Trust Deficit

This Kassim guy!! Oh my. Grievously tedious; in the extreme. Sputtering conversation from the get-go finally had the man asking whether he could have a look at the front part of the paper. Of course, of course. Flipping pages. The failed Summit that was scheduled to take place here gave pause. That Kim Jong-un fellow in the photo couldn’t be trusted. Shaking of head like a disappointed parent over a child. What? And Trump can be? Pompeo? In the photo Pompeo was shaking the former’s hand at their meeting the week before in Pyongyang. Too late for the old gangster flicks for Pompeo. Real life had overtaken all creative brain-storming in Hollywood. Parody was out in the US, side-lined and made redundant, it had been declared some months before. Mr. Kassim wasn’t ready for any broadsides. Drawing in of lips, cheeks as he struggled with the challenge. The man would not own he had been a Najib supporter exactly, but sodomite Anwar had always given trouble. Was it really a politically trumped-up charge?... At least it was good to hear a ring of sincerity in the disowning of the conservative mullahs of PAS over there in the north of the peninsular. Not to Mr. Kassim’s liking. Kassim’s style was more quiet contemplation, patient focus on Allah and his received word. Those loud PAS granddads were too much. One previously unknown addition to the store on Islam was delivered by Mr. Kassim before he finally left for his shopping. Apart from the obligatory Friday, ordinarily Kassim did not attend the mosque. Occasionally if the mood took Kassim then maybe another additional day. In the last week of Ramadan there was a particular attendance at the mosque that was especially beneficial to worshippers. Attendance for the sermon and prayer on that particular day in fact assured a worshipper all his sins of the past year would be absolved, no less. All sins absolved for the attendee until the following year, when presumably the same recourse might be taken. Only thing was the particular day of absolution in that last week of the month of Ramadan was unknown. It was one of the last days of the seven day cycle: that much was clear. In the last stretch before Eid and the New Year people would rush around shopping and whatnot, slipping in their focus. This was a useful measure to return worshipers to proper contemplation, Mr. K. explained. Thank god and all the angels Mr. Kassim had not really been double-barrel blasted. Just a little explosion at the judgment on these politico supremos. No one would claim Jong-un was an oil painting either—certified killer, fratricide what’s more. But fat Pompeo in his suit jacket, one of Trumpet’s cabal was a fright to behold. Trumpet for heaven’s sake, Mr. Kassim. Where are your bearings?... There had been far too many heads of ghastly corrupt operators and thugs paraded on Malaysiakini recently claiming one thing and another in their rear guard denials & subterfuge. One after another lughead in their smart attire, years of arrogant power evident in all their utterance and bearing. Even in the stills one could immediately see it. The faces of new reformers could immediately be picked and distinguished from the disgusting old crew that had brought such shame to the Malays and almost ruined the country. Kassim popping by to opine on the North Korean scion was exceedingly bad timing. An old Raffles Boy Kass. Most of those anointed old boys of that generation were of a piece: collars without fail, shoes never sandals, square-head hair-cuts and in every case not muddying the waters with any tufts no matter how stout in belief. The male version of the Goody two-shoes teacher’s pet back in the day. No animus intended, truly. Just, you know, certain days & certain topics. The voicing of uninformed ignorance got one’s goat some days. The conditioning was a concern more than anything. One could hit flat rock bottom thinking about societal pressures and process, the development of judgment & critical thinking in a body politic. Some skerrick of independent standpoint and courage would not go astray.

Flat Spot (Aug23)

Running aground somewhat quart after three after lunch and the walk round to the library. As in most cities, refuge at the library when the church or other sanctuary was not available. Such vacancy indeed that in the end Yanasagaran was messaged for a possible meet. (The man must be given more of a chance, his circs. appreciated and due allowance granted, especially in the month of Ramadan. The example of the best Muslims in the community has rubbed off a bit.) A look for Eileen Chang at a couple of the stores fruitless. 1960s - 70s HK Chang keeps popping up in references; time she was given a look. Even the young tubby lad running the bookstore at the base of Bras Basah Complex knew of Eileen Chang. Recently they had had her on their shelves, Tubby remembering the green spine. At lunch a woman with young boy at the KV table could not be judged whether maid or mother. A little attractive and with fine quiet manner. Eventually a glimpse of the little fellow as he hoed into his food delivered the shining essence of the mother in the triangle of nose and mouth. The genetic encoding that gives people such joy and reassurance. Sreco moja! Oci moje drage. My fortune! My dear eyes!... The woman’s eyes had dimmed over the years; early on she had gleamed brightly beside her own mother just like this little mite now sitting opposite her. Ogledalo moje, Mirror mine, fond and loving Montenegrin mothers will also coo over their children. Another kiddie show in practice here for the weekend presumably. The children’s parents would not be so far removed from the fun of animation either, easy to imagine their up-tilted faces on the chairs in the audience and pointing out features to the little ones at their side. In that echo chamber the practice volume over the sound system that had been installed was like a sudden burst of terrorists onto the concourse with all guns blazing. Sing-along tunes in fake kiddie slang jolly-jolly-jolly, aren’t we all having so much fun. (Did this kind of production still work for the screen generation of little ones?) At the pissoire notes had been embedded in a little groove on the top of the unit which without glasses could not be deciphered properly. BOOK BUGS?... (You think you might be able to take a leak in Singapore without being assaulted by the marketing you’ve got another think coming.) Bugsters’ Bash was promised here on the little painted back-drop back of stage. The performers in the felt get-up might be closely monitored here—every chance of someone expiring in the middle of the routines. The overcast was a godsend for all today. One could imagine how disturbed Yana would have been when the low-level babble at KV always had the man shifting in his seat and casting toward the door. “The Hook” one of the women at the Hanis tables had been mining; (biz. strategy rather than gothic/suspense). But that was nothing. Out on North Bridge footing back a young Mainland tourist he may have been wheeling his own and his girl’s suitcases proclaimed boldly on his chest like the proper contemporary Superhero, Conquer Everything.

Curly Ones (Sept25)

One had completely forgotten those bald old guys with the back-combing and upturned tufts behind above the collar. Fatties often, shirt-buttons straining, like the old Indian on the No. 23 swinging around to KV this afternoon. Our old Yugoslavs sometimes followed the practice, dapper chappies dressed for visiting, like Cika Ostoja the gypsy and one of the boarders at Mr. Vic’s across the road. Neat curls back of the neck like young girls sometimes wore on their forehead were good for ruffling after combing and bounced along on the road. Here the Indians applied oil and no doubt fluffed & ruffled the bunches that they could only feel and not see. The shiny pate did not exactly disappear with the fondling, but there was a certain reassurance. With the work waiting at the Warnet, there was no time for the 30 - 40 minute post-lunch circuit up to Bras Basah, the library perchance and rounding back to Jalan Kubor and the old graveyard of nameless dead beneath the crooked markers. Most days the hike stretched to Lavender MRT and once or twice weekly Kallang. No time this afternoon; duties pressing. This afternoon after the No. 67 had failed to arrive promptly, the decision was made to cut through Dunlop and directly onto Kubor by the nearest route. In a couple of straight lines a kilometre and one half perhaps, the surprise today being the convenience of the newly erected sheltered walkways virtually the entire path. Verandas on Dunlop gave cover right along to Jalan Besar, Big Road. Beyond however it was usually a scorched passage until the Queen Street Terminal. No longer. What one found instead now was newly erected shelter on either approach to the recently completed Jalan Besar station—on Besar itself and then turning the corner also the path leading to Arab Street. Had there been a short stretch on Victoria by Aljunied Primary where the sun poured down like the molten lava currently in Hawaii? Only a short little run. Otherwise ample 1.9m secure shelter and screening along. One was no longer in the tropics really. This was.... something exceptional—almost armchair travel. There were no fans or aircon along the way. These had been installed at some of the larger bus-stops around the city: an a/c curtain, free wifi, massage chairs was it too? Late last year the government had promised 200 kilometres of sheltered walkways across the Republic. Duly delivered. Difficult to know what to think. Was this for real? The challenge of the tropics overcome by innovation & careful planning? It was impossible to aircon the entire island, of course. The top 7 - 10% could skip between condo-car-office-resto with minimal contact of the outdoors. Sheltered walkways was not bad for the rest, especially when one compared the poor neighbours in Malaysia & Indo. A major roadway on reclaimed land out East had been raised one metre. Malaysia—or the Southern State of Johor at least—had signed water and electricity provision for the next forty years. They were a chance here for the next stretch. The government certainly was not resting on its laurels. Planning for the uncertain future. Innovation and robotics was key, they were continually underlining. Technological savvy. Flexibility in the workforce & tailoring in the Ed. sector. SG positioning itself to survive the challenges, if any could.

LXXXXXXXX (Jan26)

 

 

Quart 8pm. Two vadai again, single piece of Mr Hussein Dodol’s kway, preceded by an apple. (Last week Zainuddin had enticed with the deep fried, oily vadai, and kway had been bought in his honour from his old-time friend Mr. H.) Teh followed hot on the heels. One piece of kway had been taken with the afternoon teh and the third given to the Catlady, Auntie Helen. The South African apple that was the choice crop at Mr Lim’s stall at the Haig had been reduced to one dollar. As there had been no seat at Wadi, the apple had been eaten on a bench over at J. C. Complex, on Changi Road corner. People gathered early for their iftar meal at Wadi with their co-religionists awaited the call before their plates. One could not help feeling an intruder and rubberneck, even after more than six years in the neighbourhood, especially as so many in attendance now were from far-flung corners of the island. Little more than half an hour later Wadi had cleared and numerous seats available. Along Onan coming out, as usual people sitting in the gutters, youngsters mostly with their friends alternating cigarettes with the food; in one case bites from a shared paper bag. Opposite the bench at J. C. the stall specialised in Big Size Ladies & Gents apparel, LX - LX8. There was insufficient space to fit the seven added Xs. Scanning the racks from the bench, the relevant articles could not be sighted. At the back of the rows, perhaps, or within a trunk in a corner. Topmost heavyweights were in fact not much in evidence in Sin’pore. Even lovely little Princess’s Ma, at 118kg reportedly, might only reach LX5 or 6. In Kuala Lumpur in particular there had been scenes of grotesquely over-weight ladies, often in phalanx stumping along the malls. (BN & UMNO supporters, doubtless.) In Pekan in Pahang State today, where global gold medal kleptocrat Najib had retained his seat, the man was on the attack over one thing and another; his wife too having the gall to request dignity for themselves & their family. As more and more of the back history emerged on Malaysiakini, it seems the political murders went well beyond the young Mongolian translator and the prosecutor Morais.

 

Post-Election Relief — Malaysia (Some Light)

  

The wash-up of the election over the Causeway has carried much of interest. So much so indeed that a subscription to Malaysiakini had been needed as the Straits Times, ABC online and the other coverage had been so thin. A wonderful result of course that brought much relief. The great Fiend, possible murderer, thief and imposter defeated; great hopes he would duly be brought to justice, put away for the remainder of his years. The witch wife Rosmah with him and numbers of the chief hangers-on and toadies. You couldn’t get them all, where would be the end of it? where would you house the legions? In the commentary the case of South Africa was mentioned, their Truth and Reconciliation compromise. A certain number of miscreants could be used as examples; otherwise the populace needed to be settled and some sense of normality restored. Hopefully a fair portion of the loot could be recovered, the State coffers were certainly in need. One of the inside stories from the final days of the campaign was particularly interesting. Out on the stump in the last stretch of rallies the Opposition strategists had realised that in fact not only could they come close, but against all odds actually win the contest outright. The indications were all one way. In the outer realms no-one was crediting the possibility, including jailed Anwar, PM-in-waiting, among them. Central Command seemed to have twigged however and the decision was made to keep mum on the matter, not let on, to play along with expectations. If Najib and his cronies were to be apprised of likelihoods what might be their recourse? Security Service and military intervention? provocations staged, marshal law proclaimed for public safety and see what might be swung over days and weeks? Clearly, as Anwar came to reveal following phone calls from Najib on the night of the count, the latter had not seen the revolt coming and had been utterly shattered. As the days have elapsed this has been borne out by the lack of preparation for the possible eventuality: docs, loot, incriminating evidence all left in nooks and crannies across the various properties associated with Najib and his clan. When the trends began to clearly emerge in the count directives had been issued to telecos to take down live results on the pretext of securing public order. Three hours later the directive was rescinded. Some of the Comments on the news items were as interesting as the reportage itself. As the Birkin Hermes bags in the various colours were gathered, the high-end watches, jewelry and the dosh, one commentator suggested that a travelling roadshow was in order; the public needed to be educated, made to see with their own eyes and comprehend the truth. Despite the so-called tsunami against the government, despite all the abundant evidence of gross maladministration and corruption, 36% of the electorate had given the criminals their vote; that in itself needed to be addressed. Didn’t they display Imelda’s shoes and take them around the slums to show the rakyat? (Possibly not enough done in that regard judging by the political resurgence of the Marcos family and Imelda herself.) The ROS  (Registrar Of Societies), which had used some kind of pretext to prevent the registration of Mahathir’s party and the display of his picture on posters and advertising material, suddenly a couple of days after the outcome, Hey presto! unasked and off their own bat, advice all was in order, fine and dandy—the new PM and his party duly acknowledged and all shipshape. The point was the powers did not need to run to every bureaucratic head issuing one directive after another: venal toadies, suckholes and worms were always ready to anticipate every whim of rulers. It would be impossible to bring all to account. Through the course one Singaporean cosmetic surgeon was quick to insert a canny defense of his profession. Seems the man had undertaken some work for the Witch Rosmah. Possibly it had been remedial work, follow-up correction after earlier defective surgery over the years. The man’s point was that Rosmah had become a poster girl for what not to do in cosmetic surgery. Too much botox, too much filler and sculpting here and there, something else and something else again. The woman had become a fright; a figure of ridicule for the profession. Chap professed he could not understand the course that had been taken by the amateur medicos involved. The end result now was terrible botching, a grievous hatchet job; the former beauty ruined irredeemably. Poor Ros. had no control over her facial muscles — her dour frozen owl visage was inadvertent and unintentional; smiles were painful and caused migraines that led to tummy upsets; Rosmah’s forehead was in danger of collapse, her chin crumbling, the stiffened pouches beneath her eyes made blinking an ordeal and might eventually prevent closing of the eyes entirely. In prison where access to proper attention would be limited serious repercussions were expected. With best practice in Singapore, nothing of this sort could occur; only experienced, accredited professionals could be trusted with such procedures. Business as usual on the Little Red Dot for discerning customers who could have full confidence. The politics and fear over public order? Forget all that for this healer. Most recently rearguard PR from the lawyers in the Fiend’s den: pics of Najib breaking fast with his aged mum; revelations of the grandchildren’s baby clothes being taken with the designer bags and then chocolates filched from the fridge. Cause for outrage.

Billboards Up To the Sky - published by NWW

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Huffing and Puffing

Not something you see every day here, a Scarf on her lonesome taking deep, bite-sized puffs like she really meant it up on Onan corner. Chubby early-thirties had to be Indo; pink blouse and patterned red head-cover. Coming up subsequently to the Fries stall something in the brief exchange—given from her side it looked and fielded rather blankly by the lad serving—made the woman brighten and smile broadly when she turned away to leave. Raw bad skin, perhaps mid-thirties and fetching beyond. Have you seen a single Scarf puff like that and blow up cloud around herself like in a magic show? In fact has there been a single puffing Scarf here of any description in Geylang Serai over this long stretch? Malaysia and Java there may have been. There certainly never was such a one back in days past in Spotty among the émigrés on the Great Southern Land, not likely. Our Pere up in the village on the first visit, during the coffee in her dingy room at Radonici, surprised by taking a “stick” (as they are called here in Sing.) in her mouth and striking a flare that lit up her dark interior with the hearth in the corner. After the catastrophe of her brief love affair with the man who would shortly become her brother-in-law, it was little wonder. Here this one too might not have had any luck in matters of the heart.