Goats & Monkeys!

Near seven months now no lady had laid a glove on you. Not since teen years had anything like that deprivation occurred. How could it possibly have been endured earlier? How did the unpartnered young manage currently? A Canadian medico some months ago had suggested sexual union might need to be practised without kissing. Well, there had been some of that in March too. On Ni’s last visit up north we had managed pretty well like that. Luckily, the gals up there seemed to be missing more or less equally, it seemed. Here the fantasies flipped around in the usual way in the cycle of visions and memories, with the new goatee more and more featuring. The goatee had come of its own more or less, from the 4 ½ star on Macquarie Street quarantining, back when the government was picking up the tab. No change of clothes, showering or shaving through that fortnight. By the end of the term, voila! rather fetching Arabic under-chin goatee; not a little to do with the near decade among the Malays of course. Whatsapp video calls with the gals had drawn compliments, pleas indeed in a couple cases to keep the look and not return to the other. Useful at the desk too it turned out for a fellow in your line, stroking like in the manuals. How had deepest cogitation proceeded earlier was a question now. Twisting the strands, stroking, pulling, fluffing up and out—an abundance of options. Over the weeks later a hope had arisen of some dalliance ahead involving the thicket. Ni, or Rina perhaps; possibly even Era or Sugi featuring. Once she had returned from UAE maybe even Umairoh might be tempted. (Every indication in the messaging Umairoh had regretted her earlier resistance and was now ready to rock.) Fair chance one of that quartet—without hint or direction of course—in the rising fever would seek out the goatee and ruffle, caress, or even give one or two sharp tugs perhaps. Something, a strong kind of instinct, gave hope. It would be a sudden venture, like so much else that had been received in that region. Many of the gals’ fathers and brothers sported beards of one sort or another; husbands and earlier partners. There was fair chance; some kind of logic involved. In old Montenegro grandad Rade, Bab’s father, would say, Ne diraj mi brk! Touch not my moustache! The moustache was highest honour; mess with that there surely would be hell to pay. In the night when the children were asleep, when the wind blew over the thatch and the wolves howled, you wondered what liberties may have been granted the young wife, the former widow taken from grandad’s clan of Ivovic cousins around on the ridge. Beside the cold hearth in the love-making on the hay bundles.

Philadelphia

You keep on stupidly wanting to say unbelievable. Was the incidence of such events similar pre-Trump? During Obama? Wasn’t there a period of lull betw the KKK and this? Chicago ‘68 an aberration? With all the video capture still continuing and no apparent prospect of let up.

Stumbling On Imperialism

Scottie in SOCAL responding to The Progressive fwd on Joe’s flubbing at his town hall meet over American foreign policy. Typing on his iPhone the dude notices the prompt on his device fails when American is put together with IMPERIALIS…. The last word needed to be banged out almost to the last. Hmm. INTER—esting. You would wager in Latin America, the Middle East, Africa, lottsa places in Europe, the North Pole, no such trouble at all. Unless the American disease of ignorance pervaded the manufacture itself.

Publication news: “The Hearth (Montenegro)” and “Jakarta 1440H” - NWW

 Hello all

In Melbourne we are climbing out of the Covid hole again, while in so many quarters new struggles begin. I hope you all are managing.

This recent run with Frederick Barthelme at New World Writing continues, a nice confirmation after all these years of salt mine labour.

A warning: there is a good bit of vulgarity in this first piece, though I trust it will be understood to some purpose.

It is with pleasure that my old Montenegrin voices here have found this platform in the US. Hope you like "The Hearth (MN)." (900 words)

https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-radonic-the-hearth/

Pavle Radonic ~ The Hearth The Hearth (Montenegro) The fucking of the sun had always irritated and wounded Bab. It was uncouth and seemed to her to be as unholy as the fucking of God, Jesus and even worse, the mother. The wo… newworldwriting.net

Further too. The recent Frankie homage, "His Way," that had been published at NWW, had originally been part of a trio under the title "Jakarta 1440H." The editors had initially accepted the last of the three and paused for further consideration on the opening two segments. These now have been appended and "JKT" shows whole in that earlier 7 October slot.

Here is that link too, (Now 3.4k words):

https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-radonic-jakarta-1440h/

Pavle Radonic ~ Jakarta 1440H The Witching Hour The knock on the door came shortly after 3. Wooden particle board making the light rap resound, of course at that hour especially. In the days prior there had been some concern an… newworldwriting.net

All best

Pavle

Nullity

Difficult to rise to the challenge seizing something now. Well-practised as you were, alert and eyes peeled, exceedingly difficult. The other evening the kitchen window had presented a Zen scene—glistening new leaves on the plum framed by the worn old architrave. Surprisingly, a good number of the plantings here had taken, testament to the years of chooks and other nutrients in the former vegetable gardens. There had been no rain; the spray of lustre had been carried by the new growth and the unusual last bright shafts of dusk. Up in the village new Spring grasses among the rock nemogu se gledat, could not be observed, so sharp was the green. This on the other hand was titillation and caress by comparison: leaves flaring like uncanny flames. (Recently ailing Al in Williamstown had recalled Bab’s remark about everything young being beautiful.) Could the sight be captured by a camera? The porch light was flicked just in case. Highly un-Zen-like running hither and to when the standing form had only been glimpsed briefly. Many afternoons now the lower river and the bay was passed largely unseen; the creek likewise for all the pelicans and swans. Continuing publications lifted the spirits hardly at all. There was little will for the messaging of the girls back on the Equator, even the one you were supposed to love who had been resisting all manner of solicitation, engagement ring included (an old roué like you). She will/she won’t/will/won’t. Maybe to escape her “toxic mother,” she had offered at one point with too much information. After one hundred days of lockdown liberalisation was likely next week, an opportunity to see some familiar faces and possibly short café sitting. In recent days the heart core who had passed seemed somehow to have receded further too; an unexpected added distancing coming with age. How much the glancing encounters and interactions always figured; you knew you were going bad when the shop assistants had become valueless too. Confinement to the room and back garden had become preferable to cycling the suburban grid in order to reach the open spaces by the riverside and the bay. One saving grace was the lingering chill, sorely missed so long. There was no doubt about it, pedalling against the battering of the wind had come to be relished.

Publication news: “Johor Bahru Old Town” - Midway Literary Journal

 

Hello everyone

Again, hoping all of you are hanging tough.

A short piece of mine from earlier this year has just been published in another US journal. "Johor Bahru Old Town" is a pair of flash from one of my regular haunts in Southern Peninsular Malaysia, 1km distant from SG and always refreshing. (900 words.)

Here is a glimpse of JB, —

http://midwayjournal.com/johor-bahru-old-town/

Cheers & best wishes

Pavle

Publication news: “The Heirs” & “The Whip Hand” - Ginosko Lit. Journal

 Hello again all

Hoping this finds everyone strong and very well.

Another publication to announce.

An odd pairing this and recently penned the second, just published by a San Francisco lit. journal called Ginosko #25.

“The Heirs” mourns a cousin in Montenegro taken too early, while “The Whip Hand” presents a Buddhist housemate up in Singapore. (Pages 74-78, 2.3k words.)


Here’s the link—

Ginosko Literary Journal


Hope you like them.

Pavle

Publication news: ”His Way” - New World Writing

 Hello everyone 

Again, hoping this finds all well.

The acceptance and publication in this case occurred under three hours after submission. Not the usual course. Pleasing too appearing beside Tao Lin (Shoplifting From American Apparel).

Here is a Jakartan flash from mid last year featuring a busker and a plastics re-cycler, 750 words—


https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-radonic-his-way/

Pavle Radonic ~ His Way After arriving this chap stood off from the entrance and delivered the old classic his way, in a kind of resonant undertone. Man did have a voice, the basis of something. It was a little hard to ju… newworldwriting.net

Hope you like it.

Cheers & best wishes

Pavle

Up the Creek

In the current circumstances you gratefully received referred smiles without any quibble. Here in this instance the gal had been stopped on the path by Kororoit Creek admiring the swans & pelicans down on the water. Turning away all alight with her pleasure, the lass innocently gave the stranger wheeling by on the bicycle the warmth of her charmed, feeling heart. Earlier in the morning the generosity of the AU$100/Rp1,060,000 sent Era in Batam included the anticipation of the reunion. After some lingering troubles in Singapore we had had an earlier three year gap. Five or six years ago on departure one morning Era had been one of the women taking the back of the hand up to her lips and then her forehead for farewell. Around that same period, the first time she had performed fellatio, for all her heat and flushing, the young woman had halted in her manoeuvre in order to seek permission for her desire. Down in the hometown in the current circs of distancing and masks one needed to get by on far less.

 

 

                                                                                                                  Melbourne, October 2020

The Riverbank

There were still hermits in Tasmania, especially down in the South and the farthest West in particular. They were not so unusual in that corner. Philippe needed to go down there, re-locate in fact; not these trips back and forth. Living out in the wilds might be beyond him—fishing, hunting for food and the rest—but a town somewhere on the fringe of the forest was manageable. This cooping in the city could not be endured any longer; the virus had of course made it harder. We spoke under a large tree with a wide canopy in the little park, sitting on the grass. The building behind provided shelter, there was no wind there. Philippe had grown a beard like many of us during confinement. Philippe needed to walk in the wilderness, that was all, he said. Within the wilderness everything was altogether different. This afternoon Philippe told of a river he had come upon on one of his recent trips, a rapidly running river. Pieces of fallen timber had been carried at speed by the rushing water. How to ford there presented a question? Could it be done? Philippe described sitting by the riverside for the remainder of the day pondering. Tie a rope around himself and wade out to give it a try. Pack by a tree also tied and pull it across afterward perhaps. Through the afternoon the river kept up its rapid run. In the morning Philippe returned to the bank to calculate again. Another two or three hours he sat there. Coming upon a tree down below would drag him under, no help for it. It was too rapid. It could not be done. The night before Philippe had calculated the same. No, it couldn’t be done. It was five hours back to the town. Well, no two ways about it, off then. No sense of failure involved. Indeed there had been some accomplishment. A settled decision had been taken.