Publication news: In Parentheses - “Fighters”

Hallo all

A publication to announce.

Recently a US lit & art magazine called In Parentheses has published a short politico-travel piece of mine titled “Fighters.” Fragments again here from my corner of Sing, Melbourne town & the fascinating Pakistani quarter of old Chow Kit in KL, that every Malaysian raises eyebrows upon hearing.

Paper & digital in this case, and costing; the latter $4.20 here—

https://inparenthesesmag.wordpress.com/2019/10/15/now-available-in-parentheses-fall-issue-2019/

(Six years later posted here below now.)

Cheers

P

Zdravo i veselo vi moji orlovi

Americko izdanje opet. Kratak politiko-putnicki komad koji u ovaj slucaj kosta— $US4.20 PDF / papirni $15

Fighters—Borci.

Vidite vi koji mozete.

Puno, puno pozdrava

Pavle

  

Fighters


 

Jets

Pair of late sixties Yankies next table for breakfast. In the Muslim quarter. Jet crossing understandably draws their notice, chap with his back to the flight path needing to swivel around in order to get a proper look. Any educated, affluent American male traveler ought be able identify expensive military hardware of this level sold to an ally. What was the proportion of the U. S. labor force employed in the armaments industry, 1 in 12? Fellows returned prematurely to their hotel around the corner. Sequestered within under the aircon they will miss the lads coming in for lunch, often near a dozen, one every two minutes as the kettles in the mess-halls boil. (But perhaps this is dangerous information to publish.) Nice enough chaps drinking teas here of course, quiet and thoughtful. Hardly obese. Arrived from other allied territories no doubt, — Thailand, Malaysia, South Korea. Wives laying in. Heat was mentioned during the conversation. Even if they were from the Florida Keyes or New Mexico, something else entirely here merely ducking between taxis, restaurants and hotels.

                                                                                                                    Geylang Serai, Singapore





Blackbird

This Blackbird model from as far back as the 60's was it? did 3,500 kms per minute, not hour. London to NY in the time of a city commute. Thing flew so high and fast Soviet radar of the time was unable to detect it. In the picture book the various thin-finned bombers and fighter jets we drew in school dropping their payloads came back. The designers at Fighter Command had some of the boy in them too of course. Lots of creased and crumpled, shaggy-haired and rumpled old boys remained struck by it all even now, by the human invention and mastery: planes, boats, cars, artillery, bridges, mines, tools and gadgets. Ingenuity and imagination to burn. You had to hand it to those guys, the technicians and scientists beavering away. In Afghanistan right now, says this bright-eyed fallen angel, this sewer rat star-gazing plumber still plying his trade, the satellites are able to pick up the dirt under the fingernails of people down on the ground. Zoom-Zoom-Zoom-zoom-ZOOM. Central command in the control room able to tell the difference instantly between peasants and Taliban in disguise plotting terror. All the get-up in the world won’t help the latter. 

                                                                                                                        St. Kilda, Melbourne

Three Cups

Five or six steps in the unfolding reminiscent of a magic show; audience drawn along.... Prior to the teh arriving it was a carafe of water. No sign food scraps, crumbs nowhere visible. At the approach of the waiter earlier the older man had pulled a long face, a House of Horrors' mask that would have frightened any child passing. A natural no need tuition: dropping the jaw, lowering the fangs, eyes like from deepest underground caverns. Lads in company were still in their twenties, though older looking. Possibly ten years older himself, looking older still the leader. Whatever may have been exchanged between the pair—waiter and patron—the face pulled had said enough. Three cups delivered, the yellow Kiddie-land mugs they used at Restoran Mehran on Jalan Ipoh out toward Kampung Bahru. Turning aside away from the table the man takes one cup, pours, serves. Takes another. Pours. Serves. Collects the third; same again. All even and square. No cigarettes. A phone however was essential; the leader had one of those. There was little doubt. What else could it have possibly been? Flickering looks around the place waiting for they were unsure what. Teh at Mehran was RM0.80 — twenty or twenty two cents. Old clay oven on the street for nan same as Ras Balouch up the road. A dedicated Paki enclave. Later the old guy was gifted a ciggie by the tall young blade with good English turned up in his auto with hope of something in the offing possibly.    

                                                                                                                                          Kuala Lumpur 

 

The Artist Philippe Vranjes

Three or four good, accidental meetings with the artist Philippe Vranjes over these number of weeks. Philippe had been recovering from a bad cold and hadn’t been able to make a time in the first little while; after which the man might have intuited the shared preference for the accidental. All smooth and well as usual at the get-togethers. It had been an unusual first meeting with Philippe, or acquaintance in fact, twelve or thirteen years ago. Faisal at the d’Afrique café in Nicholson Street had mentioned the hospitalisation of one of his regulars, the quiet tall White guy with that look about him. The man had no one in the country, Faisal reported; he was unwell; he ought to be visited. It was a kind of appeal, on humanitarian grounds. No meeting of eye, much less words exchanged with Philippe at the time. French-Algerian, Faisal informed. At Western General he could not be found; he had been discharged it seemed. Understandably, Philippe was rather startled at the matter when he was informed some weeks later, but didn’t say too much; not even really offering thanks for the solicitude. Fruit had been bought for the invalid. Philippe talked art in a way that was convincing and compelling. He seemed older than his fifty years (at the first meeting he had been short of forty). Philippe would be turning fifty in a few weeks in the middle of a lagoon in the SW wilderness of Tasmania. For the past couple of years he had been exploring the Grampians and from there went down into the bottom of the continent, where the roar of the Southern Ocean crashed onto the beaches along the coast. A fortnight’s trek would begin in early November. The lagoon was two days out of a place called Cockle Creek, a strange settlement populated with a few hundred people whose descendants went back to the whalers settled there a hundred and fifty plus years ago. A protected heritage area, largely unexplored, where these descendants were allowed to remain in their great tents and various shelters. Building was prohibited in the area. Gathering firewood was permitted this folk, fishing rights and hunting too it may have been. Southern Cross flags were flown at the township, the local men sporting big bushy beards. Many of the landmarks through the area carried French names from early explorers. Philippe had ventured there three or four times, read numerous trekking and walking accounts. Philippe was meticulous in his preparations—precisely 20kg pack, food for two weeks with appropriate nutritional requirements, emergency satellite tracking. A Ranger inspected visitors and checked their packs. In the event of any kind of mishap a helicopter would be needed for rescue. The first part of the lagoon Philippe had investigated some months previously and the dense forest on the Eastern side was entered a few dozen metres. Within that dark thicket only smallest shreds of sky had been visible. There was a great deal of rain in the area; drenchings were common and sun for drying apparel rare. The Why? was impossible to answer for Philippe, understandably. A strong compulsion drove the man and the talk beforehand was a little beside the point. There might possibly be some indefinable artistic outcome from the upcoming venture. Earlier trekking posts on Philippe’s Instagram had won a few hundred followers. As with some other encounters with personally important artists and writers, the talk with Philippe had preceded exposure to the work—work that had subsequently been found strong. It was another rather unusual, happy accident of the same kind as with other artists. Looking at Philippe’s Instagram portfolio with him over lunch at our African cafe, the strength of the images was no surprise. Striking, intriguing pictures these that raised questions and challenges. In the remote locales of forests and creeks Philippe sometimes donned colourful clothing of his own manufacture; striking and elaborate cross-dressing kind of apparel. Like traditional people the world over in such territories responding to their habitat, Philippe agreed. The body of preliminary work sighted on Instagram strongly persuades belatedly signing up to that platform. Philippe was estranged from his Bosnian father, whose family name referenced a large Southern Serbian town. It was another point of contact with Philippe.

A small sample of the photos provided by Philippe:

https://www.instagram.com/philippevranjes/?hl=en

The Captain (June25)

50, 60 or 70 cars streaming below in the time it took to cross the old footbridge. Four lanes either direction, 80kms per hour with perhaps 25m in length. The foundations for the new footbridge had been prepared one side, which would no doubt be a handsomer form than the old that linked with the Federation Trail stretching to Werribee, 25kms out. Various memories of the old bridge during schooldays. Poor young George Golic, couple years below in the junior forms, had been rescued once when he was set upon by a bigger boy. In fact it may have been all playfulness there at the entryway, but nevertheless, whimpy little George was spared  anything further that day and the perpetrator given a fright. You didn’t mess with compatriots when the school football captain was passing, fella! A spiky-haired Pole or Ukrainian, getting too big for his boots. George’s father was a Serb, an older man who had married a younger German woman once the labour camps had been liberated. For the German fray after the war there had been a shortage of men. In Australia after that wave of post-war immigration the reverse was found, which resulted in chaps circling blonde, mismatched Mrs Golic. In that same year near where George had been rescued the football captain had once been ambushed by a group of lads from an opposing team, an inferior outfit which had been well beaten some weeks previously. At the head of this party lying in wait was the tough nut Joe Sacco, who had already left school and had a job at one of the meatworks, At Smorgans and the others there boning & slicing knives were employed. There were three or four of the Seddon lads, with Joe at their head, awaiting their chance. Returning from lunch at home and coming upon the party, wisest course was to get your ass well outta there, pronto. Speedily down Fogarty Avenue to the creek and around back home, the long way round. A stumpy Maltese stood little chance against a thoroughbred with a head start. Fisticuffs might have been another matter. With the cars hurtling beneath there was often a jet risen in the big Northern sky, winging from the airport. After the best part of a decade sequestered in the concrete canyons of Singapore, the wide vista dropped like a screen over your eyeballs. Following the low winter skies further expanse was offered early autumn, an encouraging, calming field of limitless scope. Up on the sides of the village shepherding, up at the high summer pastures, all the ancestors across the generations had entered the great skies above and travelled between the clouds with their herds. One old prorok, prophet from Village Uble was famously said to have anticipated the advent of the aeroplane, claiming at some point early in the previous century that a day would arrive when donkeys, if not pigs, would fly. Back at the house two possums had been caught in the hire cage and taken down to the gum-lined rail-line at the bottom of the street. Despite this, the quiet mocking screech behind the plaster at the foot of the stairs continued mornings going down for breakfast. What kind of animal was that? How did it get in and out of the roof? The thinking now was that perhaps a shrill may have been involved. A couple evenings ago checking the seal on a presumed access point up on the ridge of the roof, a dark shadow had suddenly flitted below from the direction of the neighbour behind. Wha! Whoooo!… All uncanny quick-time. Wings had beat under the alcove of the house, glossy and darkly black. At that speed the sudden rise that would have been needed to avoid crashing into the closed gate around the corner of the Studio would have been quite something to behold. Hard down on the joystick and eyes shut tight, Birdie! What was most striking was that the bird had passed hard-by the lounge-room windows in front, between them and the thick posts holding the room above. Hard by the near post, left at the corner in order to avoid the entry porch and ninety degrees! An eye of an needle threaded around that corner, at such reckless speed. 

Alexievich Vol. 5

Reading Alexievich again, the fifth volume now of hers, the most recently translated Last Witnesses: Unchildlike Stories—which actually dates from the mid-80s, when the Russian original chronicling childhood memories of WWII was published. Astonishing material again, the same as all her previous work; one page after another in the first third that has been read thus far.
         Two particular thoughts occur at this point. One is the remarkable testimony her work provides from so-called common humanity. Again her witnesses are often workers, cooks, cashiers, locksmiths and printers; the professional classes are largely in the minority. And yet what articulations are offered by these unlikely commentators. With what force and penetration do their voices ring out.
         The record presented is quite literally stunning; a reader needs to pause regularly every little while to absorb the matter. This great tide of human experience held within short fragments carries a weight of feeling and insight that overloads the mind one episode after another. The genesis from such sources is remarkable and conclusive; it is unlike any other example one can bring to mind from the cannon, or from anywhere else in cultural record.
         A couple of years ago a friend here in Melbourne had been read some passages from the post-war Soviet period book (Secondhand Time); after two or three paragraphs his suspicions were quickly raised. Such words as these could not have emerged from some anonymous nobody, a postal worker or radio technician, the listener suggested. Authorial manufacture was the understandable thought.
         The second point that occurred was what did literature such as this suggest for all the writing schools everywhere in our Western form, the most notable included among the rest. Enough has been seen now of the famed Iowa classes to suggest something may be amiss, or at least highly questionable, in that much celebrated workshop model. The remove from the communal, shared experience is the most pertinent matter.
One carried Alexievich around like a prayer book. Like a rock someone had given you that must be transported to a summit or some promontory, it was spontaneously expressed some days ago to the doubting Thomas cited above.
The Buchenwald segment just now (p. 132-36) presenting the darkness from the smoke of the chimney and the captivation of a yellow flower in the field where the transported labourers worked was overwhelming.

Publication news: Murder at the Haig - OJAL

Howdy all

A recent publication to announce over in Boston, in the US of A.
The outfit is called Open: Journal of Arts & Letters (OJAL); the piece “Murder at the Haig,” a short flash again from my corner of Sing.
Free access here—

http://ojalart.com/?s=murder+at+the+haig

HOME - O:JA&L ojalart.com O:JA&L has an eclectic aesthetic to satisfy our audience’s demand for freshness and variety. Arresting art and writing of nearly every stamp and style.

Or here:

https://ojalart.com/radonic-prose-poem/

Best of the best to all
Pavle