West Wing (Fifth Visit)

Al was seated at the head of the corridor again, just by the door of his new room. Between times he must have been moved there. The door with his name on it with the floral border was closed and we didn’t enter this time. Stan in the chair on the other side turned out to be a Lancashire man. Soon after arrival his wife wheeled up and came over to chat; on the last visit she had also put in an appearance. At the time of their marriage she had been nineteen and Stan an especially handsome twenty-one, as the photos she brought over later proved. The wife herself was in for some respite, she said. Stan had been in the home a number of years. There had been a tragic suicide of the son in his early forties; a daughter had three children, two autistic and one with Aspergers. One of these, or one of the great-grandkids possibly, was a high achiever and worked in robotics. Stan had been a footballer and cricketer, as well as lawn bowler here in Australia. Out near Manchester the wife had been a member of an operatic group and the pair met at church. Al would not have heard any of it, nor been much interested if he had even years past. He sat in the corner of the couch eating the grapes that had been brought in. By the desk of the attendant Doris the jabberer sat facing away with a pair of dolls with her in her chair. She was giving the woman a hard time directing the unceasing stream in her direction. Later she made a number of us laugh when she told the woman to get fucked. At one point the poor Filipina, the attendant, came around the front of the desk to wipe the dolls with a wet cloth for some reason and then dry them for Doris. None of this was noticed by Al. The Australian had seemed a better option than The Age and Al leafed through it reading a number of the columns on a number of the pages. The Business pages he had discarded. Later he leafed through the journal that happened to have been left on the side table, finding some amusement in the description of old Trevor, the tedious bore at Cirino. In the passage Trevor had been described both as a corpse on his feet and a walking ghost. This seemed to have been part of the amusement for Al, who was already near the half way mark of the nine months the doctors at Footscray had given him. The old Nonna who wheeled up during the visit must have been new, just arrived at the home. Coming up close to the couch she had surprised initially. At first she spoke in an Italian that was not understood. Reverting to English, she said she wanted a seat on the couch. Classical sweet old thing. With a little pressing she took a few of the grapes. For the most part she sat looking at Doris and listening to her, grave and stony-faced, shaking her head slowly. In the photos by Doris’s door up near the end of the wing she and her husband looked a fine young Italian couple in what may have been a wedding portrait. The old Nonna either knew, or assumed Doris to be Italian. She spoke to her a couple of times in answer to some of the rattle. The room at the end of the wing on Al’s side of the corridor, opposite Doris up toward the street, held a figure in the bed that was all jaw. There was nothing else, just protruding jaw. The head on the pillow with the sheets up high was tilted far back and the jaw bone pointed at the ceiling. Three Filipinas, two Indians and an African were attending on this visit. The strange thing was the minor kind of shock at the scene. In fact there had been more than a little light-heartedness. It may have been different had Al been more alert.

Speaking Volumes (update April23)

It was Charlie more than Harpo channeled by the Ethiopian lad here, the softness and inner sweetness easily intuited. Black baseball cap with high crown and springing dark locks were minor elements. A true, living tramp in this case, almost entirely mute; almost all his conversation with his guys was without any turn of head, asides without movement of lips. Hearing his voice suddenly for the first time was as if an oracle had spoken; a breakthrough of talkies which rather detracted from the larger effect of staring and downcast eyes. The African regulars at the tables told of a US$5mil family home back in Addis (good families sliding like that being a wonder for these people). Observing the pantomime, the old sage heads from childhood around the kitchen table in their visiting clothes were recalled, men who had survived the war and whose whole burden was revealed in their gestures, nods and unblinking eyes. Still in his early thirties the Ethiop, smooth young cheeks, carrying his trials deep inside. Earlier in the year the man had been locked up for a number of weeks and his absence noted by a number of regulars. On Nicholson he roamed sixty or seventy metres from Paisley to Irving corners, the heart of African Village.

 

 

Hatred Justifiable (Third Visit)

Textbook horror story; perfectly routine. When they are unfurled like that before your eyes it’s like some kinda cruel trick or joke that you need to endure to the end, before the flimsy put-on is conceded. The lady clinging to her husband in the corridor, holding tight and hurting him, he said. Just a week and I’ll come back to take you home. From her room across the way Mira wandered in jabbering something in Serbo-Croat, drawn by the voices it seemed. (Silence reigned ordinarily and the doors to the rooms carried colourful stickers of names of occupants.) Man with a Chinese name in the next room in his chair was slobbering food from his bowl. Attendants encountered were alert and cautious; complaints came from visitors of your kind. (You wrote friend in the paperwork at the desk, but those on the ground beyond hadn’t immediately gotten that. On subsequent visits it would dawn no friends ever paid visits here.) Even after almost a fortnight since the last visit, thankfully on entry the recognition was instantaneous. Again like last time at the hospital, the plums and grapes were consumed quickly, greedily, almost half of what had been brought. Somehow the newspaper and ciggies had been forgotten. Al punched the air in that old time way of the theatre, swinging his fist laterally close to his chest with some force, at news of the latter omission. One fine, lighthearted moment came at Al’s disgust voiced at the Hearld Sun, which had been fetched from the common room. I hate that paper. HATE it. Again, force and passion. You know I never bought it at the supermarket when they didn’t have The Age. The man was still present, still in attendance. It was great to see. The African attendant with the Mobility Captain insignia on his back got a serve for his rough, inconsiderate handling, very likely audible out in the corridor where he paced. A recent negligent shave had left one of Al’s sideburns an inch and a half longer than the other.

Publication news: “Up & Down the Tube” — Fleas On the Dog

Hello, hello

Hoping this finds everyone well in the rush of 21, and hopefully the back-end of the Corona.

A publication to announce. Here is a pair of politico micros penned late last year, just published by a punchy Canadian outfit called “Fleas On the Dog.” (It's worth reading their brief review in the intro of recent Canadian short-listed lit. prize contenders.)

“Up & Down the Tube” presents a couple of email responses to a friend’s online surfing—one featuring a notable US historian (canned by Trumpet) and the other that awfully strange species of English Tory that one catches in The House of Lords.


Here is the link—

https://img1.wsimg.com/blobby/go/9a0949f4-1d2a-4a7c-b9fb-a96b9b6bd861/downloads/NF%20_5%20_Up%20and%20Down%20the%20Tube_%20by%20Pavle%20Radonic.pdf?ver=1614992528313

Or


https://fleasonthedog.com
[https://img1.wsimg.com/isteam/ip/9a0949f4-1d2a-4a7c-b9fb-a96b9b6bd861/f24b7b68-1424-440e-b21b-697ec9e9d247.jpg]<https://fleasonthedog.com/>
FLEAS ON THE DOG ONLINE | fleasonthedog<https://fleasonthedog.com/>
EDITORS' BIOS. TOM BALL, Senior Editor (tomball33@yahoo.com). Globetrotting Tom Ball has been chased out of more countries than he can remember visiting. A fugitive on the lam with an archaeology degree, he spends his days hiding under rocks writing fiction and other junk for his devoted readers here on Earth and also Mars.
fleasonthedog.com


Cheers & zdravo

Pavle