Resuscitation (Dec22)

5 & perhaps 1 1/2 later overnight, both wakings as usual like the beaching of a whale. In the midst of the turgid washing through the brain, the Etonian Bor envisioning a return to Brit. greatness. Rule Britannia once again! Rule Britannia! Delivered in an upscale version of the lager lout only partially masked. By 2050 when all the fellow’s pink flesh will have fallen from the bone the country would become the powerhouse economy of Europe. The US great! Great Britain great! Bruited by a pair of flaxen-haired trumpeters of identical form and swagger; the latter a big fan of Churchill. Thank the bleeding Jesus the pile-drivers on Onan corner did not start up until later in the morning! Three days now almost unceasingly on a small allotment, perhaps concerned about the rising sea level on reclaimed East Coast, a couple of kilometres down. Theresa like Hillary did the massaging more artfully and with greater refinement. In some ways it was preferable to get the more naked cartooned productions. Some counter-reaction might be provoked, possibly.

Schopenhauer’s Cafe Table

The guard here cannot be let slip too far, no way. Held firm. This poor duffer now when he was told acquiesced immediately, seating himself three chairs over and angling his shoulder in order to demonstrate his sincerity. Chewing away. Quietly, thank all the powers. Looked like two prata he had loaded on his plate. Brunch. Six months of watching the close interaction with Muttalib inevitably had him wondering, though once he had made mention of Mu’s Jag. White guys would understandably have more to say to a Jag owner. One does one’s best. Last weekend the guy’s daughter when she showed was given the remainder of the unsweetened Indian yoghurt. Not especially appealing to the lass no more than dad, though in this case the young fattie polished the thing off promptly. Now the drawbridge needed to remain raised while the man sat on. Old Mr Malayu when he sidled over was given the same short shrift, a finger like Michelangelo’s God pointing at the page, which caused the first to chuckle. Widowed recently the fella, lonely and lost; the other was an incorrigible old rogue in his mid-seventies who shook off his wife back home at every opportunity and trawled the market over the road for appealing 2 hour Batam girls…. Wordlessly getting himself off finally, sucking his teeth for farewell just before swinging away. Taking his glass and plate what was more. Some of these customers have benefited from the notable example of the mat salleh here in their midst. In Primary School a boy would make a fist and brush his chest polishing his self-awarded medal. I’m too good! Schopenhauer famously kept a sign before him at his café table offering so many kroner for something he could be given that he hadn’t previously heard. (Not meaning to claim equivalence of course. God forbid! Though there might be a certain shared temper of mind.)

A Day of Mourning (Carrie)

 

 

Poor old Helen in the kitchen this afternoon reporting the death of one of her litter overnight in her room. Somehow, in some unexplained way, Helen must have been woken at the time. The hardship and grief was evident as Helen told the sad tale. She had had no sleep since, she said. A slight, small bodied black and white cat named Carrie had been bullied by the two grey sisters and bitten by one of them, Helen suspected. The local Vet had found two bite marks on the throat. Carrie had not been one of Helen’s indoor cats, but once it had become weak after the attack Helen had brought it indoors. A couple of weeks before Carrie had gone missing. After a few days Helen had asked the neighbour in the four storey house next door whether she had been seen. The man had called her into his yard and indicated the side garden along the fence, where Carrie had taken herself. When Carrie saw Helen the cat emerged from the greenery and followed her home. The blood on the neck was immediately apparent; Carrie was suffering and Helen had needed to act immediately. As it was after 5PM the Vet on Onan Road was closed; Helen herself needed to attend to her feeding at that hour too. The Vet over at Franklin remained open until 8. Helen called Wanling who must have called Maureen. Soon the pair arrived at Helen’s door. A Grab was ordered; Helen provided the $250 deposit that would be required. As it turned out the Malay driver, overhearing the tale en route, declined the fare. In the mouth in particular, with the slightly protruding lower jaw sometimes when she spoke, Helen suggested the tendency of pet owners to assume the look of their companions. (Catladies were perhaps more prone than dog lovers.) Telling the tale of those recent days, at one point Helen reached for the bench-top behind to steady herself. Altogether Helen spent over $700 on Carrie, without being able to save the cat. The first stitches in the throat had been poorly done, a second Vet reported. There were a number of visits, without medication prescribed in this case. The local Vet had suggested rest and Helen’s good food would be the best remedy. Listening to Helen the memory returned of the Manuka honey Helen had asked for a few days prior. Helen had said one of her cats was poorly; after messaging she came to the door to collect the honey in her own container. At the time, when the recently purchased jar was returned with a good quart missing, there had been a thought to tick off Helen. Possibly Helen herself had a guilty conscience the next day when she enquired by another Whatsapp where the honey had been bought and what was the price. The morning of the death Helen had needed to work. Had it been up to her Carrie would have gone into the bin. Helen had done as much as she could; now the body needed no special attention. But of course that was not how Wanling and Maureen in particular saw matters. Maureen insisted she would arrange cremation for Carrie. As she had done on previous occasions, Maureen came over from her job at NTUC and argued the matter, crying and stamping her feet at the opposition with which she was met. She would pay the $75 charge herself; she would call the people and arrange to meet them; Helen did not need to be present. Maureen could not bear the thought of the garbage bin and landfill. It was unendurable. There was no arguing with her. It was strange to Helen, as she told it in the kitchen and then the dining-room in the following days. She herself loved Carrie very much. She had provided the best of care and the best of home-cooked food, as she always did with the cats, both indoors and out. Yet Maureen could pour out passionate feeling like that. (An innocent question, could it have been put, would have been what in the JW cosmology occurred in the case of cats in the afterlife. Certainly a Sufi like Zainuddin would envisage a reunion with loved pets.) Maureen had run over at the appointed time to meet the cremation people and Wanling too came across from her flat in Block 11 with a bouquet. Helen had missed all that over at her interviewing at East Coast. When Helen had set off for the bus for work she had noticed the Buddhist funeral down on the Void beneath Block 11. The all-white attire, music and chanting, the banners. Going out for lunch in the afternoon a few hours later, the funeral party had been just beginning to cart the various paper, the money and banners, over to the incinerator and cages provided on the grass. Old men, young and middle-aged girls had carried various items over in file along the sheltered walkway. At first it had appeared some kind of ritual and not a cleaning detail. By the side of the walkway near the cages someone had already brought a large blue cardboard motorcar that would have needed a pair to cart. A child of three or four might have been able to fit through the open windows of the car. In front headlights were rimmed with lines of red trim. The design of the car was from the mid-sixties, an early model in Singapore, presumably from the old Ford factory. It was only elderly craftsmen who produced these funerary items now. In Johor Bahru on Jalan Trus, opposite the old Chinese Temple, an elderly man could still be found out front working with his long brushes. Helen had missed the automobile. Naturally she well-knew the practice. Did an ang moh however know what the car was for?... After such a long term in the region, Helen had the cheek to ask. Helen laughed when she was told of the cloud-surfing hijinks in the afterlife. Thought at the time had been a child might have passed away. An elderly woman leaning against a pillar beneath Block 10 and looking out from there appeared to wipe a tear, before moving off. Because a child had died, the thought again. In fact, adults commonly took automobiles into the next world; and mobile phones now too, Helen added.

 

 

 

 

The Tamil Sisyphus

Mr. Hussein struggling up the steps on the corner here with his trays bound in the pristine white cloth. (Bicarb. soda & possibly bleach too, Auntie Helen had taught recently for that sheen.) Before he climbs up with the aid of the rail near the Wadi fries stand Mr Hussein places each pair of trays on the upper level, hoisting himself up unencumbered after that. For some reason Mr Huss prefers that route rather than the few steps on the corner proper, it is unclear why. (The number of people possibly creating a hindrance with his wide wings.) From the ends of the bottom wrapping Mr H. improvises a handle either side for his trays: two pairs one on top of the other, securely fastened. It was impossible for Mr Huss to carry that weight by hand, therefore the load is borne by the forearms instead. A strain, but Mr Hussain manages somehow. Ploughing along the path here Mr. Hussein, head up-and-down like the beast of burden dragging the heavy harrow behind. The four trays might be delivered in the Haig carpark where Mr H. can be found mornings on one of the iron benches beside the access road. The sheltered walkway there is the main route out from the Blocks on that side—Nos. 2, 3, 6, 8, 9, 10 and 11. The old women going around to the market and the bus pass and often stop for the locally famous kway that Mr Hussein has been hawking for many years. Perfectly halal of course, and light on the sugar. (Most of the kway’s sweetness comes from coconut milk.) By eleven o’clock Mr Hussein must away from that first station. Not only does the foot traffic dry up by then, but also Mr Huss cannot hang too long at the one possie. A couple of years ago it was much easier seated on the J. C. corner around from Wadi, where the kitchen reno place provided some of their furniture and Mr Hussein could perch on the window ledge. The kitchen people indulged Mr Hussein, an old man of those years still hawking on street corners. In the earlier days too officialdom had turned a blind eye…. It was of course now impossible to erase Mu’s insider knowledge of the early days in the kampung, during Mr H’s younger years when he had made the same rounds; when add-on services back in those days were provided for the young, randy youth. Rather a shock on first hearing. Unexpected. Twenty cent quick jobs for those Mr Huss accepted; and freebies otherwise for the sweeter, needy lads chosen especially. The secret of raging young male hormones was always air-brushed from conventional reportage, in the Muslim world like any other. Mu also startled when he suggested the incessant razzing of Mr Huss’s that he had overheard might have in fact been because the man fancied the mat salleh, the tall White guy. Late 70s or early 80s, that could certainly not be discounted, not when it came from an old, knowledgeable hand like Muttalib. Greatly missed the dear friend still of course, taken so unexpectedly.

                                                                                         Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-2019

Publication news - nano / poems 5

Zdravo / Health & greetings!

Five short-shorts (nano/poems) of mine have just been published by a UK online outfit called Public House.
Here is the link—

https://readpublichouse.com/2019/07/5-nanos-poetry/

The pieces appeared on the Blog in slightly different form a few months ago.
Hope some of you like them.

Cheers & Zivili / Life! to all
Pavle

The Mermaid

Traditionally clad young gal pacing by in simple linear patterning caught too late to see the face. Doubtful she had learnt anything of that gait from the moves on film or music video. Strictly, the dress was pulled in at the waist a trifle close, the movement not having been factored for the contours. Strict ulama judges observing would have their noses outta joint and upbraid the dear. Like the proverbial ghost in the machine, beneath the ever elusive, sinuous form was hinted: the surprisingly wide hips and broadly curved ridges of the bottom. Almost certainly still somewhere in her twenties, but one could never be sure. Old grannies well advanced in years could easily be mistakenly accosted and propositioned at the eateries here, at the bus stops and along the sheltered walkways. (Indeed, even without any error; such good cover and appeal did the garb deliver. Carried mermaid-swimmingly in that fashion….) How often was a figure like that rounded in front in order to peer over the edge of the scarf, only to find wrinkles and bleary, tired eyes? A little stabbing pain watching this sweet disappearing up at the Haig stalls never to be seen more. There she would buy the vegetables and fish, climb aboard her bus out front of the market and sit herself by the window, without anyone properly loving her the live-long day. Inevitably one thought of the village in the earlier generations, the men looking after the wrapped form of that kind climbing up the mountain sides. (The recent Chin technology might have difficulty positively ID-ing an individual with that particular gait that was shared by so many of the Malay women.) Ubi Boze! Slay (me) God! the lads uttered and muttered looking upon the like in the pre-war lull of the 30s above the bays of Boka Kotorska. F_ck me dead! in the vernacular Australian English—rather than Brit. or US—approximated in rather more rude form.

Plugs & Stripes (Dec22)

Scottie in SOCAL was continuing with his missives on the political scene over there, the early run to the Democrat nomination that was already underway. Democratic Spectacular under the big top: late show rumbles, debates, press releases, endorsements and dis-. Positions and votes on past issues, controversies whatnot—going to war in Iraq, abortion, bussing in years past; taxes, health & education. The old fakers in particular were getting Scottie’s goat, riling the man bad. None was worse than the dud Joe attempting to cobble together a persona for current purposes. Let’s twist again, like we did las summer. Turning it one way and another, ducking & swaying. One of the shows had Kamala—daughter of an old Marxist—winning plaudits over lame, jabbering Joe. Trouble was the gal herself was nothing more than put-on and puff, with a shameful legislative track-record that besmirched the ghost of her honourable dad. The villains on the Right were jumping aboard sensing a perfect straw-man who could be torched in no time once Donnie started in on her. The clips were torture even briefly, featuring shiny chunder-inducing TV types behind desks, pundits and insiders blabbing/flubbing. Hard, super dooper hard to take. Woe unto us all. The suits, ties, hair. Lashes, face paint & nails. Bangles. Rings and necklaces. The getup alone told the story, Scottie. Forget the gas. Grotesque. Gruesome. Shits ya to tears bad. Scott began to understand. The costuming. Presentation. Lighting. Pace & volume. Top speed race to the bottom. The much touted Demos, greatest of man’s social inventions. That Biden had recently got “plugs” for his scone failed to surprise, but the Whitestrips was a further notch above. Now that was something new; unknown earlier. Proper dental upkeep for the stars no longer needed regular visits to the chair. CREST Whitestrips in the cabinet at home gave radiant gleam that was perfect for the big screen. Quick n’ easy to apply; any blotches faded within the hour. Trumpet himself was the standout of course—Orange Man. But it was bigger than Trumpet the strumpet. Here in the region stories of Rosmah’s botched surgeries were legion. More than one Minister in the Singaporean squadron, most notably the lady for the Environment & Water Management whatnot, saving the planet one dyed highlight at a time. Add skin care, lashes & threaded brows. Not that all the horrors visited the make-up department for special attention—Duterte, Bolsonaro, Orban & Vlad of course. Xi and Jokowi were models of everyman (though both dyed), with wives to match. Barack might have owned only the single tuxe the whole of his two terms, but the love of his life and his girls made up for that. In conclusion, you had to hope against hope for Bern! The raw, unvarnished oldie might help turn that god awful tide.

 

 

                                                                                                            Singapore, July 2019

Call of the Wild

Helen when she first entered round 8 started up a cooing with one of her cats that took some time to positively ID as human. Was it a duet in the course of mad heat, even protracted like that? an unusual preamble to a fight perhaps? The second, longer call was certainly in response to the other, the clearly feline; a kind of strange antiphonal that prevented another snooze after early brekkie. Almost certainly the first, leading call had been the grey that lorded it in the main house, green-eyed like the other, though less fat. Helen had suggested size as the best means of distinguishing between the two. When the pair was found out by the front gate, especially belly-down on the concrete, the quandary remained irresolvable. Precisely the same colouration and striping, the same shade of green. Helen had kept a number of greys over the years, a favoured breed it seemed as one did not see that colouration around the estates. A couple of weeks ago Helen had sent a photograph of the handsome boy that had gone missing, she said. Oh! The house grey it appeared. Just when we had been getting on so well…. In fact turned out the cat in the picture had disappeared a year ago; still mourned by Helen. You remember? she asked…. This morning too about the same time as the duet the crows in the trees opposite the house had started up their cawing. Up until quite recently Helen had fed choice beef to these birds that had slowly won her over. Finally she had needed to desist after she had been “scolded” by a passerby who reminded her of the prohibition that extended to all birds, not just pigeons. FARK, FARK, FARK. Miaow, Yeeeoooow; Miaow, Yeeeoooow. Miaow, Yeeeooooow…. How in the heck was a man supposed to get some shut-eye! Soon enough this all brought back the stable down in front of the handsome old house at Zelalici that Granddad Pavle had bought more than a century ago, with the water stretching out past the greenery below. At the introduction to all that slowly lapsing past in the early 80s the stable had housed a pair of cows, a half dozen venturesome goats and the old donkey that Uncle Peter could still ride side-saddle like in the Greek postcards. In the generation immediately before up in the village the peasants had of course lived immediately beside their sheltering livestock, breathing the same air, hearing them stir through the night; the animals kept the house warm too. From the sala upstairs at Zelalici the bells of the beasts could be heard through the night and certainly the whinnying of Petar’s Mercedes, the donkey. In mother’s time at Savici winter nights the children had vied for snuggling up with the cat. At Savici they were a mark above the rest of the village with mules rather than donkeys, though their sly, unruly beast once gave mother a fierce kick that she would never forget. Helen had recently adopted another cat that came to her corner opposite the house, a pretty black and white which on closer acquaintance was discovered to have large lumps beneath its chin and front paws. AhYoy! More Vet bills just when Helen had been beginning to raise her head above water. Confusion over the sex of the cats surprised Helen. Wasn’t it perfectly obvious to the eye? Even the big-balled one Helen mentioned remained a mystery to a novice.

Two More Portraits (Ivanka & Zainuddin)

From his man cave in SOCAL Scottie had sent the mail with the attachment featuring Ivanka in a circle of global heavyweights mulling the great troubles that had gathered:

“Amazing video of Ivanka Trump trying to butt in to actual world leaders’ conversation

   Only May would look at the little bit__, not surprised. Did you know she converted to Judaism to marry Jared? A real thinker she is! Sickening to watch.”

https://twitter.com/AnandWrites/status/1145165584721731584

Amazing? Yeah, OK. I’ll buy that Scottie. Can’t demure. Opened it immed after brekkie, but luckily the aircon had been blowing a good half hour.

Incredible even. Beyond belief were it not that we are right slapbang there in our current moment.

Like the guy rapidly quipped in passing the other morning, — Life, or your stories?… 
Toothless and grinning it was hard to catch; chap had needed to be called back. (Yr a writer yr always fair game for every Joe and Mohammed around the place.)

Sheer fact she was there, butting in. And then the dress, the hair. Early-mid thirties is she?

Yeah, the conversion. Were cameras allowed into the synagogue for it? They’re s’pose be forbidden I think holy places, tabernacle. Bibby musta pulled some strings for his great friend giving away his daughter that he would date, grab by her p_ssy and f_ck if only he could know for certain she was not his own.

Really, you get the point on portrait level? Take a look at Don. Jared. Ivanka. Dressed up public facade when they’ve come down from the tower. Say no more; picture = 1,000 stories.

You thought Puttie wrestling bears & tigers barechested was difficult to GULP swallow? Remember the old dictators who would go on safari and then have pics of themselves with one foot up on the carcass? Celeb cult. with the election of the TV Pres. has spun it all in another direction far, far off the dial.

NB. The minute or two of the Twitter is worth a look merely to take the proper measure of affairs.

2.

At the Saturday breakfast table Ahmad first and then Eric, before Zainuddin arrived in a wonderful camel tunic blouse with frog buttons. Marvelous cut. From a distance the signature limping/swinging gait and schoolboy head-lolling that real Sufis retained in latter years. I’m OK of course, when the man had pulled up a pew. Not a shadow of doubt the truth spoken for those of us who knew the man. It would always, always be this way for Zainuddin, no matter all the usual worries, narrow personal and then of the world. 
         Snowy white goatee grown out in front, shaved above the lip, strands of the brows poking like needles. It had been a great shock given his marching orders from the Rehab. Where in the heck would they ever find someone to replace Zainuddin? Not unlikely all the boys — a couple his senior and numbering over sixty altogether at last count — would all instantly flee the facility the same day never to return.

         A short sit in the morning. Wife Zaiton, Olive (who bought the shirt) needed to be “fetched” for a visit to Zainuddin’s ninety-seven year old mother, currently staying with a younger brother at Tampines. Later early eve we were to go off together to visit Mu’s daughter for condolences. At the daughter’s there would be a cousin in attendance, as required for a lone woman receiving unrelated male visitors. Surprisingly, Zainuddin had indicated he could not visit if the daughter had been unaccompanied. You would have expected that from a Wahhabi like Ahmad.

NB. A photograph taken a couple of months ago at Wadi while, as it happened, Zainuddin had been in conversation with Mu. (Much more fetching with the upper lip clean.)

Healing Nature

This was ripe. A real goodie. The Corp media was always worth a short flick.

       Pic of boaters on Lake Leman in Lausanne, Switzerland for the story of the healing power of nature.

       Doctor’s orders — spend two hours a week in nature

       The point had been made by a famous English lit. crit. of two or three generations ago whose name has been forgotten: Put Wordsworth in the Tropics, what kinda “fair seed-time” he get for his soul?

       Fast-forward now: rip out the forest and jungle, substitute concrete, iron, steel and aircon; monoculture of rubber and palm trees and chemical factories discharging into the waterways. (Hundreds of schoolchildren overcome by fumes the last number of weeks in Johor.) Add drought, huge disparities of income, political fixes, military regimes, blanket State-owned media and consumerism plus plus plus. You find yourself in a pretty pickle.

                                                                 Monday July 1 2019 Straits Times, life, p. D6                         

Billboard Nation

❤️
I’m
Very
Very
HAPPY
had not put in an appearance here for quite some time. A long while. Faded pink washed out and then the Tropical sun. Legible nevertheless from an aeroplane (as Serb tradesmen used to joke in the negative for any error in their work. Ne vidi se iz aviona). Lady carrying with less than perfect conviction pushing her shopping trolley, a movement of the lips suggesting some troubling preoccupation; — thus far the morning had been less than kind to the old Duck. Not difficult here to guess purchases that have been made by wives, partners and children for their loved ones. Anyone with some true cultivated style of course elected to buy apparel strictly off-shore; elsewhere; anywhere but Singapore (and that might include anything from what passed as boutique outlet on the island). As it transpired, Teddy Bear guy who fitted the bill happened by shortly after the lady, some kind of illegible screed in this instance below the illustration. Padding along steadily, happy enough in his skin; uncomplaining; without demur; resigned of course and no bones about it. (Can the Reader imagine the logical extension for the politics?)


NB. The plate-collector at Wadi the same morning carried a brand to date not previously sighted by this Watcher. (Sweat got up well before noon.)