Australian writer of Montenegrin descent en route to a polyglot European port at the head of the Adriatic mid-2011 shipwrecks instead on the SE Asian Equator. 12, 36, 48…80, 90++ months passage out awaited. Scribble all the while. By some process stranger than fiction, a role as an interpreter of Islam develops; Buddhism & even Hinduism. (Long story.)
Wednesday, March 30, 2022
The Sport of Justice (and War)
Tuesday, March 29, 2022
Further on Mahshushah’s Ramadan prep.
Ramadan Prep, Madura email
Wednesday, March 23, 2022
Publication news: Unfathomable - Citron Review
Zdravo everyone
Just to note a piece of mine that has been recently published at Citron Review in the States.
by Pavle Radonic Sitting by the radio during the war must have been something similar, premier dan here in his pressers a kind of Churchill delivering the somber news while attempting to give some hope. Many months now routinely recording the daily totals of infections, tests conducted, ICUs & ventilators. Deaths have been rare… citronreview.com |
Saturday, March 19, 2022
Leed Street Charity
Some effort required at the burbling of the pair opposite, evidently unhappy about something or other, the older gal in particular. Poor chap on the end of their table needed to bow to it quietly, no way out. It was easy to understand the bigots struggling with that rhythm of speech, the altogether other music. Fausi immediately flashed to mind with his imitations from behind his counter up the road, where mornings his Viet customers predominated. During the war the Black GIs had mastered some of the phrases just like the little trickster, and for the same skirt/sarong-chasing reason too. A young chap who rocked up to the closed market doors with his girl—one of at least half a dozen through the course of the hour—laughed at their predicament very much in the rhythms of the new, adopted country. Well established two part hee-haw that was never practised by the original boat-people. Over the other side of the street the old worn biker had arrived out front of Huong, a highly unlikely convert to vegetarianism, much less veganism. Puffing on his ciggie, waiting. Big draws that suggested the stick had not been picked up from the pavement, or the ashtrays along the strip. Man had only partly dismounted his steed, peering through the window. You might be pushing things there, Bud. Luckily the front tables were vacant, as the lady would not appreciate that mug putting off her patrons. The lady at the resto had a Buddhist nun aunt, who made the spring rolls they served there. Walked the proper Buddhist talk the niece.