Satellites in the Heavens & Stars on the Stage

The weariness can overcome even at half-ten in the morning. This man could not have gotten much kip overnight. On the Void beneath Block 11 he stood at the upper end toward the market, bowed with his forehead on his crossed arm resting over the rail in front. Neat & clean apparel; closely cropped hair masked his bald patch. Perhaps early fifties; some rough living had added years. There was no newspaper after the inauguration of the rabbit new year. Circling back to check again five minutes later, the man was found patting himself down and just beginning to move off from his railing up the path. Not a familiar from that quarter. Earlier in an exchange with Gab over a book review on the Evangelicals in the States the former divine reported recent reading where there was concern over Christ’s second coming possibly impeded by so many satellites in the heavens; some decent padding recommended; &etc. Earlier still Helen had knocked at the window to complain about the haughty Indian in the landed property on the Carpmael corner opposite. The early brekkie had caused Helen to miss our regular chat at the kitchen sink. Helen was tickled by the tricky descent of the saviour; broad, knowing smile raised. The trinity and all the focus on Jesus was no part of the JW theology. Winding onward from there the feisty old Catlady eventually came to the matter of Michael Jackson’s failed donation to her principled Jehovah people. At one time the showman’s mother had been a member of the community and out of filial affection it must have been the son had offered the organisation good dollars. Declined in this case, as it was known—the report from years ago was recalled—that fans of the performer had bled themselves for tickets; ie. donated blood in order to gather funds, in that arrangement they used in the States and some other countries. As usual Helen disdained any of the CNY celebrations. She was rather irked when greetings were offered. (From a while back the author had been properly wise to all that.) 

 

Plastic Wastage

Sun blast mid-afternoon en route from the Starbs at Bras Basah was moderated by a fine spray from the clouds at two or three points, something like they were using in various global capitals now to counter unseasonable heat waves. With the Box closing early at Bugis in prep for the CNY dinners, it had to be the other Starbs iteration there opp McDonalds. (For some other note-taking last week an outdoor chair at the Lavender MRT McD’s had been taken. Nothing human was alien to the Roman playwright Terence.) There at Bugis the stop today was for the noon’s glue sniffer on the No. 21 going out to KV for lunch. Certainly a first of its particular kind that. The mushroom puffers had been caught over the years at Wadi; perhaps guys on something stronger 3-4 times around the traps. Even drunks were rare in Sing, at least in the Malay quarter. Late thirties perhaps the 21 Chinaman, tattoos high on his thigh protruding from his shorts. On his calfs those common cigarette burn-like marks dotted. Holding the orange plastic bag whose bottom he squeezed in order to draw up the fumes a bit like a mother does her baby on her breast. One lady quickly left the seat beside him; a short time later the two chaps who had been engaged in animated conversation the other side of the bar on the same bench followed suit. From the wheelchair area opposite the slight fume that was released from the bag every so often wafted over. Perhaps 6-7 times the sniffer had sought the vapour in order to smooth out the ride along Kallang Bahru there and Boon Keng approaching the lunch hour. At the best of times it could be a bumpy ride through that half-industrialised quarter of Boon Keng. On the corner of Bendemeer sat the Lucerne building, cheap office space most likely. Darwin Interiors, Genoa Industries and the tyre outlet where the man alighted at the stop prior to Lavender Street held precious little allure. Would glue like that register on any of the tests the authorities used here? (Tests for dope for return travellers picked up traces two weeks later.) Was the chap completely reckless, didn’t care? It was uncertain. Sniffers were quiet, shy and solitary types, as this example suggested.

Heroic Sikh – R__

 

When R___ removed her mask for lunch the former handsome, middle-aged woman suddenly appeared as a grotesque, deformed creature from the studio make-up department. The shock of it could not be hidden and must have been perfectly plain to her. Tiny, round mouth gaping wide; sharp incisors seemingly biting in her speech. Whatever she had spoken seemed not to have properly emerged from the cavern. It was a reminder that the lady had never appeared at the Buffalo Road outlet pre-Covid. The first cancer had been in the ‘90s; more recently she had exceeded all the expert opinion with the incidence in her pancreas. A number of weeks the name R___ had been difficult to recall for the regular greetings in the queues at the resto; finally it had been recorded on the phone. R___ was used for both genders in the Punjab, yes; that had been correctly recalled from news reports. In Punjabi it signified heroism. (R___’s own Paulo was let ride.) At some point earlier the cancer might perhaps have been in the jaw. Recalling the sight later for the stout and sturdy woman, it seemed the likeliest explanation. 

 

Biden Cheering the Ukrainian Heroes

Chap at Tenderbest this morning catching some shut-eye after breakfast. Plate & glass had been pushed into the centre of the table, chair pulled out. Started his day early the man and overcome now: head thrown back onto the iron upright behind, hands clasped in front against the table-top. Newspaper was deployed here for the nest-building—a few scrunched pages softening the iron; in front more jammed against the hard outer edge of the table. Mashing like that produced a disorderly impression; clearly though the pillowing had helped. This way it might be possible to get ten minutes decent repose.

Well Run Dry

Mightily annoyed Jack at his girl's falsity. Wounded by it. She had lied to him not once; not twice. Many times. Man didn't mind if she wanted to be a pussycat, go off for a few hours earn some dosh. But lying to him. That he could not abide; could not stand for it. He was like that, Jack explained; not exactly happy being such, it appeared in the way Jack told it and in his manner. Tonight he would not open the door to the lady. Throw out her things, he would. Didn’t care if she was forced to sleep on the Void downstairs, or wherever else. By some kind of prior arrangement, tomorrow night Jack would host two women at his place. The other no more. What a pitiable face she had shown a day or two ago at the Haig table. Could not be more than glimpsed; the glance quickly sliding. God almighty!… ako postoji / If you exist, sometimes Bab would blasphemously add in such circumstances. Hard to imagine the woman embracing Jack and being embraced in his arms. She was an Indo Batam lass, yes, Jack confirmed. It did take some imagining. Desperation. Destitution. Kids over there if there were any would be relying on charity for food, at the mosques most likely. Would any single man of the group in the first row at the Haig, the front tables there by the Paki teh stall, go with Jack Nasri's woman? Was it possible? Perhaps one of them would pity her and offer shelter. The Batam ladies often slept in the corridors of the Haig flats, $10-15 per night for those who picked up a bit of work. A fright glimpsing, even without catching the eye. When her eye was caught going along there it made you wince. For that lady's living you had insufficient pity in your store; it was not a bottomless well. In her single person that lady would drain you dry in a trice. 

 

Bunch of Bananas Again (updated Feb)

 

Iffy one. Prutty devilish hard to tell. The young gal at the mini mart could very easily have been trying it on, seriously. One needed to recall the innocent compliment delivered how many weeks back now? In the last little while the gal had become rather chantik. (Check: chanti: beautiful. A bit over-stated for what one had intended in that case, but never mind. There did not seem to be an intermediate pretty in Bahasa, on G Transl anyway.) Woman had bloomed a wee bit, put on some flesh as if she was pregnant, perhaps. She had always been a bright spark at the register there, going by. Regular greetings. Cikdu! teacher in Bahasa Malay on any sighting. Once the woman might have felt a trifle miffed when a witticism failed concerning her older husband (a Singaporean, which thereby won her long-term stay); or fatty husband possibly, it may have been. Similar smiles seemed to have come before the chantik, same as after. Had they turned up a notch of late? Couple weeks ago, prior to the JB trip it must have been, the gal had been gifted something in passing. Perhaps a pisang on that occasion, too. Then this morning with another large bunch in hand for sharing with Helen, the thought had casually struck to give her one. Alamak! Here you are. You’ll need one of these... Not a question; a statement. The gal had drawn close, up on her platform almost of a level. But why that clouded face? Wherefore? (Helen called suchlike black. Wan Ling with whom Helen had been feuding had shown H a black face.) Because you no give me pisang. Ah! I see… The bunch hung on the usual pink ribbon low near the midriff. Having drawn up close, in giving her answer the lass cupped her hand beneath as if to catch any falling fruit, or low hanging perchance. Highly unlikely there was only simple innocence in that lot and nothing more intended. Blowing out of cheeks nothing again? Without meaning?... Had she been teased unfairly those weeks back? With CNY upon us, a mandarin or two was now in order, maybe. Difficult to resist when we had come along a good way like that now.

 

 

 

Morning Restitution

  

Busker Rahim was back on the scene, looking well-recovered. Eight days in hospital, not three weeks. The rest of the time he had been laid up at home, at his mum’s, presumably. Clearly done the man a lotta good. Hopefully back to plucking the strings soon, he said. Tall Chinaman with the plastic bags stuffed inside his yellow wellies beside his table had likewise returned, under the veranda at Mr T T. One of those shocks when you looked more closely, discovering the chap was in fact perhaps 5 or even 7 years your junior. (The child-size perspective stayed with one over the journey, a testament to the puzzles that had confounded from earliest days.) Helen too had reappeared in the kitchen this morning, after having taken an early shower. Unusual that bathing time. Reason being she was off witnessing this morning out at Jellicoe Road behind Lavender, at a thirty something storey block. Helen had been teamed with one of the brothers and very much looked forward to the venture. The local congregation had not seen Helen’s face so long, since September following the opening after Covid. Helen gave a proper CLAP of her hands at the end of the kitchen bench by the rear door. Joyful at what the day promised would not be overstating the case. There was a little ecstasy in Helen after her recent reading of Timothy, whom she liked, she said. Tim said in Chapter 1, verse such-and-such, that teaching was an art. A-R-T, Helen spelt out. The Holy Spirit was with Helen this morning. In passing came her tale of the straightening out of her spine after giving up coffee. Past months Helen had noticed with concern her stooping like an old woman. My goodness, what was happening to her, she had wondered. With the stooping she sensed too her bottom sticking out. Long it could not be understood, before Helen twigged to the coffee. In addition to eschewing her customary brew, Helen was also standing up against her bedroom wall for correction of posture, which might have helped. Certainly she was pretty much arrow straight this morning, hair dripping and white roots prominent, before drying and combing into place. The story of Arthur’s inversion table was appropriate here after precisely the same concerns from that man a few years ago. Half-through his glass of teh there under the veranda the Chinaman in his chair with his long bare legs in his shorts had taken some shut-eye. Preparing a return to his work station shortly after, the toes and soles of his feet were brushed off first, the plastic bags shaken out one after the other and slipped on prior to the hard rubber wellies. Must have been the wet fish & meat section of the market where the man worked, at his age could not be a Mainlander here. 

 

 

Publication news: Crisis Central - NWW Quarterly

 Hello all

Happy 23 & Orthodox Christmas!! (The horror of Ukraine and Russia plagues the mind.)

This publication is a re-issue from a couple years back. An outfit called The Blue Nib published Crisis Central in May 2020. (It was first penned circa 2005. Another long lead time!) Since then the Nib has disappeared from the face of the earth & the web and now Frederick Barthelme has provided a new platform.

The story stands now as a testament to my friend Greg Malloy, who sadly passed away late last year from liver cancer. A terrible loss the old dodger.

Here is the link.

https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-radonic-crisis-central/

All best to all

Pavle