Helen’s lovely, strange song late morning through the party wall after she had settled, it must have been. One was rarely gifted free and intimate delight of that sort. A complete, extended song all from within—Helen didn’t listen to the radio or play music. A few weeks before there had been a similar performance, for which Helen had been complimented. A moment’s concern at the report was quickly overcome and the bouquet received with pleasure. With the interviewing work stopped and the cutting back on her food prep, as she had revealed some weeks before, the more relaxed routine was agreeing with Helen. The feeding was still continuing the same, but the cooking every second day and the organic purchases from the market might have slipped now. It had been some while since Helen had been seen with her shopping jeep making toward the Haig. None of the mogs roundabout seemed to be any the worse for it. With that fine, lilting rhythm Stojan’s story of his Ljube came to mind. After love-making, Stole reported Ljube’s whistling and lightness in the kitchen and at her housework. Stole and Ljube did not get on, but they had their moments, evidently. You could tell too from Stole’s account there was some tolerable peace in the house in Werribee, beyond that generated by sexual fulfilment. For her part likewise, Helen was managing decently enough by her own devices.
After lunch at the Buddhist, a wild goose chase for a newspaper led all the way back to ABC beneath the overhead rail-line. Refreshing low and quick-growth greenery eye-level along that path, while above your head a great many tonnes of concrete and steel were hung. The question arose: for each of the housing and construction towers here—in many cases fifty and sixty storeys—how much of the same material went deep into the ground? Say 10-15% of each upper tier? Recently Omar had gotten excited at learning of a friend’s connection with high government officials in East Timor. A relative was trying to broker a deal for riverine sand, hard to come by now in the construction industry. Yesterday Mike Tong had sent an item reminding of the wondrous Wuhan cityscape that included an iridescent green river.
Days without definition otherwise. A Friday without the run to the mosques, the men keeping away from the kopi shop tables too. Trafficless roads ought to have been more welcome.
The latest news had penetrated to the Sumo Deaf, who kept this evening to a lonely table against the railing on Onan Road.
The ginger in the teh after supper immediately soothed, removing the scratchiness in the throat and silencing the cough.
27 March
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