Publication news: The Sound of Music - Packingtown Review

Another publication to announce, music theme here, which could only be taken in some divergent directions by this writer.

A short sequence of 3 micros (760 words), free on the site, —

www.packingtownreview.com/issues/25/radonic/music.html

Publication: Gettin’ On - Blood+Honey

Another flash of mine has just been published by an U.S. online magazine called Blood+Honey, where they like grit & edginess. Gettin' On gives a wee touch of that from the world of the former British possessions on the Equator. 

A junkie tale here from a more permissive Singaporean era! 😊 Originally penned 12 odd years ago.

Free on the site (1.1K words),

https://www.bloodhoneylit.com/fiction/gettin-on

Obit

It stayed in the mind pinching & nagging, the kinda thing that all too often happens to writers, catching them unawares, while minding their own business. Really, there was no call to stick your nose in there, especially such sensitive matters. This though did stick fast, through the latter part of morning and again on the bus getting out for lunch. Darn thing. Coming on so much so in fact that one was actually forced to go back in the evening to buy another copy of the newspaper. The morning paper was always given away afterward to one of the uncles or aunties interested to flip through the pages; even wrapping paper was better than junking in the recycle bin. (The suspicion was all refuse was actually burnt in the Republic. The mess of junk people threw into those blue bins made anything else impossible, even were there a will.) One certainly didn’t want to speak ill of the dead, nor more importantly the grief-stricken living. But, by golly! What the heck was that? At bottom very much an important question. An Obit 4 inches x 6. When photos of the departed accompanied text in the English language newspaper the pics were invariably super flattering. Flattering shots of 70year olds, 90year olds the same. The incidence seemed to be more common on these shores. One only flicked the pages of course at the tail end of the morning ritual. All of the paper was dealt with summarily, but esp. Biz, Obit, Sport & Life. (One must say, the paper in question did hold quite compelling pieces occasionally, not all of them syndicated. A psychiatrist who had been head of the local Institute at one time was truly first rate.) The particular smiling deceased here had stood herself at the foot of a curving wooden balustrade, perhaps 10-15 years before her demise. Possibly she had been a handsome woman in her pomp; it was difficult to tell. Lustrous dye, high heels. Silver bracelet and good trim. But it was the dress that was the thing. Taste, aesthetic judgement was not evenly distributed at the creation, of course. One versed in fashion could describe the article more satisfactorily. Rich baby pink the first thing, classic Barbie tone. A mermaid effect was created with ballooned shoulders and tightening at the hip, where a large, flowering rose at the midriff shed large petals along the trunk and down to the ankles. One leg swung over the other and the foot mounted achieved the inverted cone. The colour accent continued through hair, lippy, fingers & toes. It was only the hands that gave away the age. There must have been a long zip behind; in front the dress seemed pasted on. In any circumstances highly overblown and in this particular usage especially. (Galas at the upscale clubs, weddings & the like, perhaps could be imagined.) The rhyming stanzas attached confirmed Christianity, hopes of reunion, the higher world & eternal life. Even in the case of the prosperity gospel, such a presentation seemed problematic. That attire could not have been chosen for the casket; it was difficult to conceive such a thing. And this was certainly not to say the heart of gold beneath the fabric could be questioned. Only, the journey, the life passage—stringing the dots together toward the final, earthly outcome and the aspiration… One was not to judge. The role of the scribe was often disagreeable, like that of the messenger. Only a polite question raised here, finally, centring on this class, this culture & society that could produced dissonance of that sort. (Not at issue this or that individual case.)

 

Publication news: Soaring - Airplane Reading

Another air travel piece of mine has just been published by the guys at Airplane Reading, who share a serious interest in the subject matter.

A short-short again (400 words), freely available on the site here, —

https://airplanereading.org/story/579/soaring

All best

PR

Chrysalis 22_May26 - 350

 

 

 Not every single guy would react like that, but there was no doubt about it, give this one particular chap a bakery, one raising crisp, fresh loaf on site, good variety and some pride in product; add pastries, cakes, pies, croissants, tidbits, &etc, all of the same high standard, what you automatically found was all the girls therein—for this one particular, not so very special kinda guy—all the girls serving there suddenly, as if by magic, appeared the sweetest, most scrumptious and completely delectable sorts imaginable. Transformed into lovey-dovey, heart-piercing-melting-confounding desirables. As if the weirdest spell had been cast. Put same out on the street, on a bus, at a bar, passing beneath an umbrella, going out on the town, nothing whatever like effect, according to this particular guy. It was something of the gingerbread house effect that had been evoked in the schoolroom couple generations past, that vividness & overpowering compulsion. Similar was found at markets, fruit stalls, delicatessens, occasionally behind chemist counters, for this particular guy. (Nurses of course, but that was common.) Not so much cafe baristas, waitresses, checkout chicks & shopgirls. Not evident in kitchens and less so again offices and even dance halls & concerts. Decidedly much less so, at least for this certain kinda guy, with his own curious kinda wiring. The gym might have been supposed, yoga, library, lecture hall, cooking classes, whatnot. Mistakenly. Broccoli, carrot, even turnips, potato & onion displays could better set the scene and serve the purpose. Clothing stores another no-no; carefully lit bookshops & galleries unpropitious, even where compelling portraits & still lives graced the walls. (A painter friend of his, excellent and committed female artist, had taken offence at the account of a gallery visit once, where a patron there had been described as a far greater and more captivating work than anything on the walls.) This odd connoisseur wondered about porn & fashion victims. Were his own reactions so very rare? Surely there were others similarly constituted, the chap always continued with his point, like a dog at a bone.

 

 

                         Candied Bakery,  

Spotswood, Melbourne

 

 

Another Thing of Feathers

 

The dead pigeon yesterday going along Crane Road to meet Kieran startled, a vivid white full-breast, head and open eye turned inward to the pavement, against the grey of the steel utility box standing 1.1-2m high. Right there suddenly touching distance, the delicate texture of its feathers apparent in the pass. The numerous dead on the pavements of the last few weeks had been gotten by with far less sting. Around the middle of April, after a preparatory media campaign, the culling of the crows by the shooters had been resumed, with the poisoning of the pigeons ongoing. 

The Honeyeater May26

You read about these and every day they stared you in the face, like the ones attached to the gal’s bag (though even those were oversized); a giant brown honey-eater like this though on the loose, never previously. Not at the library, not the buses or at the eateries. A child could not have managed that bulk, younger teen would struggle. Local or Mainland Chinese, 20 possibly. (There was the same trouble over there of course.) Were this a paying venue, a question might have arisen; on an aeroplane certainly there would have been. This Teddy was not going to fit under the seat in front, and carry-on the question of cruelty arose. 6 - 7 minutes the girl sat with it nestled in her lap, staring a little before her; nothing to suggest any trouble. iPad raised on its stand, 1.5 litre ceramic bottle. When she rose to move off, getting around the far corner of the shelves, the assumption was that the street, the trains & malls was where the serious difficulty lay. 10 - 15 seconds later, however, here she was returned to collect him, before setting off again. Soon pair returned. Otherwise, as far as one could tell, on the surface and by all indicators, a young lass perfectly settled. At the table working steadily. Tall, slim; good quality cushioned phones (which no doubt aided the cause). A few minutes more Teddy was lifted higher against her chest, rather a handsome head over her shoulder, where the length of arm became apparent. Surprisingly long; the nails retracted. Proportions here were in fact probably correct. Shuffling the papers was easily managed with the Furry resting between. There were no school-kids at the tables, all 19 & 20 year-old peers; a good number of both genders carried the miniatures on their bags & pencil cases. In a cold climate the whole thing would have been more fitting, though bearing in mind a significant minority here did live the complete A/C bubble. Bending to write with a pen, now her own chin fell onto Teddy’s neck. Half hour steadily progressing the task, without too much effort. White-out the bear, return him to his mountain-side habitat, no indication of the slightest sort. No doubt the forerunners all the way back to earliest beddy-byes sat patched on the upper shelf in the wardrobe at home. A hint might have been given by a glimpse of a parent, or even sibling. Later only a couple of eyes from passersby; most of the youngsters here had seen the like often enough.

https://share.icloud.com/photos/0d4_pBwSu6_L-7hFkkTCxp6bg

 

 

NB. Zoran’s Honeyeater video from early Spring in the ancestral village.

 

 

On the Job

 

Making A Clean Difference even rocking from side to side like that, as if in some humorous skit for the former stage. The right hand trailed one of the larger payung with flat end that commonly doubled as a walking-stick. Man might have seen the weather forecast for afternoon showers the rest of April. Two front teeth left a gap in the smiling pass by the front of the table. Go back... Never sighted previously, yet the man wants you to know his intentions at that hour, a few minutes short 8PM. (Surely his shift was not the 12hr stretch on broom & pan.) Mid- late-70s if not fetched beyond, though in all respects the gap seemed more like 2 - 3 decades. (It remained impossible to comprehend how far it was you yourself had gone off now.) Hopefully there was a helpmate of some description waiting at home with a welcoming plate of food; the short sit at Saddam could not have allowed more than a teh. Almost always this folk invited you into their world—there were no walls in their theatre of the everyday. Aged rheumy eyes like his would not distinguish skin tone and a batik top only scrambled impressions. Of course the familiars always offered greetings of some kind, but strange whites too could not be summarily dismissed. Out of the blue sometimes telling life episodes emerged too that almost wrote themselves into the annals.

 

 

 

Bashtik (April26)

 

 

Three or four days after the festival we hiked up to the village. It had been 28 years since the last time we had gone up together. We hiked casually along the new roadway about 3 hours, with bread & cheese in our kit. The descent on the Morinj side four days later would take 2½ hours, the rain that arrived making the descent quite treacherous. Up behind our house a massif named Bashtik stood 1500m above sea level—about 600m above the village itself. With age encroaching, of course, the climb was unlikely ever to be repeated. From the peak the prospect buffeted the brain, like the sudden wind did the body, knees ready to buckle and an odd fear of being lifted from the ground. On a clear day the Italian coast might be visible, they said. The old folk said when the wind was right the bells at San Pietro could be heard from the peak of Bashtik. Towns along the water were laid out as if na dlan, on the palm of the hand. Surprisingly, the village itself was completely out of view; instead the airport at Tivat uncannily appeared from the North. Wild swine was common now up at the heights. A few years previous a wolf had wrestled a rifle from one of our villagers, leaving tooth-marks on the barrel for proof. With the assistance of the vet from town, earlier at this man’s house we helped pull a calf from a cow. Thankfully, the largest animal sighted on Bashtik had been a mouse on the forest floor. The rocky folds of the land and then the levitation on the summit would knock in the brain like the good sense the schoolteachers of old had threatened.

 

 

 

                    Boka Kotorska, Montenegro

‘09 / April ‘26

Lids April_May26

 

The  members of the Chairman’s round-table in front of the servery beneath the fan at Wadi had altered over the months. Earlier in the year two previous stalwart couples had peeled off, likely in concert. More than likely financial disputes involved concerning the Chairman's tours; it couldn’t have been anything else. (The two pairs had been met independently in passing around the traps, discretion forbidding questioning.)

The faithful stalwart was the cleaner/ex-con and his wife. They were a more recent couple, though the lady had waited for the chap during the last term inside at least, from memory. Couple decades all up the guy had served, substances undoing. A long stretch he had been clean; outta the woods now, hopefully. No doubt the lady had a lot to do with the success, Chairman Aziz helping too, likely. On the evenings Aziz & his wife were absent, these two also failed to appear.

You could tell the guy liked that chair opposite the Chairman. Rarely did he say much himself, but when the Chair held forth the focus was always fixed. Man knew them all, Syed, Beefy, Man the ciggie guy & his sidekick. Nice fellow. The legal fags did for him now, 2 - 3 over the evening under the trees. Always neat, dyed, fine warm smile. Prayers were not joined in his case when Aziz and one or two of the others set off. (It would be enquired; like many of the men, ex-inmates in particular, direct questioning was usually answered directly.)

Aziz kept to the prayer schedule; the strictness indispensable to the man. In some period prior to Ramadan – it may have been the Prophet’s birthday stretch – Aziz had led prayers at the table with a mic turned up. Fellow had no sense of his jarring voice and received cheeky comment as playfulness.

The Chair’s table accommodated 7-8 sitting close and sometimes the overflow needed a couple tables joined, which didn’t always make for smooth exchange. Sometimes the witticisms fired left & right, to-and-fro through the course, would leave the Chairman second best, acknowledged by the man with smiles & bowing.

            In recent weeks a particular fellow had become a regular at Aziz’s table, an ordinary Joe who was privately aware of his ordinariness. Usually the man sat on Aziz’s left, either adjacent or facing. Little tubby guy in the common street wear, who in this case had awarded himself an outstanding crown, the like of which had never been seen in the neighbourhood. It was possible even friends,  certainly acquaintances, would fail to recognise the man without.

            When Aziz was questioned, the Chairman seemed to think the curiosity misdirected.

            I have one too, he informed. Moreover, standing 52inches tall.

            Ordinarily, Aziz wore a clean, white, regular songkok. The colour signified a man who had completed the hajj. In Aziz’s travel line, that performance had been undertaken times without number.

            The initial size for his songkok turned out an error. It had been centimetres. The confusion arisen after the other’s songkok had been estimated from two tables away at 11- 12 inches.

It was difficult to take one’s eyes off this songkok. Over the foot it may possibly have been too. Placed on the guy’s actual foot, a kind of flipper would have resulted.

            Jet black, still stiff & shapely. A recent purchase after a Toto win, perhaps. This too would be enquired, when an opportunity afforded.

            Sitting so low to the table the Tubby, adding the tower meant he could mix it with any takers. Black, but lustrous; fabric as new, perfectly smooth. Oddly, no one seemed to pay this songkok any regard whatever. There was never a glance in its direction; hardly ever any eye on that side. On the rare occasion this man spoke, in some brief exchange with Aziz, none of the others gave ear.

            After advising of his own possession of a much taller article still, Aziz swiped through his photos. It was there somewhere. A travel agent had many, many pics on his phone. Aziz had never sorted them into albums. Finally, Aziz at table at the Pasar, balancing a towering felt cone rather nervously on his head.

It could not be worn for prayers. It would fall off, Aziz explained.

It was Aziz who informed during the course here that the forehead needed to be uncovered in the prostrations; the bare forehead touching the carpet. Head-cover otherwise was not obligatory, but you would bet Aziz and the tubby kept to the local custom. (A reminder: like for women in Orthodox churches & synagogues, women in the mussolahs were required cover.)

Certainly Aziz’s party songkok could not have served in the mosque, and it seemed the same with the Tubby’s more handsome, shorter item. When the latter returned the other night from the maghrib, the songkok had surprisingly been swapped, exchanged for another article that was in fact almost equally splendid.

No disrespect, but this tubby did remind of the guys in the old Laurel & Hardy B&W silents who would get numerous kicks up the back-side. Casually administered kicks, in passing for these extras, for no apparent reason. At the cattle yards, on street corners, at any opportunity, someone gave the boot; it may not have been the leads. It seemed simply because of the figure the hapless fellows presented; to keep no-goods like that on their toes, make sure they didn’t get themselves any ideas.

That stock figure appeared in those skits for added laughs, and sometimes possibly more than one chap was involved. Low life average Joes, getting something to go on with. Back in the day kids of a similar sort were immediately identified at school; quiet, shy types who knew to keep outta the path of the big guys, the jocks & sharps. Look out, shut-up and maybe you wouldn’t get a swift boot up the kyber.  

Well, times had changed. The sans culottes had bettered themselves. It could only have been the lottery in this man’s case at Wadi. There was still no minimum wage in Sing. Over the last decade the government had addressed the huge disparities in income with giveaways 2 - 3 times yearly. Aziz estimated the 11- 12incher might have cost Tubby $50-60. Still, at the lower end, this was dough. The older penny-pinchers would often draw attention to 20-30c differences in the prices of tehs.

In the exchanges with Aziz care had needed to be taken. To begin, Aziz had been asked whether perchance the handsome Songkok might have been a mufti or imam.

Az enjoyed fielding enquiries. Any matter, any time. Anything on religion he could enlighten. Nice man. Forty-five year wedding anniversary recently, was it? Six or more adult kids and big number next gen.

After the maghrib the other night when Aziz and shortly after the Songkok returned, the latter reappeared minus the signature lid. Now it was that other colourful item that one sometimes saw in the newspapers, or in wedding parties. Lustrous again, but rich, dazzling lime green here. Originally the article was a wrap that needed to be carefully and tightly folded around the top of the scone, an intricate operation which could only be properly performed by retainers. In his explanations Aziz mentioned Malaysian & Indo royalty.

Like the other, never seen before in the G. Serai quarter. Once or twice the karaoke crew who would return to Wadi after their day out had a lady adorned with something like a tanjut. In the street parades in Yogyakarta, young, heavily-made up girls marched in formation down the middle of Malioboro with something of the kind.

This little guy had brought it out at Wadi. 

TANJUT. Again, Aziz claimed back some of the thunder with remark on his own in the wardrobe. Again, photographic corroboration. One of Az’s promos for the Korban, eventually found on the phone, featured a tanjut that somehow sat less elegantly on an admittedly more handsome mount.

The hapless fall guy in the Laurel & H. seemed like he hadn’t had a wash in many a day. Drab, unkempt & grubby. Rather like the Tubby recently admitted to Chairman A.’s table.

Darts man Jamaal would know of any recent wins in the community. The following morning he had rocked up to Mr. T. T. with another triumph. The ticket was drawn out from Jam’s wallet. Unusually, both Saturday & Sunday Jam had used the same numbers, winners both times.

At a guess, Tubby might have scored a grand or more.

 

 

 

 

   Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-26

 

 

Success

 

This new, improved poison was doing the trick. On Crane Road coming out for supper, a bird with slightly ruffled feathers was not resting or pecking at crumbs. On the next corner at the former Joo Chiat Hotel, another, this time on its back. A Saturday evening between shifts perhaps responsible there; it was unlikely the enviro guys were not going 24/7 with this more concerted campaign. How was the hotel supposed to cope like that, or the shopkeepers on Crane. At the kopi shop on Crane corner numerous diners sat at the tables. Both the hotel and the kopi had re-vamped and renovated over the last few years, in the case of the hotel, extensively. Rates at the latter might be $200 plus now, richer than Tristar around on Onan. Reception would need to send their cleaners out before too long. Oddly, some kind of upscale red meat products, deeply veined, hung in the second window of A Hotel now. Two days ago Darts Man Jamaal had pointed out the dead bird in the gutter of Mr T. T.’s front veranda. (Always first with death notices in the community, Jamaal – on one notable occasion erroneously. Jam could not let even a birdie pass him by.) Despite sitting mornings directly beneath there over the teh & newspaper, the pigeon had completely passed notice. This morning was now four days unattended. Without someone’s report, the bird might stay there many more days still. Drawing attention to it, Jam had also commented on the old Malay who cycled over daily and illegally fed the birds. No good talking to suchlike, Jamaal suggested.

Heads Up

Gerald sent a pre-dawn Flinders Street pic, autumnal cityscape of leaves, dotted colour, bright lights & geometric forms. Generic postcard product that had momentarily captured the man. Oddly, it brought back the old street-performer on the last night on Malioboro. No license was required there, of course, for such as himself. One laughed at the Sing comparison, but Melbourne’s vetting & licensing regime of the street artists was not much different. Coming back from the ITO supper on the other side of the street, the young sandwich-board no smoking guys were encountered. We laughed at the irony up & down the length of the thoroughfare. The old ancient, a serious bantam, fully fledged fly- or flea-weight, who would have fitted into your overcoat pocket, had not slipped from the previous visit 18 months back. On that occasion the show had been thereabouts too, a quiet, pure performance, without any drawing of attention to itself. Only the sudden spell of the routine, if in passing one happened to look in that direction. It was fundamentally a corso evenings on Malio, lazy shoppers, internal tourists, boys with their gals; trinkets, novelties & sweets. The old guy presented modest artistry that he had perfected over the years. There was no container for offerings, just as there was little direct beggary in Indo generally. A casual observer might have thought the man was merely entertaining himself, though of course he was too old for anything of the sort. The drab, worn apparel was the same as a good proportion on the street. (The shoppers were another class, though very much kampung folk themselves.) Eighteen months ago the man had sat the other side of the path, nearer the road, where his little show had involved a coin. Indo coins were almost weightless, thin and quickly scuffed; one knew the denominations by size. Yet this old man, in his late 70s and possibly pitched beyond, had the Rp500 anchored upright on its rim. With a careful flick of his finger it was sent spinning one & one half / two feet and sometimes more across the pavement tiles. Possibly the man had cleaned the surface, or carefully chosen his place. (The whole of Malio & Mangkubumi on the other side of the line was neatly paved now, with lottsa plantings.) Magic. Beautiful. Even a worn, alloy piece incapable of glinting struck an observer turning on itself like that and capering along the street. A few days ago again, mid-eve on Malio, the same man, this time by one of the columns that divided the veranda from the open passage. There was no coin now; possibly none was in the pocket. Instead, here the chap was found among the throng, amidst the dense crowd opposite the large masjid, amidst all the passing feet, standing on his head. Immediately recognised. No mistake. Even down at ground level like that. The little cap had cushioned his scone; with only that aid he could manage to keep himself upright 30 - 40 clear seconds. Free-standing; perfectly vertical. Only here the classical pose failed as the man needed to bend his knees, which had his feet awkwardly splayed outward. Short feet, not so ungainly. Perhaps he was still perfecting his routine, tired or outta practise. Between times he retreated to rest his back against the pillar. The hard, unyielding surfaced had pained. The cap needed to be removed and a few rub, rub, rubs of his thatch made it better; blinking a little. It must have put strain on the neck too. Shortly, one of the pijut further along would restore him, gratis. Those guys & gals could score decent rupiah for a proper kneading. A child-sized artist; an example of the large number of stunted in Indo. Loner too by the looks, like many artists. Modest, persistent, uncomplaining; managing in his own way. This man’s absence, the lack of his kind in the award-winning most liveable city of the world did make it a poorer place, to say nothing of the Sing scene along its premier shopping strip. (The juggler was absent on the last visit to Orchard, when Donald Barthelme’s Sixty Stories was picked up at Kinokuniya ✅✅✅. The vetted buskers were found in place, different now, but same, same. For some reason the guitar-strumming gospel guy on the corner was absent.)

 

 

 

                                     

                                                                                                                          Yogyakarta, Indonesia