Publication news: Paragon & Orca

Hello all
A couple of publications to announce, one done and the other forthcoming shortly. (June 15)
Two US lit. journals which for the names alone are good pegs to hang the hat on: Paragon based in Pennsylvania & Orca Washington State.
A piece from the early period in Singapore the former, titled “Game On;” the latter delivers a sequence of mild, if venturesome erotica titled “Gauguin Again.” Paragon is free online currently and Orca paper initially & mail order.

https://issuu.com/theparagonjournal/docs/pargaon_journal-merged__1_

https://orcalit.com/

Zdravo 
Pavle

The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature is A-OK

Slip the piece into the side-pocket on the thigh like a gunslinger would his reserve unit, weight approximating near enough. (Stomach and, worse, testicular cancer were a worry, but that was the larger pad that might give concern. Care trying to hold it offa the trunk lately in bed.) The Panama ten-gallon hat. Adjust the fit. Swing out through the door, Partner, you’re as ready as you’re ever gonna be for the sidewalk. Crossing from the shade of the first tree to the second ten metres off, over the exposed paving where the ladies from the towers continue feeding the pigeons despite renewed prohibitions. Hold fast to the wall of the utility building for the eave. Along the walkway following the little Indo maid who keeps left of the shadow-line, smooth hairless calves a-pumping. Soon overtaken. Hearing steps, lass only turns slightly. One tall, handsome figure cut for her right enough, she can’t tell the age on a mere glimpse. Strong chin; bulewhite. Little brown kampung girl like a Mex. denoting enviable life even in that lowest of stations. Movement on the right, the Void, shadow behind the pillars…. False alarm, coast clear. That was only Mr Li wheeling a water barrel for his wondrous garden by the house. Slap bang on the Equator what does the man have there, the ole green thumb? Only olives, figs, grapes and tomato would you believe. $20k spent on the magnif. enclosure, which draws the eyes of all passer-by and sometimes the authorities concerned at poking branches. Valerie at Dead Mule had sent a Reject o’night, modestly, apologetically, offering sympathy for the process. In her case Val invited a second submission immediately following any bad news conveyed. Decent well-brought up Texan or Arizonan gal from good ranching stock. With any submission Val reminded, the Statement of Southern legitimacy was needed. Dead Mule was rooted in its local community; the Confederacy it seems, loosely defined. Well, Downunder by the Tasman, how far dat particular South does for affinity? For her little online journal editor Valerie uses a citation of her own creation: “No good Southern fiction is complete without a dead mule." Unfortunately not in the case of “Gunslinger,” the recent failure; though that Madura man who featured probably did ride the family Moo at least in the cow races that have put his island on the map. Might have won some prizes too chap of that calibre. Second time round we let Valerie have “Dry-bone Kampung (Gulch).” Leave it to the lady to make what she will of Beefy Mohammed the ex-con apprehensive over the drought in these parts few years back. Currently the drought and water restrictions were up on the Peninsular, but given that 60% of Sing supplies were sourced from there, more than enough cause for concern. No expired mule in this flash either Val; plenty of the South for all that I warrant you. Holler how you find it when you’re done, Hone.

                                                                                               Geylang Serai, Singapore

                                                                                                     (Jakarta bound in the mornin’)

Feline

A day or two later Auntie Helen was told about Lat’s hair on the lung. In the previous two or three encounters the subject had slipped for one reason or another and it was only this morning that Helen was told in the kitchen when she came in early. The grey’s miaow had alerted to Helen’s entry into the house; we two were the only ones with whom the grey was on friendly terms. As usual Helen listened patiently, with her reserved, judicial air. Helen was always fair-minded and considerate. Well, the girl, Latifah, it seemed had cat hair on the lung. She had been for X-rays and that was what the doctor had surmised. Helen had heard earlier about the woman with the cough who was due to visit; the tea, lemon and honey that had been prepared. It was Helen’s kettle that needed to be used for the elixir. Since then Lat had told about the X-ray. On subject like this, Helen's listening straightened her spine—sturdy and firm Terracotta Cat-warrior. There were five cats in the house at Lat’s employment; in her room she slept with three of them. One of the cats in particular apparently received Lat’s special loving. Lat reported episodes of cuddling and kissing this particular handsome cat. When the cat was in her arms all other thought left her. Lat described what sounded like a kind of swoon. In the more than twenty years Helen had been feeding and housing cats, she had never known anything like it. Whether she had been surprised by the tale was uncertain. Helen kept herself level and straight... Hmmm. If the girl was kissing, rubbing the cat with an open mouth say, perhaps it could happen, Helen finally concluded at the end. Rather hard to swallow you might say, but Helen would not completely rule out the thing. Landlord Tan charged Helen $50 extra for the cleaning of her aircon unit because of what the technician reported as clogging cat hair in the vents. In her previous digs at Bedok Helen at one time had kept twenty-seven cats indoors, she revealed in the kitchen that morning after listening to the story of Latifah. Helen’s brother had made the mistake of buying a flat for her on the 8^th storey at Bedok, meaning the cats could not be let out. Helen had been very happy to find the self-contained ground floor room of Tan’s. Twenty-seven cats had never presented any danger for Helen. If the story could be believed, what Latifah had been doing was something excessive. Listening quietly against the kitchen bench where she had backed away a little, Helen may have been caught a trifle off balance by such a tale. Latifah may have been a little bodoh, silly or worse; but there may too have been some kind of acknowledgement or respect raised in Auntie H. here. Two or three times now Lat had failed to keep appointments. The cough was certainly real enough; there were no false pretexts, phone calls had clearly established the matter. With the departure for Jakarta looming there might not be time to manage a meeting with Lat before the return, late June at the earliest. Mid-June Lat was going down to Bogor herself, an hour out of Jakarta. The prospect of a meeting in the capital seemed to excite Lat, never mind the ruses she would need to use for her new husband. In the case of the flame with Latifah the fuse had burnt slowly in the beginning; the first two or three meetings no kind of spark evident. Slowly, in a process difficult to describe, Lat’s ways and manner had begun to excite. On the last meeting, with her friend sitting opposite, Lat had been quietly told of the desire she had raised. The confession had come spontaneously, without any preparation. Lat’s way of swivelling in her seat like a restless youngster, her smiles that were fired like darts and with more swivelling, had unexpectedly begun to turn matters. Once, in some forgotten context, some kind of jest or venture, Lat had poked a narrow and sharp pink tongue. It had been a short reveal and quickly retracted. If a dart had been fired the poison had worked slowly. At the time not much was thought about the display and there had not been anything one would call alluring or lascivious. In love-making Indo girls did not often give the tongue. There were notable exceptions, but generally that was the case. The provisional conclusion had been that in the throes of desire due caution was necessary. For people who lived along the Ring of Fire, atop tectonic plates, it was understandable. Lat’s friend opposite was younger and more outwardly venturesome; ready to rock that lass. Yet it was always Lat who had been the more interesting. After a divorce and one child Lat had recently re-married, to her widowed brother-in-law in fact. The sensible old folk in the kampung had suggested the venture; for the sake of the children either side it was judged appropriate. On one of the meetings at the kopi shop Lat had told of the slow-blossoming affection that had developed for her new husband. The man had asked her at some point, not long after the marriage, about her feelings. In answer Lat had told him of 10% and 20% slow increments of affection. In fact a case that was uncannily like what had occurred at our Geylang Serai kopi shop here. Hair of the cat and more too would be risked for this woman, if we could bring off a meeting. Lat had had an Indian boyfriend earlier in Singapore. The lad wanted back, but Lat had said she could not do that to her new husband. Now something else was afoot. My life always like that, Lat commented in a Whatsapp message.

 

 

                                                                                   Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-2020

Life & Love Substitutes

Headlining the main page of the Life section of the Straits Times today:

        “ Breaking Taboos
         Talking about sex is becoming less of a taboo now, with intimacy coaching, sexual wellness events and sex toy parties gaining popularity among the young”
         Astonishing. 
         Perfectly understandable.
         Precisely what one would expect from the housing towers, grills, CCTV and sheltered walkways, the malls, F-book and Instagram penetration, the growing automation and robotics in a free fuck everybody/nobody market economy. 
         Almost real sex toys. Once integrated properly with virtual and augmented reality, pleasure, excitement and comfort at a swipe, or voice command. The Internet of Things.

         The angles and quirks of these slight, stick figures on the streets here that fetch back to the old Chinese scroll paintings could be produced in soft, malleable form for holding, squeezing for dear life, covering the surface with kisses and joining as one body in the old time honoured way.

         Superior latex stretched over cheekbones and forming hollows for delicate mouths like that of the young lass passed on the march up to supper at Tasvee who had yawned with a narrow winsome chasm. The lovely actresses of the French New Wave cinema knew how to fake that. A simple, natural look like the Geylang Road girl would be perhaps just a tiny bit harder to reproduce.

         Curvaceous limbs had long been straightforward; formerly difficult hands and feet have been mastered with scanning. Delivering convincing animation might not present insurmountable challenges for recent generations.

         Sculpted smooth jaws like tubers of plants like leeks say, ears glistening shells and eyes…. What were they saying now the biological anthropologists how many hundreds of thousands of years had been needed for the human eye to emerge from the failed, inadequate forms?

         Encoding the gestures could not prove difficult for the contemporary technicians; sighs and groans in the audio files countless to choose from. Conversation derived from novels and flicks.

         With wider usage prohibitive prices would fall and over time superior product available on the shelves mail-order branded.

                                                                                                   S. T. Sunday 19 May 2019

Bread & Water

Hlebac ti; By your bread.
         Hleb ti jebem; F_ck your bread.
         Ko tebe kamenjema, ti njega hlebom; To him who stones return bread.
         Suvi hleb, dry bread was said to be the diet for the incarcerated; and, interestingly enough, the same was prescribed for the fast on Veliki Petak; Good (lit. Big) Friday.
         The day after’s French stick was a close enough approximation of the stipulated suvi.
         From childhood Bab had fasted Fridays; which for her merely entailed no meat or dairy. Possibly either/or both her parents fasted the same.
         When we began excavating the first, hidden half of her life, Bab told how she had fixed upon her practice. One day in childhood she had surreptitiously taken food from the larder; cheese or meat it must have been. There was no record of punishment, which likely meant there was none. Thereafter she had privately pledged to keep a Friday fast.
         In her father’s house at Savici the larder could only have been a shelf where bread, cheese and eggs were bound in a cloth. Greens her mother Ruza, Rose picked from the sides, where rocket and other leaves were plentiful, at least spring to autumn. Meat was consumed only occasionally in her father’s house; fish was brought up from the coast more regularly.
         Eggs were reserved for the son, George. The four girls could only watch him at his repast.
         Once George toyed with the youngest, Bosa: — See, here you have it. But he wouldn’t let the girl take the egg in her hand for a closer inspection.
         Remarkably, there was no jealousy at the brother’s precedence. Somehow the bonds of family superseded.
         Once Bab married it was party time, she was joshed in later years. The most eligible young man in the entire village, coming from the richest family, made quite a coup. That Bab had in fact been a great beauty herself, and her grandfather a village headman, greatly surprised.
         In old age when Bab’s appetite failed, when she was out of sorts, she was enjoined to cease scrimping and saving; to eat her fill.
         Nemoji zalit koricu hleba, Bab; Don’t deny yourself a crust of bread, Bab—as you were want to do, the implication.
            She had never in her life gone hungry, became her standard defense.
         The dictate of the rocky heights a thousand metres above sea level instilled great discipline and produced sturdy character. On the Equator seeing the honour the Malay young give their elders became completely bewitching from the outset.
         There were many reasons to attempt the fast on Good Friday; the Veliki, Good Friday marked by the Julian calendar of Eastern Christendom.
         In childhood we had attended St George in St Albans one or two Good Fridays, trekking over with the Jankovics from across the street. On one of those occasions cheeky Stevo Dakic had produced his coloured wooded egg that bested all our hard-boiled.
         Tough on the fangs the French hleb without the softening of dahl &etc. The cut pieces made a CLUNK in the metal dish that was supposed to catch crumbs. (Partaking at Wadi would have created too much of a spectacle.)
         Three years ago when a green Queenie mango had been presented by one of the men beneath Block 2 the particular variety had not been known. Now on Orthodox Good Friday, approaching the mid-point of the fast, opening the cupboard where four of the Queenies had been left on the shelf, the aroma was like a little cheating.
         The exercises helped with the discipline; for one thing they helped fill some of the vacancy from omitted meal-times. (The bamboo from the newly purchased exercise mat for the tummy-tighteners added further refreshment.)
         With Ramadan a week away the timing was excellent. It was difficult not to feel a little jealous of that unity and purpose at the evening iftar meals.


NB. Written on Eastern Orthodox Easter.

Saved

Old man like a ghost in white beating a path up Onan toward Khalid was lighter on his feet than his heavy, black-clad wife making up the rear. On the floor at the mosque they would say their separate prayers, foreheads bent low on the carpet. Death be not unkind. Save them from suffering. For them there were hopes of reunions with all their departed in the afterlife. Parents were always especially missed, children untimely taken and dear siblings. Further on the money-grubber Wadi boss was going up for the same, luckily passed on the other side of the pillars and the dark falling. Somehow, even Hussein made time for his prayers, prescribed formula they could only be in his case. Still, rich, self-made Hussein would bow low like the lowest of the low. Earlier in the afternoon on the platform beside his hotplate, arms crossed on his chest focusing on the man telling him something below, an owl-eyed German grannie at her baking oven he had appeared. Saved in this life if not the next these believers. (The vile politico thieves, frauds and scoundrels up on the Peninsular would be called upon to answer one way or another in the midst of that force.)

Downturn

Elephants in procession dancing before a photograph of the newly crowned Thai king. Painted white and richly bedecked. A gift had been made of one to the regent a short while before. Between times a number of political assassinations of opponents had been reported who had taken refuge in neighbouring Laos, their bundled bodies found in the Mekong River. Another recent photograph had shown a royal audience of some kind with the commoner—possibly the former head of the king’s bodyguard/now queen consort—on all fours before the throne. In the Thai court they maintained the old animal crawl that the Tzars had used for any approaching the presence…. It was not easy for the twerpy guy who occasionally manned the register at Har Yas to gain the attention. An unknown shadow had fallen on the table. Scott in SOCAL had narrowly missed a hit in Bangkok a few years back, business competitors in with various policing forces. The Malaysian thievery and manipulation; the fix in Sing’; down in Indo the fat former general who had pranced on his white steed at his election rallies exerting maximum pressure on the re-elected President with all kinds of empty bombast. This little fellow here needed to yank strenuously on the chain in order to rouse a chap from those depths…. Hello, hello. Long time no see. At the best of times an effort turning up the charm and allowance for this guy. One should not be unfriendly. Some kind of jaunt elsewhere he had naturally assumed. What a life, hey! hotels, restos, beaches. En route to the 7/Eleven for his 4D ticket. It was Wednesday, right? Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. Firm as they come. Like his honour had been questioned and challenging to a duel. “More front than Myers,” they used to say in Melbourne for the biggest window display of the largest emporium in the city. The shirt had been ironed that morning; salt & pepper trimmed weekly and shaving without fail. Keeping an eye-out for the return of that signature stiff march. Another neckless fellow over-compensating. What was it with this down racheting everywhere here? In the evolutionary race in these parts sticking your head up one had been libel to get it knocked off? Not a Malay either this one. Avoid another exchange if at all possible; fellow had been accorded silver service first time round. Blue long-sleeve rolled? Taking his time, unless he had indeed slipped safely past. You had a feeling the man could not resist a second bite at the cherry going back; not often he had a white guy just where he wanted him. With a gal coming out of the bus the head had been lifted when the chap finally doubled back; despite turning aside the insistence on another round of pleasantries again. It was like a lucky token encountering this mysterious fellow with his pens and notebooks, newspapers spread. I took some numbers, but they were not yours. Like many before him, man had asked the Whitey for numbers. Some inspiration was sorely needed; chap’s own combinations had turned up nada this long while. Even with a close examination the sleeves were difficult to judge. Sky/baby blue, plain and unpatterned. But look more closely, above the crook of the elbow, a wide band of royal blue stripe on white, with what looked like buttoned-back roll. Only there did not seem to be any roll; no gathering of fabric. It seemed hardly possible that even the most dedicated neat-pin could achieve such precise measure. Gone noon—man had been at the Har Yas. register at least couple hours. Collecting the dosh and not looking down into the tray for change would have been difficult for some. This shirt was a new line, a deviation that had caught the man’s fancy on a rack at one of the Bugis malls. On the Equator long-sleeves were overkill, even on a drizzly day such as we had today. Could the man afford a maid, with the real estate market experiencing a downturn? (The gig at Har Yas. was only helping out now and again.) Even standing by the table the chap endeavoured to keep his head in the clouds. Throw him anywhere in the Balkans he could comfortably pass; perhaps a suspicion of gypsy blood in the lineage. Here the man was certainly a lighter shade than any of the Tamils.

Blown Away

Steamy as usual; as all hell. The shower late afternoon had been brief and light, the window of the room needing to be opened in order to confirm the fall—like a timorous visitor lighting knocking on your door. A hot night had been followed by hot day. At the Warnet the hour sit had cooled the sweat more or less; trooping back the tee was soon sticking again. Onward and upward nothing for it, quick time. The locals were slow, shuffling usually both young and old. Crossing Guillemard against the lights few were game, the three and four lane divided roads still daunting for many. On the bridge over the dirty river a drift of cool air seemed to have risen up though the concrete slabs from below. Had the afternoon fall provided something after all possibly, some movement of the water too. The entrance to the mall, City Plaza, lay another 20 - 25 meters off and the corner of the building screening the automatic glass doors.

Nano (No. 4)

  

Blunder

Nia later explained her hesitation with the warning her grannie had given her about having anything to do with the Belanda. In Bahasa Indonesian an appropriate homonym for the coloniser.

The Real Deal

You’re a real writer alright. Real writers develop DVT, lose their sight, teeth (grinding phrases). Pretenders get their pics in the glossy pages, blather about their craft, love of art.

Mourning

Shiela had a drunkard father who died early. That brought back Stojan coming up from the cells at Fitzroy Cop-shop, blazing animal eyes softening in an instant. Softened us both.

Dissident

Bold caps on black, a local lad offering an outside chance of political protest possibly; some sly stabbing disgust.

___VEL

....Being Singapore, one should have known immediately it was nothing but comic book.

Democracy

During the Indo Presidential campaign Prabowo Subianto attended a gallery opening where a Dutch photographer featured pics of Bobby, the former general’s cat. Attempting to fudge his theft of hundreds of millions, Malaysian Najib had been conducting a similar PR exercise on Facebook.

Democratic Knights

And Prabowo you imagined the only high office candidate on the world stage mounting a white steed during campaign rallies; until the Spanish neo-fascist appeared on his own in the Basque country.

Nano (No. 3)

Endgame
Whitey gamers shot-up swarthy bearded Arabs in gowns, while the Mussies trained their sights on burly carrot-tops on Rec. Leave emerging from shopping malls with their wives and carefree children.


Universe in a Leaf
Old habit here spitting the paste after brushing into the toilet bowl. This morning a perfect leaf blown through the louvre window ended in the mix—striking nature in Singapore.


Deaf
Memories that make you wince, squirm, whine—unfortunate incidents, misjudgments, irretrievable moments, with Bab usually featuring. Whines like the big Deaf makes here when he wants to draw your attention.


Panic
The darkness from the jumper pulled over your head by your mother—chin snagging momentarily—frightened like all darknesses. Her nightly visitations now startle and wake, frightening only a little.

Hospital
All were self-absorbed here, but the old snow-white Indian from Geylang who went barefoot and attracted volunteered alms, curled on his trolley looking askance reached furthermost with his gaze.

Nano (Passion)

Overwhelmed

Not the first time on these Indo streets a beautiful young woman responding to bule admiration with a bow like ducking a tree branch. Such little sense of her loveliness.

Christchurch

Five prayers in the satin robes, cap and hennaed beard were interspersed with blazing fightback on the screen at home—a great surprise to hear for Mukhtar, of all people. Head of a government bureaucracy, liked by all his staff, Chinese, Indians & Malays alike. The other notable detail was a 20 year engagement to a persistent, patient fiancé-now-wife. Could Muk possibly strap-on a backpack too?

Leaping Ahead

“Is there any death penalty in Australia?… NZ?”

Didn’t show his disappointment the gravedigger.

Yasuyuki, a disciple of Amma, paused a moment at the discovery.

Not an Undertaker this Yas, no.

Steamtrain

The night before Ni had said it might be 4 or 5 maybe. It was the safest time, she said, the cameras would never be checked at that hour. Turned out an hour early and catching you completely unawares. The electronic swipe had been inaudible, here she was peeling off immediately with her eyes on her quarry. Ni did not allow any preliminaries, overruling all attempts to slow her momentum. It was always like that with Ni, despite all the planning; only once she had been beaten at her own game. Hurts, but nice. It had been six months.

Enflamed

A couple of Indian lads taking their pleasure in a secluded place, they thought. Ladies-man Landlord Tan had forwarded the item from sheer delight in the furtive, shared enthusiasm, it might have been.