Wives and Devotions (Sept25) - published Orbis UK

The library attendant divorced by the Hadrami madu trader Mr. Syed off to a free class upstairs on the corner with a friend in tow. The ustad there ministered without commercial motive, only a token of appreciation made at end of class. Good guy, every Sunday they come over for him. Once a week was not enough either, the friend declared… But then they could study further in their own time, the Hadith and the commentaries, right? (One did know how to conduct these conversations after almost six years.) Oh yes, indeed. Yes… The social outing and sisterhood was worth something however. (A wild guess would be the friend was a divorcee herself; nothing of widowhood hanging about her.) The separation from Mr. Syed had passed with little pain two years ago.  I don’t care. Let him go his way—something like conveyed up in the stacks at the library at the time. For a term the pair remained friends, taking lunch together at G. Serai, Ex. continuing to assist with the honey trade. On his side Mr. Syed was still full of bouncing beans, the flame quite unquenched. (Gatal, itching the Malays term that restless keenness.) There had been a bevy of replacement candidates for Mr. Syed. Photographs were frankly displayed. As one would expect for an Arab, all veiled, demure and devout ladies, caught in various malls beside posters, floral arrangements & shiny escalators. The prevailing frumpiness was surprising for an old lad like cheeky Mr. S., bright-eyed player that he was. One of the candidates, a Malay from Johor, clearly stood out, head and shoulders above the others. Divorcee. Some of the women were widows, but most divorcees like Mr. Syed. Twenty-five plus years age difference in the case of the Johor gave Mr. S. pause. That needed to be weighed, judiciously and realistically. In the end sense had prevailed, the KL option winning out. Understandably. One was asking for trouble otherwise, Mr. Syed well knew. A good marriage, all in order, Mr. S. reported back. Nonetheless the messaging with Johor had continued. Mr. Syed showed a draft poem that was giving him bother. The woman had written in poetic terms herself of deep-felt disappointment; Mr. Syed had shown that mail too, proudly. Conforming to the regular plot, the correspondence was discovered. Snooping got the new wife what she deserved. Mr. S. did not mince matters: his heart was divided. How could the pair continue in the nicely regulated way they had quickly established, if Mr. Syed was unhappy? The wife should understand. All was provided for the woman; nothing lacking. (Mr. S. had made his case to her with frankness.) The woman in the picture on Mr. Syed’s phone appeared years younger than fifty. With the absence in JB, further developments were unknown as yet. Did the library-attendant Ex. know of this pretty pass? As in Jane Austen novels with the vicars, the women here in Geylang Serai often developed serious crushes on the more charming ustads delivering the knowledge on the Prophet, on the hardship of Islam’s foundation years, the subsequent rapid success and glory, the troubles, perversions and misunderstandings. The current horrors of course. (All of these community leaders were carefully vetted and monitored by the authorities, of course.) One heard glowing reports; photographs commonly displayed, honied voices reported. Deep learning, tender compassion and humility particularly impressed.

NB. Published Orbis #180 (Summer 2017)

https://jehannedubrow.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/Orbis180Aug.pdf

Pages 50-51

 

Classic Evergreens (Oct25)

 

There's no end of it here, a rich, extensive cornucopia of the old faves, the more corny the better. Easy listening James Taylor currently. Took a few secs to put the face & loose suit with the name. Barely fashionable flatcap. One less than easy shy songster. You saw guys with mugs like that in the outer of football grounds down in the South half century ago, puffing on a fag out the corner of their mouths. Strange for stars now, even little old twinklers. (Or perhaps not so little, given the reported 100m sales.) Engelbert & Tom had toured recently on stopovers; the guy from the States too from childhood not long after Fred A. & Gene K. In his case a picture had never been seen before from that old radio era—Paul Anka possibly. Sin’pore fitted in the loop arranged for the international order of corp heads, middle rung managers & tech specials. No doubt Donald gave the same a run at the club in Florida after the golf tournaments. One often heard complaints here from the youngsters paying top dollar that the Stones and others didn't turn it on like they remembered on their HK vinyl. Tuesday night at the Star James did something remarkable, the newspaper revealed. The song-list was not remarkable: Country Road, Carolina In My Mind and “the Carole King classic he made his own” — You've Got a Friend. (“Don't worry," he reassured fans who might be unfamiliar with the couple new items on the program, "they sound just like the old ones.") What was remarkable during the almost three hour concert at the Star Theatre was a twenty minute interval where the artist sat on the edge of the stage signing autographs, shaking hands and taking selfies with the fans… The latter was put to excellent effect in these parts by the superbly remunerated politicians in meet-and-greets in the “heartland”, sweetly reproduced in all the media. On which subject a new Chinese app was currently challenging Instagram and Snapchat with its options for lightening skin tone and rounding eyes. “Our mission is to make the world more beautiful… Our wish is to build a beauty ecosystem.” Google Meitu.

 

                                                                                                                        Singapore, 2011-25

More Limp & Droopy Porn

Junior grade C-suck perfectly sufficient here in this kiasu lottery of life. (Mr. Ng was right on the money yesterday morning coming out of the local Cheers with his 4D ticket. “Buying 4D is a job in Singapore.”) The youth, the impressionable, malleable young fed this Novichok at every turn from all quarters without pause load upon noxious load. A naïve artistry in the copywriting is the hallmark in the mimicked first world culture. SOLO Acres—the shining sun for the second vowel, when the truth was the alluring shade in the desirable half of the photograph: — greenery to die for on the deforested island. Young married couple turned back for the camera as they stride into the future, bride trailing her gossamer veil metres behind. Ahead lay the two options before the pair: left the drab HDB towers for losers (Living Happily Ever After?); while right (Living Fantastically Ever After In Style?) the condo portico featuring front of house luminescent pool & design motifs. (The choice is clear.) Page 16; which came after I AM THE Star of Kovan (page 9), Coco Palms and Forest Woods (p. 10), Live the Lush Life @ the Glades (p. 12), split by a new line of Luxury Frontrunners in-between. (Buffed and gleaming chariots like cut jewels.)

         The condo banquet through the Saturday pages as sumptuous as the food Sundays.

God Bless & Blimey Jan25 pol

Bald Bushy declined top range weave or implant, because it would be problematic rounding up the steers, possibly. I think I told you of the rich gay guy here spending...I forget now exactly how much. $350 might have been monthly on the upkeep. (One would seriously never tell.) Saw pic of Hil arriving seemingly sans make-up & Bill beside her not a happy camper. Now, according to the Malaysian media, Mich looks like she put on a glum face and clapped only halfheartedly. Reckon it’s stretching things that crack about Putty calling his hookers best on the globe. That would definitely qualify as fake news. And I do believe Don on that score. It's not likely, come on, the jokes about his hair color. (You might not believe this either, but I saw cow urine on the shelves of a place in JB. Not that that would come into calculations with Trumpet, or those so inclined. Price RM3.20 from memory, just tipping a dollar.) Anwar no dice, it’s not going to happen I'm afraid, they have got the show all locked up tight there. But breaking news here in this happy neighboring republic. It cannot really be committed to paper, a little dangerous. Citizen pretty close to top of the pile here, toppling over the apex and nobody expecting, family man with 3-4 kids, looks like he goes both ways in fact. Chappie providing the news over dinner last night was adamant, people at all the clubs and lodges whatnot have known for years. Personal assistants all handsome young lads ringing round, a masseur to die for. Some months ago too same informant conveyed the news about Paul down there. Equally adamant in that case, too. Why do you think he divorced Anita? fellow challenged. You heard any whisper?

NB. Pol. scuttlebutt a month ago on Inaugeration Day, fished outta the files.

On the Slog (CNY)

During the two hours at Feidu last night hashing over the submissions the boss gifted a thick slice of yellow watermelon from Malaysia. Wordlessly coming around from behind with a full tissue pack beneath, the fruit was placed two-handed in the narrow space between keyboard and screen, like an offering on an altar. 

Graceful gesture. 

For CNY the offer to join the table on the pavement had been shyly declined and beers and other food on numerous earlier occasions before that. This time there could be no avoidance.

The following morning the Mainland sweep in the lorong opposite the hotel jumped from his tricycle to photograph his gutter along Geylang Road, then both sides of the lorong. 

A sense of duty or conscience led the man to go over to collect a couple of stray items behind one of the pot plants on the right that could not have been visible in the shot. 

You winced and muttered to yourself going on from there.

Having forgotten last night’s print meant a return to the room. Almost at the half-way point at City Plaza the realization dawned. Damn! Will I/Won’t I? 

The morning prior to the paper and the teh was always good for clear-eyed revision, if there was any in the pipe-line. 

Ya, gotta do it. (One recalled Rade from the neighbourhood back in Melbourne, who was superstitious about such retracing of steps. On visits Rade also always insisted on leaving by the same door he had entered.) 

Coming back there was the same group at the bus-stop outside City Plaza. Young chap with his wife who bore a large tattoo on her calf, couple of kids and oldies on the adjoining bench. 

Malaysian or Filipinos perhaps hanging overlong. Did they need directions? They looked lost. Where were they going? Pergi mana?

Didn’t seem to understand English at first. 

Geylang, the husband finally answered.  

Geylang?... But man, you’re arrived. This is Geylang…. Nomber?... 

They didn’t need a street number…. 

Iz OK. We know where we go. Just resting…

Ah. That was it then. They were beat; wearied by the footslog. 

Even with the Easterly and the cloud these guys were done, chap and his wife more than the older generation it looked. 

Bus tickets for six rough-riders would cost near enough ten dollars, even just up to Middle Geylang.

NB. A piece kept in draft form previously. Gong xi fa chai!

Zephyr (Nov25)

On our old football ovals down in the South these February winds of late might have been judged worth five or six goals. Captains tossed the coin and the winner decided in which direction their team would kick. Coming "straight down the guts" of Geylang Road the strategy would have been long bombs to Chaddy in the square; Tony Gaggino was another big marking target — when those lads were available. Chaddy often missed with illness, with failure to get a lift from Sunshine and late in the season cricket commitments. (Like another of our lads, Chaddy would go onto high-level district cricket, sharing partnerships with big retired international names; on one occasion telling of a former Australian captain bowling up to a woman in the social club and, in the Australian version of celebrity gumption, asking her straight-out for a fuck.) Conventional wisdom was you always took the wind if you had the opportunity; later it might die off, or rain arrive. For a captain schooled by old Bab that went against the grain. One did not leap to easy offerings: put in the hard yards first, dig deep and put on the squeeze, then in the second quarter after you had achieved something, you could cruise. Catching the pill in the wind was tricky for sky-jumpers, the big blow making judgment difficult and also disturbing one's equilibrium & rhythm. A leather rocketing in the wind was almost as bad as a slippery ball in the wet. The last couple weeks the sky galleons have been sailing the empyrean here afternoons & early evenings, when usually they stood as if painted onto the heavens. Hanging out the washing from the bathroom window required not only a second hanger to tighten the play on the brass fastener; better also a bulldog clip to further restrain movement. With some colour in the clouds the drama of dusk through supper was turned up a notch. When the other evening the call to prayer came on over somebody's radio the whole stage was elevated to another plane. (At the former Labu Labi one of the workers always turned up the call shortly after 7pm, a captivating moment in that phase of slow darkening that first gathered in the pavement trees.) Currently the bura, bora from the Alps would be belting down on the Montenegrin coast; up in the interior around Belgrade one would need to keep one's mouth clamped tight against the biting cold. Invariably due easterly at ground level in lower Geylang here, whereas at the heights the cloud movement suggested northerly. Almost entirely absent through this period, some heat creeping on today. The remainder of the year there was not the merest breath of air. (Another of the deprivations one wanted to blame on the PAP. Forest greenery would have made up for that lack.)

Easy Brother

Fellow man van driver; you're in the bus. Two panes of glass between, one reinforced maybe. Pointy fellow looks a bit like a raccoon; you more than likely one of the ape family. Stopped at the lights, Malaysian-Indian chap can do it leaning his chin on his shoulder at a glance: Not much hey?... Yeah, well, pal…. The lads in Southern Serbia, Uros and the others, would murmur, Da ga jebes. Just like the other not an interrogative; literally, To fuck it. Sense being, This life: you fuck it, you're still back where you started. Square one; cannot be done. You're the one fucked ultimately. Da ga jebes. Sharing it though helped, as the van driver knew. (The more common and polite among the Indians in particular in these climes, — What to do? hardly an adequate substitute.)