The Bonnie Pipes of Singapore

Following from yesterday's reflection on the annual spelling contest conducted here on Saturday for upper Primary school students, something not unrelated. At the funeral yesterday of the founding father of modern-day Singapore atop the Parliament building an aspect of the program raised some consternation. There might have been a flag flying, perhaps lowered, portraits possibly and other familiar symbols. What was unexpected was a group of presumably kilted Gurkha bagpipers squeezing out Old Lange Syne. 
          Should olde acquaintance be forgot....
          A well-established, internationally recognised tune more or less. In Asia however, even the Singaporean sliver of that continent, the matter did raise some eyebrows. Some local critics saw a fundamental incongruity, an absurdity even importing such a completely foreign element into the proceedings. Evidently surprised like some others, the BBC commentator had remarked at the unusual practice.
         In Singapore as elsewhere the upper middle-class send their children to elite Western schools off-shore or on. (Mr. Lee had of course been the beneficiary of a Cambridge education.) The remainder of the populace needed to attain a proficiency in the imposed language in less than ideal circumstances, let us say. In a more natural or normal language environment, high-order attainment might still be possible outside the institutions and the non-English speaking domestic setting. Here how? (To employ the common local vernacular.)
         Even the most proficient English speakers and spellers here might have been severely tested making head or tail of the pipes and Old Lange Syne one feels sure. 
         Would there be ten people on the island capable of rendering the title of the old Scots standard in either contemporary English, or else one of the other languages used in Singapore?
         Politics, class, culture, meritocracy rather a minefield when closely examined.

The English Language & the Making of the Singaporean Middle Class

The 2015 zonal finals in the annual spelling competition here were completed yesterday.
         Prior to proceedings the contestants, ten to twelve year old Primary students, watched a video tribute to Mr. LKY and observed a minute's silence.
         In the Northern Zone six cycles were required to separate the final pair of youngsters with words such as procurante and excrescence. In the end the word that decided the winner was amaranthine.
         Small wonder "the audience at all four zones gasped in amazement and clapped loudly when pupils correctly uttered the letters" of such words, the newspaper reported; other words included onomatopoeia and pecuniary. 
         113 pupils of that age vying yesterday from the island-wide pool of 1,654 original contestants.
         Would there be anything comparable in any city in Britain, the U.S. or Canada? In Australia nothing of quite this kind known to this author. On the day of the founding PM's funeral today one was reminded of one of the stories repeated of the former Cambridge man. At a function of some kind in either London or at the British High Commission where the then PM Mr. LKY lambasted the decline of the English at some length and in some detail it seems — pre-Maggie Thatcher it must have been: the pair shared a great mutual admiration — in reply a respondent in the audience startled the Chinaman by suggesting there was no greater Englishman east of Suez than himself.

NB. The author has long wondered at the numbers of the middle class in this city-state. Perhaps in the region of the 400,000 odd who queued for the former leader’s casket the last four days. (Population 3.5m, with an additional 2m non-residents & foreign workers.)

Green Swathes

Three space-age Lawrence of Arabia lads became five further on. One of them in a close approximation of the red/white Palestinian check tightly wrapped. All had bound their heads close with improvised cloth, long-sleeved tees good for the purpose. Half-eleven the heat still having some way to climb. They had been at it since at least seven one guessed, razoring the grassy inserts between the housing blocks in wide arcs with their whippers. Back-pack harnesses might hold 5-6 litres in the tanks, swishing around on the swing and giving off fumes. Hanging from the rear of one at least a warning to keep clear. The highest sprouts of weed-grass stood 4-5 inches and produced a spongy passage. Not that people strayed from the shaded concrete paths of course walking back to their towers, schoolchildren and elders alike. With tree-shadow after noon an odd figure might be seen crossing diagonally over the soft ground and raising eye-brows as he went. Stopped at the traffic-lights at the Market peds waited behind the poles for the little green man. Once or twice the ride-on has come out for the Haig Road lawn patches; even for the large field beside the Market it is usually the crew of Bangla boys.

Gold Fever

A Royal Treat — 24k Bio-Gold.
Gold Water. Let Your Skin Glow Like Gold. Royal Treat for Luminous, Radiant Skin.... 
Testimonials from Satisfied Users. Film-strip insert at foot of page showing a young filmic "Taiwanese Skincare Guru" applying the cream and awarding a glowing beneficiary, "shoppers in a buying frenzy" and convinced Bloggers shown in smiling line-up.
Prices omitted. (Authorial guess starter at two hundred and fifteen dollars, money back guarantee.)
The presence of gold on the streets here something one from another culture could not possibly imagine. Passing staff at the shops the unavoidable impression of tired dogs hanging at empty bowls; sometimes chins actually down on the glass counter. Usually armed dark-skinned Security Guards in tatty uniforms attending at enterprises where lighting bills possibly exceed that for the aircon.

NB. Headline in a news-story the following day: "Demand for gold in Asia 'set to double by 2030' "
                                                                 S. T.  Thur. 19 March 2015, p. A25

Fairytale Tulips

Necessarily brief.

         A tulip extravaganza opening shortly. Tulips Tropicana spitting distance from the equator.

         For some reason the blue tulip could not be managed, but "black parrot" was on the program. Bulbs wold be grown and harvested at the Dutch supplier, fourteen odd weeks nurtured, before the stock flown over and delivered to the Flower Dome at Gardens by the Bay beside the casino.

         Temperature in the Dome 18C/13 overnight, with shades lowered between 11am - 4pm.

         Twelve day blooms expected; the display kept fresh by staggered re-plantings.

         Colourful selfies; reassuring for high-rollers over-looking from next door; learning opportunities for school excursions.

         Tulipmania is to run seven weeks featuring forty-three varieties totalling seventy-five thousand stems in all over the course. Windmills, elves & girls in clogs with wickerwork baskets assumed.

         Over at the new billion dollar sports stadium meanwhile there were on-going problems with grass on the pitch. Growing sporting green without aircon in challenging conditions was proving exceedingly difficult. (Not directly relevant and not mentioned in this particular item in the newspaper.)

 

 

 

                                                                           Straits Times, 16 March 2015

 

Climate Change Skit in SG

" "Heatwave, food crisis" in Orchard Road"

The home of flagship stores LV, Cartier, Mont Blanc, Rolex, Mui Mui &etc. &etc. housed in Paragon Mall, Tangs Department Store, Takashimaya and the rest. Ion is the other iconic tower certainly with the most developed and refined aesthetic treatment. In front of Ion on Orchard Road this year EARTH Hour will be extended by a WWF installation show-casing the fuller implications of climate change. Promised for shoppers are booths featuring heatwave conditions, mosquito buzzing - highlighting exacerbated dengue concerns - flood and mist-blown booths. The chief attraction a skit set in a supermarket showing the impact of food shortage and the resulting skyrocketing prices. (A neglected aspect of climate change.)
         A show perhaps coming to your city shortly, dear Reader.
                                                                                              Friday 13 March 2015, Straits Times, Home B3

Shut-up Shop - Vale Mr. T. T.

Nearly half eight, Beefy crowing over a 4D $1455 win on Wednesday. That explained his absence the last little while. Took him across to Tanjung Pinang to see the kids and share the bounty. All signature cool sangfroid Beef like you get in some former jailbirds who endured well. Butcher from Haig Road going by with Hellos in company with some young bucks who turned out his sons. One at least a son who had been on $170 a day packets for a good while. The old man had paid the lad generously. 170, 170, 170 before he managed to chuck it aside, in Beefy’s vocabulary. Did the old man not know who had been his dealer, one wondered.

         Fine and clear made it perfect for the Long March, maybe some more little gallops interspersed…. The Long March might shake-out something again from the pages. Maybe. The newly discovered Canadian journal would receive “One Piece Dragon” with any luck, the thing having legs now, three years later after how many revisions. Correction, correction, correction. Writing is re-writing, rightly said the Jap Hideo, who himself wrote in a non-native language.

         Beef quietly getting his red pen out and magnifying glass. A call. Beef doesn’t usually either receive or make calls, old school. The night before he had been waiting for nightfall when he could get to work. Didn’t like too much daylight. Shortly after the triangulations Beef had been talking about on the Form Guide  spread on the table before him. Long finger line, across and back up on the diagonal. Beef “saw” the good, lucky numbers, as well as understood a certain logic in the occurrence and sequence. He regularly drew up little three inch squares of nine or twelve numbers and used the chart to try to explain his systems. The past few weeks he had been talking about the triangles and pyramids. A sneaking suspicion too the fella had decided he might have struck some kind of vein of luck with his writer pal. Strange. Scissors not long after too cutting out a segment for some reason. The magnifier had not been seen before and certainly not the scissors. Soon after taking a seat a little quizzical self-mockery at the figure a Malay would cut with a Chinese broadsheet for passersby.

         Passing too the Widow Shark, nosing by in his black and white check flat-cap. Day or two ago close-up at the drinks counter the thatch was interesting, shaved around the ears and down behind while grown out otherwise and coloured what was an unusual brown russet tone for Geylang Serai. It had been Beef who christened the fellow a few months ago, nailing the man perfectly. Fair guess like many others the Shark was intimidated by Beef. 150 Minute Maid Pulpy Aloe Vera for a swig was another unknown. Beef rarely ever did buy at any of the stalls.

         Last day of the old regime here at Mr. T. T. Monday Hussein from out at Bukit Bartok assumed control—$6.8m from memory. Most of the crew were having a week or two back home in ML before reassignment elsewhere in the chain. (A reminder there were sixteen other Mr. Teh Tariks island-wide.)  The rescuer of pigeons Abdul Majid, lover of ladies, a leading light of the workers here, is off to Chennai for a couple of weeks visiting his wife’s family and at the same time taking the opportunity to re-connect with Ismail the cook out at Pondicherry from the 2011-12 crew. Wonderful boys. Adieu.

Hot Spell

Half of the 1,600 plus kids squeezed into the wide-angled photograph for the preliminary round of the annual Straits Times National Spelling Championship held yesterday. Two halls the size of several basketball courts were needed for the competitors, students from 118 primary schools, 9 - 12 year olds turning up as early as 7: 30am to register. A written round this of 50 more or less tortuous words. Thus proceeds the preparation for life in the little red dot on the Equator.

         Biscuit and crimson brought smiles across the serried ranks, the journo reported; frowns and sighs for dearth, bergamot and tulle…. Tangs on Orchard possibly carries the last for the widow-mourning range and the Ice-boxes at Gardens by the Bay housing the herb.

The Art of Rejection

There had been a brief, two minute reverie early morning soon after waking. Usual thing: after some reassuring revision the day previous the conviction sky-rocketing, affirmation bursting through the clouds. 

         The editorial room at Granta were sharing “Al-Fatiah” among the members, smiles for miles over the floor of the upper storey pile in the grunge/cool end of town. Readers stood against windows for the dim London light flexing the loose sheafs of paper that had buckled in their hands as they followed the story of the strange Muslim birthday party in the Tropics. Nothing quite like it come across any of the desks previously. This was the reason for their openness to all-comers—the unaccountable shot from the dark. (One or two of the US mags would not entertain anything sent by anyone but an agent.) 

         Title of course alerted them immediately to Islam. 

         "In Progress" at Submittable Granta usually took six months; here a matter of weeks.

         — Hey Eric. You seen this thing from Sin’pore?...

         Which led one naturally to a review of the notable—indeed, as it will be shown presently, magnificent—rejections of recent months. Breathtaking missives. As good as a pure, unadulterated hit no doubt; shoot a fellow to the stars.

         Late Melbourne winter brought the first of the season's boosts from ABR — Australian Book Review: long-listing for their Liz Jolley Short Story Competition. 

         Twenty dollars for privileged entry; two or three submitted because the particular judge in this round held promise. If only one could get it into her hands. 

         Bingo! Eight hundred plus entrants winnowed to a mere twenty-two. Less than two dozen; hardly more than a score. A strange one they'd settled on, a football tale set on a river-bank.

         UNFORTUNATELY pro forma when it came was virtually without any sting whatever. Second-stage Short-list would have been preferable of course. Alack the day. What to do? as they sighed on the Equator. 

         Pro forma was Boston Agni too, though that was unknown at the time.

Dear ......

Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read…… We found the writing lively and interesting and enjoyed reading it. After careful consideration, we've decided this manuscript isn't right for us, but please consider sending other work in the future.

This is not our customary rejection. We hope you'll keep us in mind.

Kind regards,

The Editors

P.S. Without submissions like yours…. Please click here for a discounted subscription rate offered as a thank-you to our submitters.

        

         Couldn't get carried away; a buzz nevertheless. More buzz even than disappointment in this case. Agni had published how many Nobel winners, both early and late career? Cathcart, Best American, Pulitzers. You could justifiably cream your jeans over the near-triumph.

         Google to confirm: “Agni rejection letter”. They ran two. One was flat steam-roller; two cited above. 

         Shooting the follow-up submission with cool “thank you for yr recent encouragement” 5 - 6 weeks later after much anxious revision, much pondering over selection from the heavy drawer, in fact elicited the same thing again from Boston Ag. Same as before: Thank you.... lively and interesting and enjoy... please more....

         Two fine rejection notes from top-shelf East Coast USA. Close, but not close enough, and second naturally hardly matched the first for charge.

         Between times Google had revealed the pro forma. Not a specially penned letter to the author personally. (A suspicious writing friend had suggested promotional exercise.) 

         You might be in the league somewhere Bud, knocking on the door. Keep at it tiger. 

         Agni only paid $150 max, or $20 per page, but they didn't need to offer more. Agni — Sanskrit for burning flame, enlightenment, the Holy Grail. You wanted them for that alone.

         One problem was material from the Equator up in the U.S. of A. WTF?... What in the heck of lure was there even among a literary readership for Malay ethnic stories and reportage in the States? The Malays? There had not even been much of Islam in the two 4,500 worders sent. Nothing instantly tangy. No go Joe. What to do?

         The Brits were a better option: colonial ties, Malaya Emergency, Fall of Singapore. Cheap holidays were still popular in Penang and some of the other islands. There were nothing like as many journals and mags in the UK. (An Australian writer based on the Equator had positioned himself outside his natural territory. Disqualified, estranged himself. No crying over that spilt milk.)

         For reasons of delicacy and reluctance to expose sources, the name of the mag. concerned in this culmination must remain nameless. The UK as much as this writer cares to divulge. The North…. And colour/s in the title.

         Submission had been sent about twelve months before. Relevant issue published end of year previous. Notice had come of the publication; nothing of specific news otherwise.

         Not all the journals and magazines responded of course, one had gotten used to that. Snowed; small, often volunteer/intern crew. Lit. mags were precarious; one needed to strike one on the up, editor with a bit of vim and vigour. Some government or institutional support that had spin-off promotional value.

         There had been a “massive” delay the Ed. Department in the north of the old dart....

         What set this young outfit apart was the laudable principle of replying personally to all submissions received. A real, personal note that demonstrated the submission had been hefted, read and pondered. Most of the top tier ran at about 1,000 per month in the mail bag. Most of the top, middle and lower tier too warned writers not to expect anything other than pro forma in the case of rejection, apologies in advance. Understandable.

         Two weeks ago the cheer from the UK people in question:

P…

Sorry for the massive delay in writing back to you. We had tonnes of subs and like to write to everyone individually.

Although we couldn't include your pieces for …. (now available here….) we all really liked the pieces and shortlisted them too. They both demonstrate a real flair and energy with language which we loved. Brutal, cunning, acerbic and beautiful. Very stimulating work. We're going to open up for submissions soon, and we really hope you'll consider sending us work again.

All Best

X

For REJECTION.

         Only the coldest heart could have been anything other than elated. In the case of this particular magazine, however, this was second time around too. The year before other work had met with similar…(froth?). 

         A decent editorial standpoint certainly. 

         "Beautiful" had been in the previous response too. Really creamy appreciation that had led to a forwarding to the writing circle. Guys! Take a look at this willya! Feast your eyes guys!

         Then just the other day a sweet young angelic femme in the same office in the cold north of the former powerhouse wrote again. It was a surprise to receive another mail from the same source. 

         For a few moments thoughts of a turnaround. Re-consideration. Were they immediately wanting to claim for the following issue?... 

         A welter of rapid thoughts at the appearance in the In-box. 

         Well no, not to be. But not bad again. Somehow piles and division of labour had gotten confused. 

         Another rich appreciation of the same rejected pieces second time round falling at the last hurdle. Important to add here too, the particular piece this young woman found so compelling was heavily laden with brutish sex and violence; in one sequence a fellow threatened with hard, lube-less fucking no quarter given. Inspired nonetheless to write the sharp-eyed young intern:

Hello P

Thank you so much for choosing to send these through to us here at…. Secondly, sorry for the massive delay in getting back to you, considering the volume of submissions we received…. it really has taken us this long to reply to everyone personally.

The editorial team was huge for ….. and decisions had to be unanimous. Unfortunately we couldn't include your work this time. I really enjoyed your syntax and narrative structure, it is so curious! I was absolutely fascinated by your writing style, I haven't quite come across something like it before.

I hope you will think about sending us....

X…… is also out now and available here....

Warm Wishes,

Z

General editor

         Slowly biting down on the bile. Dusting off and mounting the steed once more. Third time lucky perhaps. 

         What might ACCEPTANCE bring from these lads? (In lieu of payment.) 

         And Honesty Association's shining bright badge demands frank admission: after subsequent revision months later the pieces concerned here were all found to fall some wee way short of utterly & blindingly compelling. A bee’s dick short. Granted.