been chatting by the greenery while two or three cats weaved between their feet. The English had surprised, together with the visage the woman presented. You assumed an old Chinese battle-axe, surly and sharp. On the contrary, once again here was an altogether classic soft Balkan Babushka—they were legion around the place. First word of the notorious lady had emerged about a month before: there was a convicted murderer living up at the Haig blocks, someone reported. It would turn out the deed had been done right there at the Haig—a woman who had killed her husband by her own hand. Ten or twelve towers of so many storeys, it stood to reason; the odds were perfectly in order. Hmm…. Interesting of course. Had one on the scent a little; casually, lazily. The fruiterer Mr Lim was asked, making conversation more or less one morning over the purchase. Yes, knew the lady. Quiet type; a little screwy. People kept away from her; a bit batty. What had happened? Why? How? None could bring themselves to ask, Mr Lim answered. More or less same again with Helen: gabbing one evening when she was feeding the cats on the near corner opposite the house. Here though, in this case, Helen unexpectedly declared she was in fact intimate with the party. I know the lady, answered Helen with her usual judicial air. The story went she and her husband had looked after the elderly ahma, the grannie; hubbie’s mum. Of course the work all fell on the daughter-in-law. Hubbie/son had been a bit aged himself by that stage, doddery and weak on his pins. In time god took back the old soul; they had done their best. Afterward the usual scramble for the cash. Those who had been absent before, visitors of their mother earlier at elder brother’s place, gathered now for the spoils. And promptly. Words exchanged; recriminations. How to grab the loot quick and get away? (They were lucky not to have the flat sold from under their feet.) Over that term of money-grabbing, the old, doddery hubbie had begun to echo some of the criticisms of his siblings. Blah blah blah. The wife had not done this or that right. Blah blah blah. One night continuing by the kitchen sink where the daughter-in-law/wife was busy preparing dinner. No, not dicing veggies the tired housewife; pounding chilli it must have been. In hand the mortar and pestle. Pounding. The old guy unrelenting. One word too many tipped the boiling bucket. POW! Crack! Like a lubenica, watermelon, they say in Serbia. One strike was enough; dead pretty much on the spot the old jawbones. Lady did five or seven years of her sentence; early release; temp. insanity whatnot. Here she was back at her former dwelling, returned to the neighbourhood. Auntie Helen lacked no gumption; a JW with lots of firm spirit; one who had done her own time over a matter of principle. Helen got it straight from the source. All the feeders in the neighbourhood naturally knew each other. There were alliances, as well as animosities and demarcations. Fed more than just birds this lady. (Helen herself had recently begun adding the crows that gathered on the near corner.) The sweet, redemptive part came at the end a few years later; few years back. The son, one of the children of the victim and of the killer, must have been a Buddhist. One advanced some good way in his studies and devotions. With enlightenment attained after proper reflection, the chap, the son, comes up to Mum one day in order to announce: Mother dear, when I come back, I want you to be my mother again.

                                                                                                  Haig Road, Singapore

Eunoia

Kwan Inn tasty laksa. The uncle at the next table somehow stirring his tea with the uncanny sound of a phone ring-tone, from memory based on a bird call. A few doors down at Tzuchi, the Taiwanese Buddhist teahouse, the old aunties attending in their white blouses and navy blue aprons, imbued with the kind of “sincerity” which was highlighted in the books in the window. Bringing the pot and cup on the black lacquered tray, the woman today had angled the landing on the crowded table-top in three or four separate motions, smiling the while without raising of eyes. Head bowed, cheekbones prominent, strands of grey through the dye on the crown. Chat with the head who usually worked on his computer at one of the tables brought mention of Tzuchi’s larger centre out at Yishun, recommended especially for contemplative types, sited as it was beside a pond with greenery. There was lots of natural wood in the interior and screened from the road no cars were visible. None of the photographs the head displayed on his phone showed any of the old aunties attending; (buffet arrangement possibly there). The romanised eunoia was the term Aristotle had used for the benevolence and goodwill of the woman of a household, which the philosopher asserted ultimately formed the basis of human ethics and civilisation. The aunties at the Sims Avenue Tzuchi provided the quality in spades. Johnny K., the local non-practising architect/graphic artist, who enjoyed Kwan Inn’s vegetarian fare, had once entered Tzuchi, he recalled, without being able to take a seat. The pretentiousness of the setting had been too much, the knockabout lad reported. No doubt Johnny’s eyes had fallen on the decor and furnishings and he had not hung around for the old aunties’ performance. Understandably, a Chinaman in his own element could easily take that feature for granted. Even in back corners of Singapore, the Aristotelian touchstone was losing meaning.

 

 

 

                                                                                                     Paya Lebar, Singapore

Changes On the Ground

It was time to get to the bottom of the matter at the newly established Al-Azhar. Al Wadi had closed four months ago, before the departure. The new eatery had been announced well in advance: another Indian Muslim operation that had outlets at upscale Bukit Timah (Tin Hill) and Tampines. The food would be better under the new operators, old Hussein the Wadi boss had frankly admitted. What Hussein had failed to mention, what the man might not have known, was the accompanying decline of the teas that was coming. After almost four months away one was hesitant to pass judgment prematurely. Was the halia indeed nothing like the former? Could these dubious taste buds be trusted? Well, time to ask Mu. Who better than the grand tea-master himself. Muttalib the Tamil was one of the handful of former Wadi crew who had been retained by the new outfit. Likely the Al-Azhar chiefs had observed the man operating. Not only quick and efficient at his own task, fluent in Malay and with adequate English, but Mu also knew how to supervise his off-siders preparing the ices and sweets and collecting the cash. Eric the ad man had made the same observation during his patronage. Excellent competence and efficiency. Well then, what say you, Mu? This halia ain’t the same, is it? We are a way from that former rich brew, right? The suspicion was the new guys had descended to packeted ginger most likely. The dry, desiccated product was not a patch on the fresh article. Owning up immediately the little honest Tamil, Mu. Right you were; it was not the same. But, no, not packets. It was a different company now providing; different product involved. Unlike former days, none of the tea-houses in Sing diced their own ginger any longer. For that delectation one needed to cross the Causeway and trip up a couple of kilometres into Johor proper. Almost a drug the tangy syrup blending condensed milk, tea and fresh ginger, bubbly with a head on it like beer when stretched from a height—tarik. Across the way beneath the market the re-positioned Mr Teh Tarik was not a whole lot better. ABC on Changi Road likewise conformed to type. As a last resort perhaps the new Al Falah Baraka—mystifyingly translated by Google as “It has a living”—ought be sampled as a last resort. (The former Har Yasin run by the old ogre Hanifa had donned new livery for some reason best known to themselves.)

Another absence too now of a different kind. A more plangent note of change here. The Parrot Man, the noseless old curmudgeon who had presumably slipped down the remission rungs during these months of absence, was gone from the neighbourhood. No more in life. The bird had outlived the man. There had been a item in the newspaper, Ahmad reported that same morning Mu was quizzed about the tea. The run-ins with officialdom had earned the Parrot Man a certain profile in the Republic, a certain level of notoriety. Of course the man cut a memorable figure. Ahmad had not been a fan of the Parrot. Once again mention was made by Ahmad of the chap’s abrupt, challenging manner in the course of his tissue-selling. Cruising the tables at the eateries—the upper level at Geylang Serai Pasar in particular—the chap was wont to slap packs on the tables and then presumptuously circle back for his collection of the money. This was in addition to going about with the hole in his face uncovered, the red raw wound naked and gaping at you. A more self-possessed and dignified beggar/tissue-seller would never have stooped to such pitiful pleading, Ahmad thought. So far as the man’s religion went too, he had been all over the shop. Dressed pretentiously in the Muslim attire while doing his rounds at Geylang Serai, Parrot was nonetheless known to attend Buddhist Temples, churches and Hindu places of worship. Unlike the other jumpers from the towers, it seems Parrot Man had resolved to do the deed at his own block at Geylang Bahru, over behind Kallang. Mid-year the jumper at the Haig here had traveled from his own neighbourhood to the hawker centre in front of Block 11, where he had bought a little plastic stool in order to enable him to get over the balustrade. At his own block by the Kallang River, the Parrot Man must have used his own from home.

Publication news: Storgy - "Buddhist Christman"

Hallo all

A timely publication to announce.
A London lit & art magazine called Storgy has published a flash of mine titled “Buddhist Christmas”—set in Singapore of course, on the edge of my neighbourhood in Geylang Serai.
Digital this one and freely available on their site, here—

https://storgy.com/2019/12/05/day-5-buddhist-christmas-by-pavle-radonic/

Cheers & happy/merry
P

Whale of a Cloud

It was nearing 6 when the Buddhist teahouse was left. Strangest of ghostly rainstorms. Going up the lorong numerous people were scuttling along trying to make cover before the downpour started. The bus stop, the motor car, the covered five-foot-way were being desperately sought. Skipping across Geylang Road the segments ahead needed to be measured up until the Chinese Cyber, if it was indeed still operating. Three crossing in all. In Jogja a single crossing of no more than five metres between verandas had once needed an ojek payung to prevent a thorough dousing. This rain here would be nothing like, but still—a new tee, new trousers. The panama, the second in the almost eight years, was near the end of its honourable service. Badly discoloured, now the peak had been torn after an accident in Melbourne with a truck’s side mirror. The straw would provide welcome cover and no need fret over the damage. First afternoon of the return a soaking of the scone would not be what the doctor ordered. (Locals in the Tropics knew what they were about covering the tops of their heads in the slightest of showers.) Geylang Road effortlessly skipped. A couple of Viets they may have been near the corner—new imports to the red zone they looked—needed to be ignored. The older hand escorting the slightly younger and prettier who had called her up on the phone a minute before had brought along a shield that the pair shared. Big drops on the first crossing bounding over with an elastic stride in case the girls might be looking after. Peds on every side continuing in their flight, bums up and heads down. Wielders of umbrellas darting beneath the pillars kept their pieces aloft even once they had reached safety. The drops in the puddles on the roadway appeared as low calibre gun-fire—a shoot-out had been narrowly avoided. Number two lorong passed: every prospect of reaching the goal with only minor spattering. Glancing over to the other side of the four lane road toward Sims Avenue from where one had started, uncannily vivid blue now in a wide band somehow appeared. The dangerous, ugly, portentous black cloud had indeed hung easterly on this other side. Looming large. Whale-shaped. Possibly at the outset it had been more like an inanimate form such as a promontory, a peninsular or half peninsular. (Not a camel certainly.) The Balkans perhaps, including Greece, Albania, Serbia, Montenegro and perhaps portions of Croatia and Hungary. One was heading into the eye of the storm; the guts of the darkly hovering beast. A beast which had seemingly shifted its position in the interim, moved to the other side of the shop-row perhaps. Some soap would have been handy in order to save the wondrous $8 coconut-based shaving soap from FOE. (Friends of the Earth.) Brought along in the hand luggage, in lieu of another that precious bar had been used the day before showering and washing. Risking it then—we were under cover after all. How far progress might be achieved further up Geylang Road was a question. (Certainly City Plaza, 500 or 600 metres on, was a bridge too far.) One Indian place, the regular Bangla and another Indian that may have been Chinese produced precisely nada—only manufactured supermarket product. The single “homemade” cake in wrinkled plastic appeared altogether dubious. Perhaps a shower here too could be omitted that evening. In the Spring cool of Melbourne three and four day intervals had been possible between showerings. Strange. There did not seem to be a breath of wind. What then with the cloud? Ladies continued with their brolleys raised, but wherefore? There was no reason. Clear, bright skies throughout. Smooth and plain sailing as far as the eye could see. At the third crossing a look over to the East confirmed the impression: nothing but delectable blue stretched wide such as one was rarely gifted in the Tropics, athwart the Equator at least. Inviting luscious tone that made one think of scooped ice cream in a tub. The movement of air currents here remained a mystery almost eight years on. On the flight back two days before the captain had forecast some rockiness in the last portion of the journey, the last couple of hours, for which on landing he had unnecessarily apologised. The usual Tropical “turbulence,” did he say? Could have fooled me. Ground level certainly there was anything but on the Equator, that was for certain. The Canadian panama trader around in Joo Chiat, a long-term resident himself, had made the point during the purchase of the No. 2: There was no wind on the Equator. No need fear the straw flying off in a sudden gust. Down in Carlisle Street, St. Kilda, in Melbourne, the sought after classic Ecuadorean had been nowhere to be found among the stands.

Hunting Party (updated Dec22)

Santa’s COMING for us!… Jazzed up number like stumbling over a cliff when you weren’t watching your step, first morning of the return. The shopping district in Melbourne top of Bourke Street was still lagging behind the best part of a month out…Was it only, Santa’s on his way? No, indeed. COMING. Watch out for your neck if the deer by the bend on the river catch you out! Thus far there were only hung boxed installations holding doves, one that had emerged from its cage swinging more freely than the confined. Otherwise discs in three or four colours & plastic vine. The white elongated cages had adopted the popular local form, all properly secured hopefully, unlike the wall that had collapsed on the young Bangla worker out at the site by the Anglo Chinese School. Fourth workplace casualty this month—which made November the worst for the year. In the last week before leaving the great Southern land a chap had been battling manfully in his front yard attempting to anchor his inflatable Santa in Severn Street. Rocking on his black boots, the old guy’s jollity was a little excessive. Formerly nondescript Severn now made a row of neatly painted and maintained dwellings the entire stretch, almost not a single case of shabbiness. Passing through just a couple weeks before there had been the shock of the Halloween motifs sprung up overnight, every second dwelling having the crepe, skulls, masks and bones over the yards, across the windows and along the driveways. Halloween in the land of surf & sun gobsmacking like the straight right the heavyweight champ had delivered the Cuban challenger in Vegas recently.

                                                                                                         Kinex, Geylang Road, SG, 28 Nov 2019

Conflagration

S-L-O-W, slow, slow, slow turning of the pedals on Nicholson Street in particular this afternoon coming out for lunch. At the top of Leeds lifting sand and gravel from the desert garden along the rail-line. It would be disastrous in the bushland up in the north. There had been some modelling on ABC yesterday for the expected winds in South Australia where more fires had sprung up. Coming through Seddon Bab had been recalled as ever, this time on the subject of wind, - the wild gusts suddenly out of nowhere like someone had let it out of a bag. (Up in the Montenegrin high country it had been a Homeric life, with language accommodating.) Palms and gums bending, plastic bags like our own birds of augury carried on high full sail. A bearded ped. who had emerged from between the cars attempting to cross Nicholson had swung to an unexpected halt at the galant on his white Mojo, nose down and bum up edging along like some kind of strange insect. How the firies were coping lord only knew. In parts of NSW there was no water available for dousing. Only today the restrictions had come into force for car washing and garden watering in Sydney, where catchments stood under 60%. The toughest restrictions in ten years reported. The recently elected conservative federal government the while was looking the other way, seeking to smooth the environmental processes for major projects. The DPM had been caught the other day on radio talking about the multi-billion dollar coal industry and the government’s responsible oversight. In the accompanying photograph and tone of voice the man was not so many degrees removed from the commander in chief in the great northern republic. In the green urban centre here the fires were as distant and remote as the war zones of Afghanistan and Syria; it was exceedingly difficult to get any kind of adequate impression. At the supermarket on Paisley homeward bound a mother had called her young boy back from indoors in order to point out for him the chocolate-orange tinted clouds blown in. There. See that. That’s from those fires, she informed the little champ, who may have had questions from the evening news.

Gauguin Again - published by Orca Literary Journal, Seattle, Spring 2019

Gauguin Again

The Best Way To Pick-up Vocab.

Love letters of course. Especially those addressed to oneself. Could anything else come close?

         The woman had used the term a week or so earlier for the first time; never heard before. A good number of marvellous Indo lovers and never once.

         Suddenly she delivers "rindu."

         You guess the rough contours immediately. She has “missed” you many times before, but this development tickled.

         "Rindu you P...."

         And in the second example yesterday, "Okay... Rindu you P...really..."

         She was serious maybe. Thirteen and more months without meeting. She was back home and you back Downunder.

         One of the most fevered, immodest lovers you have ever had the good fortune to hold in your arms was more than missing you. She was rindu you. Longing. Yearning. Really.

         You kept the mail, the five word tweet, at the head of your Inbox where it refreshed every time you flicked the screen. Supercharged. Enflamed. Others kept a lock of hair, or used to.

         The earlier one had been filed in the folder. This one would remain at the head of the Inbox for some while. Perhaps until we meet, when it could be filed again.

             Melbourne, Australia

Electra in Java

A recent fantasy gnawing away at the edges in Jogja won't let go. (Blushingly it must be recorded.) At the upcoming reunion Nia on her knees clasping the legs of her lover, holding tight and imploring quietly in the sea-shell voice she managed sometimes on the phone particularly. You are my father now Pee.... Barely loud enough to hear. Cavernous voice like the priestesses of the old temples might have used. And Ni perhaps going on to add, The only one I have.... Remarkable. Riveting. Both on the phone and at one’s side Ni’s accent and mangled English often made her incomprehensible; then on other occasions perfect sense and often even sharp point. Holding fast as if to a mast; no tears and firm equally in grip and utterance. Nia would speak and act with such ease and simplicity there would be no room for awkwardness. (The only useful fantasies are those that have the realistic potential for fulfilment.) Erotic reaction inevitably, which Ni either intuits, or else independently moves in the same direction herself. One of our signal moments unfolded with this last as part of an earlier reunion, it might have been after the three months in Malaysia. By the doorway of the narrow room as usual Ni was received in the pink floral sarong, clasped close and squeezed tight. Another girl might have ignored the prod at her side for the moment. Ni's father had "fast away", she had texted earlier in the month. (As usual the phone had been switched off, messages of any kind left for a time of one's choosing and at leisure.) One or two nights before Ni had heard her father's voice. She had not spoken to him, but heard him playing with his grandson, the son of Nia's brother, while Ni spoke to her own daughter in the same room. That was the last Nia would hear of her father's utterance, a man of good, simple life, she reported again by text a day or two later. She would of course miss the funeral. In the days afterward the daughter, an adopted young girl of eight, asked her mother, What is this life? ..... (So-and-so) dying like that and now kakek. (Earlier in the year an uncle, husband of Nia's older sister, had passed away after a brief illness.) In the figure on the floor clutching the legs of her lover there was housed too, like another Russian doll, the semblance of Anita, another lover, a wild, impulsive and reckless woman. Neet was the one who would more likely be granted her wish in this regard, if only she could be brought round. Neet had lost her father long ago; at one point in the bloom of the relationship Neet had said she needed a husband who could lead her through life. (A virtual relationship with an ustad, religious teacher had ended badly when the man married one of her friends. No Second Wife position for her—unlike Nia, who had volunteered the concession unasked.) Eighteen months before after some difficulties we had landed in a terrible muddle; now almost certainly there was no hope with Neet. The image of the girl on the floor worked for an Indon woman. In Java a man could reasonably fantasize about such devotion. With lovely Indon women a lucky chap's hand could be taken for greeting or farewell and brought to the forehead, before being imprinted with an appreciative kiss. Ohya!... From the same historical novel as the other. One would like to line up all the Western male readers one could find and walk down the aisle slowly turning to them with patient explanation, an immeasurable sea of figures like in the culmination of the Sokurov Hermitage film. Gentlemen, no writerly fantasy this of which you have read, let me assure you. Please understand and make no mistake. Truly, such is our poverty.

                 Yogyakarta, Indonesia

 Overcome

The condemned are extended a last meal of their choosing. In the days prior a wish had been expressed for a masala thosai from Mr. Teh Tarik to be brought to the room. At the bottom end of Geylang the Eateries stopped serving the cheap Indian roti dishes at noon in order to promote their more expensive fare for the lunch hour. Har Yassin, Mr. T. T., Kampung Cafe all the same. Taking away the thosai and eating it cold was not really a good option either. Told all this Nia picked up a food packet from the Haig Road stalls, nasi with sambal, sotong (squid) and vegetables. Brown grease-proof paper bound with an elastic band. The foreign workers often took their food this way; sitting high at table among the locals spoilt their appetite.
         From the swivel desk-chair Nia spooned to her resistant lover on the bed. After a late breakfast he had taken a light lunch not long before.
         — Faster P. Faster.
         Nia insisted. A motherly, nurturing instinct that could not be denied. Heaped spoons that lost some of their freight on the short trip across the gap needed a cupped hand beneath.

         Nia had taken an adopted daughter to satisfy her mother; thus far she had not had her own child. In the intermediate future she was hopeful for one. The fine house in the kampung had long been built; the plan was now to reach her savings target, which would finance a small warung in Bali where the culinary expertise learned in Singapore would provide a living.
         — Faster Peeee....
         (Ni had been mock-warned not to use the elongated form. The play was irresistible to her.)
         An excellent cook like Nia knew which stall to choose for Take-out. A wonderful meal, rich and succulent, most of the sea-food passed across because of the lover’s known preference. (The avoidance of the starched white rice was also known.)
         — What you want to say to me? when the meal was done and Nia moved to the bed.
         There was some apprehension at the forewarning. Some little, insufficient concern.
         — .... You going back to Australia....
         Tears came quickly. Quiet, soundless weeping turned aside. Not a word or sound uttered. Still as if there was no breath. Turned aside and unresponsive to caresses.

         An energetic, strong and passionate love-affair was over. There had been little slow-tempo before in the eighteen months.
         — You will marry her. Nia immediately leapt to the worst.
         For many months despite all, she had hoped for marriage. Her father could not condone a boy-friend; the kampung disallowed anything of the sort, under any circumstances.
         No words of reproach of any kind throughout the more than two hours. None. That came in an email the next day and was quickly retracted with apologies.
         — It's OK.
         — It's nothing.
         — ... Nothing compared to daughter...
         — Please let me go. At the end when she was making off to the bathroom before departure.
         As hoped, there had been good, fitting words found for the difficult task. There could be no real rehearsal; a couple of little points framed. Friendship would remain; should there be any need for help, there would be someone to call on, Nia was assured. Any problem at work, the internet, map assistance, whatever. (A day or two previously Ni had needed the nearest MRT to Yishun. The app for Maps she had not been able to download for some reason. Nia had been a fast learner on the web; there must have been some particular problem.) The future with the new girl was impossible to guess. She had been met five or six months ago; in the last four or five weeks the intimacy suddenly blossomed. (Clearly after the last meeting with Nia.) It had happened unexpectedly. In two or three months the outcome would be known; there was no way of knowing anything at present. Nia should know too, should not forget, her lover had no-one; no father, mother, wife or child.

         There was no protest of any kind, not a single word. It had been impossible to guess how this may have went.
         During lunch at the corner of the window Nia had been lectured about the interest charge she was intending to exact on a loan to a neighbor from Bandung. Lending $600 and due $800 over four months of repayment. This was doing the friend a service; otherwise the Maid Agency would charge the usual outrageous sum. 
         But it was haram Nia. And for a neighbor too.
         Nia had accepted the rebuke. She had tried to counter the arguments, but at bottom knew the truth of the matter. Usury was haram for a Muslim, and this was steep too.
         Perfectly quiet, totally inaudible tears turned away in a three-quarter foetal position. Lucien Freud's paintings irritatingly came to mind.

         The tears were only noticed at the corner of the eyes peering from close behind holding the woman. It was standing tears for a long time, no attempt at wiping and no running. Without any sobbing or whimper.

         After an hour a tissue was sought. A couple of months earlier Nia had brought a large pack of tissues together with the lunch cooked at home, the fruit and nut dessert and drinks.

         After an hour Ni began wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, with her knuckles and then fingers digging out tears. Lastly the tissue.
         Six months previously there had been a dalliance of some kind with a Malaysian-Chinese Security Guard who showed Nia his $40k savings in his bank account. Once, and then a second time, Nia had broken appointments to meet the serious suitor. In her first divulging of the matter Nia  had made the point she would be frank and open; there would be nothing under-hand; simple honesty was best.

         Now when she was reminded of the matter Nia finally stirred a little from her torpidity.
         No! No!... Shivering…. Nothing. Never….Quietly voiced and adamant.
         Half-jokingly Nia had been told she couldn't really be trusted from that time on. Almost certainly there had been nothing with the other; it seemed clear.
         — Actually I also don't want to cry, Nia declared when she had been asked to desist.
         It was understandable if Nia had used the Security Guard as a lever and prod. She had explained she had not sought the attention. Numerous times she had brushed off the chap. He must have been employed at the condominium where she stayed at Kovan. Nia was a girl who could not choose, she had explained in message or email in later pleading. Whatever Allah decided Nia would accept.

         There had been a six or seven month rupture before Ni's quiet, careful and persistent messages could no longer be ignored. Passionate loving like Nia’s could not easily be dismissed.
         — Playing huh? Playing.
         No!... There had been no playing Ni. Nothing of the sort.
         Through a wan smile and strands of falling hair that had been the closest Nia had come to reproach. Again, quietly voiced, without harshness and undeveloped.
         Consolatory love-making was declined. There came a short period of tenderness that was soon broken off. Again a kind of reflexive courtesy seemed involved; an appropriate and judicious restraint.
         — Bye. I go. Bye.
         Ni would need to plan again; re-think. In the new employment she had negotiated after Ramadan Nia would have carte blanche for staying out with her boy-friend. The new employer knew Nia to be responsible and trustworthy. (She had been poached from her old employer with a number of inducements.) Now there was no benefit in that arrangement. Nia needed to think again, plan again.
         She was OK. This was nothing compared to the daughter, even one adopted and loved from afar.

         The obvious lame joke about the shabby comparison had been cruel.

   

                                                                                                      Geylang Serai, Singapore

Compass Needle (Philippe V. Again)

Boy of eight tall for his age crosses the tamped earth floor of the house in Western Bosnia not far from the Croatian border between the legs of his 2.1m tall granddad Stojan. The French-speaking, Algerian-born mother who had fled the war in the 60s had taken her sons to meet the family of her husband. Without Serbo-Croat the visitors would rely on other forms of communication and understanding. The boys learned fast in their new environment, where from what she had seen in the first two weeks the mother had the confidence to leave her children three months. Three months of learning animal husbandry, water-fetching from the spring, tending the vegetable plots and the standing hills all round. Old Stojan had another son named Milan, dear one; (the boy’s father was Slobodan; verb, adjective and talisman for free). After having escaped the country illegally in the late 50s in a commandeered school bus that he and a group of teenage companions drove to the Austrian border, from where they walked to Switzerland, were apprehended by the authorities, transported and dumped at the Red Cross Centre in Marseille, France, the boy’s father could not return home to Mali Dubovik. (Five hours the interview lasted for the mother and her two boys at Belgrade Airport on first landing in Yugoslavia, French interpreter officiating.) The whole of autumn in the small forest of oaks that gave Mali Dubovik its name—due south of Zagreb; Bihac 100kms west. The earlier visit to the mother’s side of the family in central France had been a useful preparation: tamped earthen floor again, animals sharing the house together with the peasants and the well indoors there. A thicker, forbidding you would have thought forest behind the French village (a neighbouring local boy of the same age steered well clear). After the early morning tending of the herd, collection of kindling, eggs from beneath the chickens and assorted other tasks, the dark stand here became a powerful draw for the new tall, older boy. Late afternoons hearing the bells of the returning herd was time to go back home, where no one asked the lad where have you been, what have you seen. The grandmother on the maternal side had been born on Malta and spoke Arabic; Corsican the buccaneering grandfather, on whose island there was a secluded cove perfect for requirements. (The dots were not difficult to join here: on a clear day the coast of Sardinia across the water enticed, and Malta not far distant.) The family still regularly gathered on the French/Italo island. Friday coming the man that was the tall boy would depart for Hobart, Tasmania; following on the 13th of the month begin across the lagoon into the wilderness west of Cockle Creek; a fortnight’s trek through the forest on the other side of the water, where a mountain awaited. Rain was expected and forecast throughout. On the last meeting Philippe took from his pack the Daygo waterproof trousers speckled with reds, blues and greens that were for evening celebrations at the camps. It was impossible to share such a trek; it could only be undertaken alone.

Publication news: In Parentheses - “Fighters”

Hallo all

A publication to announce.

Recently a US lit & art magazine called In Parentheses has published a short politico-travel piece of mine titled “Fighters.” Fragments again here from my corner of Singapore, Melbourne town & the fascinating Pakistani quarter of old Chow Kit in KL that every Malaysian raises eyebrows at upon hearing.

Paper & digital in this case, and costing; the latter $4.20 on their site, here—

https://inparenthesesmag.wordpress.com/2019/10/15/now-available-in-parentheses-fall-issue-2019/

After a decent interval I’ll repost the item here.

Cheers & best wishes

P

Zdravo i veselo vi moji orlovi

Americko izdanje opet. Kratak politiko-putnicki komad koji u ovaj slucaj kosta— $US4.20 PDF/$15 papirni.

Fighters—Borci.

Vidite vi koji mozete.

Puno, puno pozdrava svima

Pavle

The Artist Philippe Vranjes

Three or four good, accidental meetings with the artist Philippe Vranjes over these number of weeks. Philippe had been recovering from a bad cold and hadn’t been able to make a time in the first little while; after which the man might have intuited the shared preference for the accidental. All smooth and well as usual at the get-togethers. It had been an unusual first meeting with Philippe, or acquaintance in fact, twelve or thirteen years ago. Faisal at the d’Afrique café in Nicholson Street had mentioned the hospitalisation of one of his regulars, the quiet tall White guy with that look about him. The man had no one in the country, Faisal reported; he was unwell; he ought to be visited. It was a kind of appeal, on humanitarian grounds. No meeting of eye, much less words exchanged with Philippe at the time. French-Algerian, Faisal informed. At Western General he could not be found; he had been discharged it seemed. Understandably, Philippe was rather startled at the matter when he was informed some weeks later, but didn’t say too much; not even really offering thanks for the solicitude. Fruit had been bought for the invalid. Philippe talked art in a way that was convincing and compelling. He seemed older than his fifty years (at the first meeting he had been short of forty). Philippe would be turning fifty in a few weeks in the middle of a lagoon in the SW wilderness of Tasmania. For the past couple of years he had been exploring the Grampians and from there went down into the bottom of the continent, where the roar of the Southern Ocean crashed onto the beaches along the coast. A fortnight’s trek would begin in early November. The lagoon was two days out of a place called Cockle Creek, a strange settlement populated with a few hundred people whose descendants went back to the whalers settled there a hundred and fifty plus years ago. A protected heritage area, largely unexplored, where these descendants were allowed to remain in their great tents and various shelters. Building was prohibited in the area. Gathering firewood was permitted this folk, fishing rights and hunting too it may have been. Southern Cross flags were flown at the township, the local men sporting big bushy beards. Many of the landmarks through the area carried French names from early explorers. Philippe had ventured there three or four times, read numerous trekking and walking accounts. Philippe was meticulous in his preparations—precisely 20kg pack, food for two weeks with appropriate nutritional requirements, emergency satellite tracking. A Ranger inspected visitors and checked their packs. In the event of any kind of mishap a helicopter would be needed for rescue. The first part of the lagoon Philippe had investigated some months previously and the dense forest on the Eastern side was entered a few dozen metres. Within that dark thicket only smallest shreds of sky had been visible. There was a great deal of rain in the area; drenchings were common and sun for drying apparel rare. The Why? was impossible to answer for Philippe, understandably. A strong compulsion drove the man and the talk beforehand was a little beside the point. There might possibly be some indefinable artistic outcome from the upcoming venture. Earlier trekking posts on Philippe’s Instagram had won a few hundred followers. As with some other encounters with personally important artists and writers, the talk with Philippe had preceded exposure to the work—work that had subsequently been found strong. It was another rather unusual, happy accident of the same kind as with other artists. Looking at Philippe’s Instagram portfolio with him over lunch at our African cafe, the strength of the images was no surprise. Striking, intriguing pictures these that raised questions and challenges. In the remote locales of forests and creeks Philippe sometimes donned colourful clothing of his own manufacture; striking and elaborate cross-dressing kind of apparel. Like traditional people the world over in such territories responding to their habitat, Philippe agreed. The body of preliminary work sighted on Instagram strongly persuades belatedly signing up to that platform. Philippe was estranged from his Bosnian father, whose family name referenced a large Southern Serbian town. It was another point of contact with Philippe.

A small sample of the photos provided by Philippe:

https://www.instagram.com/philippevranjes/?hl=en

The Captain

Fifty, sixty or seventy cars streaming below while the old footbridge was crossed. Four lanes in either direction, 80kms per hour at perhaps 25 metres in length. The foundations for the new footbridge had been prepared on one side, which would no doubt be a snazzier structure than the old that linked with the Federation Trail stretching all the way to Werribee, 25kms out. Various memories of the old bridge during schooldays. Poor young George Golic, a couple of years below in the junior forms, had been rescued once on the school side when he was set upon by a bigger boy. In fact it may have been all playfulness there at the entryway, but nevertheless whimpy little George was spared  anything further that day and the perpetrator made to blanch. You didn’t mess with compatriots when the school football captain was passing, Fella! A spiky-haired Pole or Ukrainian, getting too big for his boots. George’s father was a Serb, an older man who had married a young German woman once the labour camps had been liberated. For the German women after the war there had been a shortage of men. In Australia after that wave of post-war immigration the reverse was found, which resulted in chaps thereabout circling blonde Mrs Golic, mismatched as she was. In that same year near where George had been rescued the football captain had once been ambushed by a group of lads from an opposing team, an inferior outfit which had been well beaten some weeks previously. At the head of this party lying in wait was the tough nut Joe Sacco, who had already left school and had a job at one of the meatworks, where boning knives and the like were employed. There were three or four of these Seddon lads, with Joe at their head, awaiting their chance. Returning from lunch at home and coming upon the party, wisest course was to get your ass well outta there pronto—speedily down along Fogarty Avenue all the way to the creek and around back home on Melbourne Road the long way. A stumpy Maltese with short little legs stood little chance racing a thoroughbred; fisticuffs might have been another matter. With the cars hurtling beneath there was often a jet risen in the big Northern sky, winging up from the airport. After the best part of a decade sequestered in the concrete canyons of Singapore, the wide stretches above unfurled like a colourful tapestry that pulled on your eyeballs. Following the low winter skies further expanse was offered in the early autumn, an encouraging, calming field of limitless scope. Up on the sides of the village shepherding, up at the higher summer pastures, all the ancestors across the generations had often entered the great skies above and travelled between the clouds with their herds. One old prorok, prophet from Village Uble was famously said to have anticipated the advent of the aeroplane, claiming at some point early in the previous century that a day would arrive when donkeys, if not pigs, would fly. Back at the house two possums had been caught in the hire cage and taken down to the gum-lined rail-line at the bottom of the street. Despite this, the quiet mocking screech behind the plaster at the foot of the stairs continued mornings going down for breakfast. What kind of animal was that? How did it get in and out of the roof? The thinking now was that perhaps a shrill may have been involved, and not an old poss. A couple of evenings ago checking the seal on a presumed access point up on the ridge of the roof, a dark shadow had suddenly flitted below from the direction of the neighbour behind. Wha! Whoooo!… All uncanny quick-time. Wings had beat under the alcove of the house, glossy and darkly black. At that speed the sudden uplift that would have been needed in order to avoid crashing into the closed gate around the corner of the Studio would have been quite something to behold. Hard down on the joystick and eyes shut tight, Birdie! What was most striking was that the bird had passed hard-by the lounge-room windows in front, between them and the thick posts holding up the room above. At least it had passed like that by the near post, hard left at the corner in order to avoid the entry porch. An eye of an needle threaded and around the corner the up-surge at such speed defied imagining.

Alexievich Vol. 5

Reading Alexievich again, the fifth volume now of hers, the most recently translated Last Witnesses: Unchildlike Stories—which actually dates from the mid-80s, when the Russian original chronicling childhood memories of WWII was published. Astonishing material again, the same as all her previous work; one page after another in the first third that has been read thus far.
         Two particular thoughts occur at this point. One is the remarkable testimony her work provides from so-called common humanity. Again her witnesses are often workers, cooks, cashiers, locksmiths and printers; the professional classes are largely in the minority. And yet what articulations are offered by these unlikely commentators. With what force and penetration do their voices ring out.
         The record presented is quite literally stunning; a reader needs to pause regularly every little while to absorb the matter. This great tide of human experience held within short fragments carries a weight of feeling and insight that overloads the mind one episode after another. The genesis from such sources is remarkable and conclusive; it is unlike any other example one can bring to mind from the cannon, or from anywhere else in cultural record.
         A couple of years ago a friend here in Melbourne had been read some passages from the post-war Soviet period book (Secondhand Time); after two or three paragraphs his suspicions were quickly raised. Such words as these could not have emerged from some anonymous nobody, a postal worker or radio technician, the listener suggested. Authorial manufacture was the understandable thought.
         The second point that occurred was what did literature such as this suggest for all the writing schools everywhere in our Western form, the most notable included among the rest. Enough has been seen now of the famed Iowa classes to suggest something may be amiss, or at least highly questionable, in that much celebrated workshop model. The remove from the communal, shared experience is the most pertinent matter.
One carried Alexievich around like a prayer book. Like a rock someone had given you that must be transported to a summit or some promontory, it was spontaneously expressed some days ago to the doubting Thomas cited above.
The Buchenwald segment just now (p. 132-36) presenting the darkness from the smoke of the chimney and the captivation of a yellow flower in the field where the transported labourers worked was overwhelming.

Publication news: Murder at the Haig - OJAL

Howdy all

A recent publication to announce over in Boston, in the US of A.
The outfit is called Open: Journal of Arts & Letters (OJAL); the piece “Murder at the Haig,” a short flash again from my corner of SG.
Free access here—

http://ojalart.com/?s=murder+at+the+haig

HOME - O:JA&L ojalart.com O:JA&L has an eclectic aesthetic to satisfy our audience’s demand for freshness and variety. Arresting art and writing of nearly every stamp and style.

Best of the best to all
Pavle