Therapy

 New cuts over both hands again after another two/three hours in the garden. Handling a sharp frond resulted in a slicing of the soft flesh between fore and ring finger, which needed to be disinfected with some sljivovic. Ninety dollars for a 750ml dusty old bottle of Zuta Osa left on a shelf of a liquor store in Charles Street after two other outlets had been tried. Rather odd that the old Viet owner there would know the current market value of such particular stock. The first slug was yesterday with Veki sitting on cushioned milk-crates in the front garden; disinfectant dabbing today resulted in another half-shot. Boza suza, Tear of god, the old Bosnian Soaks used to say. After so many years of pencil and paper the hands were exceedingly soft, as any hard boy commonly remarked at greeting and shaking. All the generations behind returned to mind bending the back and getting the hands dirty. Ne moze sjedeci, Impossible seated, a slacking worker in the field might be upbraided by seasoned veterans. No need of gym or running, Bab used to remark in latter years when the tending of her back garden was being neglected. During her better years Hazel had found pleasure in the garden. Its state now was testament to her plantings over the decade and more of her occupancy. Wind through the trees on demand more or less offered a new music after the long term in Singapore in particular; a number of times a larger branch striking the pailing fence produced strident variation. Walking the bike across the overpass to lunch the streaming cars beneath would need to have their windows wound tight and the radio turned up in order to avoid the hellish roar. Two weeks later the penny dropped for Haze’s coal. There were pieces in the polished shelves on entry and others around on the rear porch, some of it crumbling and dusty. All natural elements drew Haze. A committed Catgirl who in the UK had since graduated to orphaned hedgehogs, Haze populated the gardens with variously coloured rocks, weathered fallen timber and bark, succulents, cacti and other plantings. Coal was not common indoors in any of the style mags one was sure. Eventually the penny dropped. Wales! Ah! Yes, indeed. All the reason and more. A grandfather with smears over his collar and a flatcap must have laboured under ground in the Welsh hills. Overnight Hayden’s Ferry Review had returned another Cock-Tease REJECT, damn them to high heaven! Terse and straightforward, “very impressive” nonetheless required that bulging folder rather than the Upper-Tier one. (Likewise bulging.) Islamic Studies—SE Asian Hemisphere, like a number of others, was reserved for the more notable journals. A year or more of submission might have delivered a dozen REJECTS and four-five C-Tease & Upper-T in addition. What to do? Soldier on. Heroes are known by their suffering, or trials, the South Slavs say. Groan…. By the strange calendar here that ignored the equinox, September 1 on the morrow was the designated start of Spring. A twenty degree day forecast after the weekend, on the Tuesday. In the slow run-up on the Saturday the plates on the drainer in the kitchen had given off some of the goodness of the morning sun. The guff on the Cornies pack offering mindfulness & situation in the moment by colouring in the sunflower pictured rather wrecked that blessing…. GROAN.  Big time GROAN! Even the better bookshops were well stocked now with colouring-in books, themes to satisfy the most discerning. Was it at all possible in the twelvemonth for a kind of socialist to be actually elected to the White House? A White of the right sort inclined in that direction able to bring off the miracle redemption in the Land of the Free?... The dark of renown had been returned to this traveller here in his hometown walking back from Footscray most nights after the late lunches and café sitting and mooning. A three-quart hour jaunt in the cold turned into a song going by the greenery and beneath the wide, expansive sky. Underestimated for the first week had been the added close darkness of night. Like Haze’s coal, it had taken some while to realise the strength of the new/old seduction of night. The street lights were few and far between in this neighbourhood and the trees acted to concentrate the darkness further still. There were few stars, but the restoration of the natural, diurnal rhythm seemed like a greeting. It was possible no place on earth was illumined from outer space like the tiny pinprick of Sin’pore. Perhaps only the island of NY could compare.

Glick (Schoolboy Files)

The Greek honey bought in the Sing’ supermarket failed to run out of the sachet here, almost solid lumps squeezing. More strange still, in the cold the scan of the forefinger, distended and faintly coloured with garden grime perhaps, could not access the iPhone, and sometimes not even the Pad. Two week on it was the same. Mornings preparing breakfast the pale sun through the glass of the side door and window warmed the length of the galley kitchen; taking the bowl onto the step of the back porch provided more warmth again. On the second Tuesday the forecast was for low teens & only 10-15% chance of rain. As ill-luck would have it, needlepoint falls struck on both the ride out to lunch and then the return at night. Knuckles and fingers aching. It was such a wonder—after almost eight years in the Tropics—that one hand after another was given a brief inspection for some kind of impossible verification of ownership of the sensation. Later in the night before the Nobo fanless heater, following Arthur’s practice, the feet were warmed before bed. As Arth said more than once, it was impossible to warm the feet no matter the bed-cover if they were chilled to begin with. That second Tuesday night the hands had been ignored. Under cover one went under an armpit and the other against the woollen night-cap. (The new, blood red woolly picked up in the style-only Seconds store in Anderson Street actually fitted beneath Robbie’s fashionable Nazi era helmet that received smiles from pretty fellow cyclists.) Pale early morning light on the towel hanging from the bathroom door, entering from the skylight, was again newly striking here. On the first morning of the return trooping up Clarendon Street toward the Optometrist biting cold was biting. Thin trousers, long sleeve thermals below a tee and tightly buttoned Route 66 shirt proved far from adequate for 7:30am Melbourne winter. (The puff jacket was in storage in one of the cases at Four Chain View back in Sing’.) Add the straw Panama, which actually helped a bit; better than nothing. A sight for those few who were about on the street at that early hour. Among the very few was found a tall, bearded, Celtic chap walking his dog with his daughter. Unless these poor, clouded eyes greatly deceived, none other than big Glick—Ian Garlick, coming on. Wah! Like a wandering hero suddenly confronting one of the Furies come out from a hidden cave when least expected. An old footballing frenemy Glick. Centre-Half Back in the first Under 17 team before the captaincy was assumed in the following year, by which time Glick was too old for the age group. Glick had always been hardy and tough; the old man, who joined in training some nights and acted as runner game day, was tough as nails. For all that, Garlick needed to watch who he called a wog. Never let that one pass, no matter what. That was in the days before the club was joined. A short little raising of the fists on a nature-strip one afternoon on the walk home from school. Ra-ra-ra. Harmless. With a name like that calling anybody a wog was pretty strange. The gumption! Once the team was joined relations quickly smoothed; in the trenches you needed to watch each other’s back. Later beer & ciggies followed over card games at Glick’s bachelor flat in Francis Street. Palsy bonhomie near enough, in a group. In the first five minutes back on the Melbourne street not the first familiar face one would wish to see—not on the way to the Optometrist at that hour in the cold stopping to chat. How you bin goin the last fifteen/twenty years, Ian?... Glick had married a fellow psychiatric nurse, an older woman who had never been met. The pair didn’t do the couple thing; two or three kids. The girl in company on Clarendon could only have been his daughter; Glick could never have pulled young chicks. Mature, understanding years, nothing whatever against the guy. Most certainly not. Last few encounters twenty-five/thirty years ago the voice suggested some kind of proper road travelled. Even at one of the card nights long before Ian had informed of the over-representation of the South Slavs in the wards, schizophrenia especially. No kind of barb involved; simple insight…. Well, was it in fact Glick? is the material question here. With the dog there was available a prompt switching of the eyes down to ground level. On the man’s side too, not altogether an immediate, easy ID either, mind. Strangers passing in the morning. Coming to the larger point, in subsequent days there followed not one, but indeed two other sightings of Glick. One was on a train headed to town and the other a Footscray street near the station. Tall, lumpy grey-beard with bad skin. In the latter case the memorable stumbling gait. (Ian had run like a camel with the ball.) After almost eight years in the Tropics it wasn’t Chinamen who looked all alike. A measure of the strange, passing strange passage.

Onward & Upward

Looking the worse for wear Carlo when we met suddenly on the landing between the back house and the Studio, very much the tippler in Dickens with the bloom in his cheeks, red-button nose and ragged coat. Celebrating an experimental film-maker friend’s fiftieth in Hepburn Springs on the Friday was to blame; it had taken Carlo all of the weekend to recover. Two years ago on the first return from the Equator this birthday boy had been met down at Cat’s, the pair of film buffs bent over an old vintage camera. The chap, Carlo remarked, sometimes seemed ten years older, rather than the actual reverse.
         Carlo was working from home now, going into the U only for meetings with his fellow researchers. One of the AI projects Carlo’s team was working on was a Sensory Room for dementia sufferers. A comfortable room furnished with beanbags and rugs was lit with soft, ambient light, suitable soothing music programmed and it may have been scented candles and artwork added. Another project involved training a camera on a small sandpit where the visitors were aided in their manipulation of form by a program that sensed intention and that helped the sand granules collect in the desired shape. Castles, yachts and animals presumably. The earlier Defence contract of Carlo’s developing sophisticated AI helmets for fighter pilots had reached term a year or so ago.
         In the back house Kristie, a twenty-something Kiwi, was working in an upmarket travel agency on the other side of the river that catered to the Scandinavian market. Well-heeled travellers had their cruising, hiking and sight-seeing all neatly packaged by Kristie. Two and a half years ago Kristie had moved into the house; after housemate Hazel’s breakdown the sorting through the latter’s abandoned belongings had fallen to her. The remainder of that task now would be left to the landlord.
         Old tax returns, ancient docs, old photos, clothes, nicknacks and a stash of empty wine bottles and glasses went out in the first round. Beautiful fabric was difficult to discard and the handmade soft toys likewise. One of Haze’s signature woollen scarves has come in handy in the cold; a number of other silks will go down to Cat’s girl, Soleil, before the Op Shop option.
         Haze eventually replied to a Whatsapp telling of her further progress with her troubles. The first message a few weeks ago had mentioned two things that were helping over in Wales—volunteering and mountain climbing. In the latest message the former was again mentioned, though not the later; added was the fostering of an orphaned hedgehog through an organisation called Hedgehuggles.
         One of the old photos left behind of Haze with a mass of flaxen hair from her early teens show precisely the kind of Famous Five adventurer one could work back toward from the mature woman.
Tuesday Veki was met at the Viet bakery opposite the African café after his annual ophthalmologist appointment. Retired now from the library, music, painting and sports fandom kept Veki occupied. The previous weekend he and his band had performed at a ninetieth birthday party where the particular person involved had unfortunately been unable to attend due to illness.
Veki’s relationship with Jen was going strong as ever, a little triumph of matchmaking. Bab had managed more than one brilliant union and it was wonderful to be able to continue that tradition with a schoolboy friend from earliest days.
The old family home in Altona North had been sold after the death of Jen’s mother, the proceeds sufficient for Jen to buy the new house outright. As the most financially stressed, Jen had been provided a half share of the estate. Initially the older brother had demurred, but after the intervention of the next eldest he was brought round. Following her marriage breakdown Jen had returned to the house of her parents and cared for both over twenty-five years. It was a pleasure to hear of the concession over the property and the absence of grasping.
For the last number of years Veki had written of the marvellous dog of Jen’s. A wonderfully friendly, playful and loveable dog. Veki had said more than once that he did in fact love the dog. The enthusiasm had surprised.
Now suddenly it was a different story. Some months before the dog, Shenzi, had nipped at  Veki’s cheek. In the usual way Veki had bent down to say hello and instead of the usual playfulness, all at once Shenzi snarled and either nipped Veki’s cheek, or else scratched with his paw.
Prior to Shenzi another dog named Benji had been the house pet, a tiny little fluffy fly-weight. The process of succession had been missed up on the Equator over the email. The new dog was an entirely different kettle of fish. Not a little cuddly nipper, but in fact an American Staffordshire Terrier. Initially it had been thought that the dog was the British Staffie breed, the one that had featured in recent news stories mauling owners to death. Shenzi was the American variant, but still a daunting prospect in the wrong circumstances.
        That the old mother, Teta Marija, had allowed a dog in the house in the first place had been unexpected. It must have been because of the granddaughter, Jen’s daughter Chantelle, who suffered badly after her father had abruptly turned his back on her.
Since the drawing of blood the pair, Veki and the new Staffie, Shenzi, had become estranged. Now on Veki’s visits the dog needed to be barricaded in the back of the house.
Usually Shenzi slept at the foot of Jen’s bed. Sometimes however it slept with Chantelle. In the bed in fact with the young woman.
While being walked by Jen Shenzi  had attacked one or two dogs on the street. When Shenzi saw Vek and Jen hugging goodbye the poor jealous devil growled and jumped about behind the security door.
If any other incident occurred Chantelle told her mother she would have the dog put down. Meantime she continued sleeping with Shenzi.
Chantelle had briefly tried counselling. It was over fifteen years the father, an Indian who secured his PR with the marriage to Jen, cast his daughter aside. The new wife was to blame, some in the family circle judged. Chantelle’s struggle continued. How she would cope in the event she was left without Shenzi was unclear.
Now the oldest resident in the street, at the bottom end, Arthur continued the same as ever, a reassuring, fixed and steady point. Arthur was truly a treasure, always ready and helpful for all there by the rail-line. A delightful, wry sense of humour lightened any encounter with Arthur.
         Arth had noticed his sagging frame in the bathroom mirror over the last couple of years and eventually bought himself an inversion table in order to try to correct his posture. In the cold of winter he had perhaps not kept up his exercises. When he went to fetch a washer for a leaking tap at the Studio Arthur had moved like a caricatured ancient again from Dickens; like the elderly in the old villages after a lifetime of carrying on their backs.
It was over five years now that Arthur decided at the last minute, while waiting on a hospital trolley before theatre at Peter Macallum, not to proceed with his skin cancer operation. Face marked for the incisions and in the hospital gown, Arthur had made his way out onto the street and down to Flinders Street for the train home. Black seed oil and granules and various other resorts found on the Net had Arth in pretty good shape. His blue eyes still shone bright in the winter light when he gave a direct glance.

            Spotswood,  Melbourne, Aug 2019

Cyclops

Quart three, ful down and Sarina the Vietnamese barista—christened by the clientele—suggests the stronger African soy chai latte today. An Uber driver eating at the long table reported no increased racism here since the election of Trump & Morrison. Australians were not interested in politics, completely ignorant, the man declared. Africans, Middle Easterners, Eastern Euros knew the drill, the man continued. When a friend turned up only to find there was no more ful the Uber immediately pushed his plate over to him and they fingered together with their bread. How in the heck was a Cyclops meant to take the street outdoors, this wintry one or any other? Highly limited. It was a surprise yesterday Veki reporting blindness in one eye did not disqualify a driver here. In the event of some kind of mishap leading to loss of eye, or loss of vision in an eye, there was a period of acclimatisation mandated—three months it may have been—before one could get behind the wheel again. Out on the highways as before, turning the periscope carefully left and right it seemed. It seemed strange with that level of limitation. Little wonder Odysseus had managed so well with the Cyclops; how was the poor guy meant to battle a cagey old warrior half-blind like that. A couple of years ago Veki had suffered a partially detached retina. The day of the meeting Veki had in fact come from his yearly consultation with his ophthalmologist. In Altona Meadows, in Classic Court there amongst all the acres of the subdivisions, the shopping hub of fast food, Specsavers, Liquorland and supermarket sat two or three kilometres off, Altona with its larger offering near ten kilometres—understandable concern becoming stranded without the option of the motor car. Like all the big cities now, certainly in the West, you were stuffed without the motor. Veki had enquired about the regs in advance.

Senility (May24)

Regular barking on two sides, down along the street and out in the back here somewhere over the fences. Unusually, there was a dog’s bark once or twice in the last few days before leaving Carpmael. The Filipino maids too who brought the old ahmas in their wheelchairs around to the utility block behind the Carpmael house had one or two quiet poodles among them, a dog of preference in the condos and HDBs of Singapore. A walk back home from Footscray yesterday, perhaps 5kms through Seddon and Yarraville by nicely extended and renovated housing that marks the gentrification on this side of town now. Crossing Stony Creek and going the back way a road block seemed to indicate the footbridge over the freeway had been closed for the tunnel works. In fact it was not the case, a chap assured when he was asked. The tunnel entry in fact, an eleven billion dollar project to ease the traffic congestion, began just there where we spoke, opposite Tenterden Street on the other side of the barrier. From above on the old footbridge that once took us to the High School—since made way for housing—the hellish stream pulverised the brain. It was remarkable how the barrier muted and screened the reality so very effectively on the other side; the depth of the roadway must have been a significant factor. The cold of mid-August also seemed remarkable after eight years on the Equator, and after all the attention to the warming over the globe. While the Deniers had their winters conditioning thinking the science could be kept at bay. Upstairs in the house one leapt from the bedroom carpet to the rugs on the stair landing and then the others in the bathroom. (Crows just now too, suddenly! There were crows in Carpmael perching opposite the house. The behaviour of the crows in Sing’ had attracted the attention of ornithologists and other scientists tracking urbanism.) The house remains full of Hazel’s belongings even after a chap had been hired to cart away a trailer load. When young Barak in the adjacent Studio had died suddenly at his girlfriend’s it had been his poor old father who came out to deal with the belongings left behind. Having been in Singapore at the time the direct witnessing had been missed in that case. Here Hazel’s sudden departure felt like another death, though in her case a breakdown had been involved and her parents come from Wales to take her home. Thousands of dollars of furniture had been abandoned—fridge, washer & dryer, rustic dining table & chairs, cabinets, bookshelves, lamps, couch and bed. The personal items too suggested one hell of a hurry. Soft, hand-made toys, the Birmingham 1910 silver brooch, old photo albums and a great deal more. The housemate Kristie, who only knew Haze a year, had sorted the load that was carted away as best she could. A second sorting now will be needed and some articles perhaps mailed over for Haze. There is a No Attack On Iraq sticker included in a collage Haze had created and framed that will attract someone’s eye at an Op Shop, one of the new people in the neighbourhood here. Haze’s cat Men must have been taken on the flight; it was difficult to imagine Haze leaving her behind. The gardens needs attention, the gutters beneath the walnut cleaned out. Panayoti the nice young Greek carpenter has agreed to come out for doors that won’t close and other fiddle jobs. At the optometrist in Clarendon Street the doctor had attempted to hide his surprise at the extent of the cataract for a patient this age. A “senile cataract” it was termed in the textbooks. The beginning of Spring at least will be taken back in the old town; the morning and afternoon sun has already given hint of the progress of the calendar. Yesterday there was spring roll noodle salad at the Viet place in Footscray; this afternoon hopefully ful with the Africans in Nicholson Street.

Protest (Forty-One Shots) May24

Don’t be annoyed, but I’m gunna say he’s dyeing. No big deal of course, routine here. Most of the granddads i’ve bin cataloguing recently in the pics sport the same. Creased and crumpled, but glossy Elvis lustre on top. (You’ll get a little sample portrait gallery shortly and I’ll show ya more when I’m down there later in the month.) The working class man when he’s a performer we tolerate maybe, give him licence. Looks like he does it properly, leaving a dusting of grey around the sides and then the mousey tan on top without any fuss. Not out of the question either some augmentation. Don’t get annoyed now, with $$$ that can be done so’s you’d never notice. After having read the article on the legal proceedings the lyrics make more sense too: 41 shots…. Is it a gun-knife-wallet....More annoyance: that support crew grimacing when their turn comes at the microphone following the Boss’s lead, they really mean it you reckon? Twisting, puckering lips, knotting the brows. As you know, i’ve bin buried in print a looong time. An author’s grimaces at his desk are different, flowing down onto the page kinda without anythin in the mirror. It’s a godsend you don’t often see pics of authors; at least, you know, never usta see. (All homage to Tommie Pynchon, ever and a day!) Here the newspaper sends you cross-eyed daily pretty much. This mornin I think I blurted the F-word over it.... No, it was yester., Sunday mornin. Picture story of the Pres. of the Republic here, lady installed in what they call a “Walkover” election; ie. there ain’t no election cos there ain’t another candidate. The fella they were worried about had been disqualified by the newly prepared criteria, —you had to have managed so many hundreds of millions in your previous admin. role, otherwise how could you hope to steer the ship of State, blahblah. Never mind the ribbon-cutting ceremonials that were the entirety of the gig. (The particular guy concerned, by the name of Tan Chok Beng, gave them a fright few years back when the preferred Presidential candidate only just squeezed home against him by a whisker.) Anyhow, Madam Halima Yacob, attending yet another community function. Here she was pictured rooting for the old ahma striving with a kinda board-game at some recreation centre. In this case a maze sat before the old sweet for entertainment. If you’re coming down with Alzheimer’s, it’s just the thing. Loneliness up in the pigeon holes behind the locks & grills, try this on. The poor old duck, the ahma, the grannie, unfortunately found her ball here stuck in a corner of her maze. Big orange plastic one that ought to be easy to roll, piece of cake, stuck properly. In the lady’s hand a battery operated fan the people use hereabout in the afternoons trying to cope with the heat. What to do then? Blasted thing! Damn ball impossible to get outta there any way she turned it, glued in the corner. You weren’t allowed to cheat with dignitaries, cameras &etc. watchin. Maybe the batteries were low, the PR people and handlers forgot about that for the Pres’s visit. Striving hard, the ahma, grimacing, determined. The Walkover Pres. on $1mil++ directing positive energy at the blasted ball and maybe secretly blowing through her nose trying to get the thing happening. Usually her personable husband was with her, chap who commonly rolled up in his soft-top Porsche coupe to our corner for a cuppa, parking on the stop sign. The fella might have been useful here, mighta found a neat way outta the fix. A Metho Minister in the ring with the Pres. and the others was smiling broadly. Halima herself does not do generous big smiles, not in her line a well-brought up Mussie gal. Halima’s brief was all soft-kindly, encouragement for the community groups seeking to restore the kampung spirit that had somehow gone missing in the piles of concrete, steel and glass. (Search parties were on the look-out high/low for the old community spirit.) Somehow—long bow I know—that back-up crew beside the Boss agonising about the 41 shots suggested a con. A put-on. Performance in short. Maybe the Boss still got some left-over integrity, hasn’t crossed over completely, not sold out. But, you know, might be hard with the stardom, all the pressures, the PR machinery behind. Sorry. I did in fact kinda like the clip. Kinda. But, well, no surprise to you, constitutionally unable to swallow too much of this kinda protest whole—everyone having a good time of it, up for a night out, swinging and swaying, tickets on sale for the show. Call me a hard-ass. 

NB. George down in Melbourne, a big fan of the Boss, sent news of the acquittal of the four NY City policemen involved in the shooting of the man in the alcove of his apartment in the Bronx, and followed with the YouTube clip of the Springsteen song. 

https://www.nytimes.com/2000/02/26/nyregion/diallo-verdict-overview-4-officers-diallo-shooting-are-acquitted-all-charges.html