Garden of Delights

New Singaporean Madam opposite returned home during the front garden weeding and pruning today. Hello. Hello…. Are you the same lady?... The poodle had not been noticed immediately. White Merc as before, but these were plentiful now on our side of town, Porsche and even Ferraris. After SG all water off a duck’s back, no open-mouthed staring. Same Chin lady, blonde now, might have lost some weight. Last weekend she was back home; election yet to be called, she reported. It will be soon, Dr Tan and his newly formed opposition party could not be allowed to gather a head of steam. Ready agreement forthcoming. Rusted on PAP without a shadow of doubt, but no need go into that. Lemons and kaffir lime leaves left for her yesterday, neighbourliness to the max. extended like in the days of yore. (What was one to do with the scores upon scores of dazzling fruit?) Oh! I wondered who left….Thank you. Tardy gratitude. A gardener with a giant hole in his jeans, crowned with a beanie and getting his bare hands dirty, in Sing’ could only be black Bangla or Indian. White here made everything doubtful. What was going on understandably beat the Sing’ Madam with a condo in Oxley Road where the current, unedifying family dispute over the estate of the late politico Titan had caused problems for the reigning/soon to retire PM. There was another property in Tampines and now this in Spottie, build by the Bosnian refugee, Milan. No need overdo the thanks here, lady of this rank was perfectly accustomed to graciousness. Zero interest taken in the poodle trotted over added warning bells—reservation on a chap like that. Bunnings was next order of the day for possum basket. Two years ago Bunnings had them, cute rattan affair that was hung from the tree, piece of apple inside to coax the big rat out, encourage evacuation from inside the roof the plan. Mothballs had been bought the week before. Arth had suggested either mothballs in a sock tied on a string and flung into the nesting place; or alternatively a dish of ammonia. Former was the better bet. Late night when the fella was out foraging, up and into the roof, place the socks appropriately, and beat a hasty retreat. Possies had an acute sense of smell, Arthur reported. Prior to that operation the basket should be in place high on the walnut against the back of the house, one of Bab’s plantings from forty years before. Balls, socks, string all in readiness. Now Bunnings for the last piece of the jigsaw—the basket. Did they still have them? Four floor staff in Garden were dubious, recommending Cindy each in turn. If anyone knew about the article, it would be Cindy, team leader in the section it seemed. Useless looking otherwise. Other rattan handiwork, pots, lighting, all manner of things one after another mounted to the rafters. Much work was going into decorative gardens. Not, however, the neat, cute possie housing anywhere visible. Where was Cind? Another aisle. Another. 21-22-23 & -4…. Thirst gotten up. The early explorers had it easy by comparison. There was a café out back, thatched little umbrellas over the seating in someone’s idea of the Tropics. Mini playground not in use week days. Ah ha! Finally. Here came the woman you needed. This was Cindy pushing a couple of trolleys like a bag lady, rugged up very much in the guise of Shackleton…. Yes, true. Two years ago they indeed did stock. Yes. No more, but. Sorry. Sorry….They would get them in eventually…. Oh. Gosh. A fix. Hmm. What to do? The kids had their hearts set…. (Sudden inspiration that was, heart-melting. All unrehearsed. You never could tell what might come out in the quick.) Did the trick. Poor kids feeling bad, couldn’t banish Possie without providing alternative digs…. You local?... Well, kinda Cind. More or less. Come in tomorrow then and I give you mine…. What?! Really?! Cind! You mean it? What about your own possie then? Left unhoused, vagrant…. Twasn’t a problem; Cindy’s own rattan basket was uninhabited, only bought—or acquired—cos they looked so nice in the yard. There were none of the adorable creatures at Cind’s place. Well, then. Arranged. Done deal. Kind indeed. Superlative. Only it’ll be wet,  Cindy warned, not wishing to spring any nasty surprises. One last thing; one last encounter same day. Immediately preceding Cindy. Sometimes you could get lucky like that consecutively. A veteran of Bunnings reporting here. How many thousands of dollars had been contributed to the giant Corp over the years of snail-pace building? Bunnings Warehouse! Where Prices Are Just the Beginning. BBQs weekends, family fun days, café under the thatch. Many of the regulars were greeted by name. Three years of building under architectural supervision nightly (dear old Bini). Four visits per diem some days. Searching out the items, sizes, lengths, colours. The Refund Desk…. The last attendant before Cindy was located presented an interesting gal…. Striking certainly. Noteworthy. But that couldn’t, ought not be shown. Light pink lippy. Rings both ears. Make-up over the deeply etched lines. Long grey ponytail. How long had Gary/Grace remained in the closet the last fifty/fifty-five years here? It was a wonder and one half. Out now in the liberal land of OZ, at least the Melbourne branch of the island continent. Gary had leant so many years against a pillar in the pub with his beer up on the narrow ledge on high, before Grace had finally emerged. My oh my! Delightful. The freedom. Poor lady unable to meet the eye. A critical scrutiny assumed. Oh dea! Nothing of the sort. Not ‘tall. Truly…. Ah! Thank you Mame. I’ll run down Cind, don’t you fret. Much obliged. Thank you. Cheers.

Publication news: La Piccioletta Barca - Batavia & Bandung

Hello all & everybody

A London lit. & art journal run by some bright young guys called La Piccioletta Barca (from delightful lines of Dante) has recently published a excerpt of mine titled, “Batavia & Bandung.”

Free access here— 

https://www.picciolettabarca.com/articles-eleventh-issue/pr01

Hope you enjoy
P

NB. Batavia was the Dutch name for Jakarta; Bandung a couple of hours East sits in the high country.

Weather Watch (Dec25)

 

 

 

As the days slipped the chill lifted and early September the temperature fetched 20. Only a week ago there had been an overnight minimum of 2, which required three doonas, a nightcap & thermal top throughout. Sporadic rain over the term, 3 - 4 instances and briefly over. Tonight at his side gate Arthur pointed out the crescent moon low in the west lying on its back holding water. Sure enough, there was an 80% chance of rain forecast. According to Arthur, when the moon was face down, sitting on its points, the water was emptied and there was no need for an umbrella. Arthur was surprised to hear on the Equator the crescent moon never appeared other than standing vertically, as depicted in the Islamic form. Like on the Turkish flag, Arth remembered. In the shaving mirror it was tricky maintaining the line on the sideburns; not easy keeping up appearances. Guessing and feeling was the usual way. Switching to the “powder room” spiegel was an option, where the light from the high window gave better light. Looking around the nose with the left over to the other cheek was not exactly ideal. In that downstairs mirror the craggy, aged lines were all too clear, especially around the throat. Gore Vidal had warned beyond forty a man needed to be careful in his choice of mirror.  But we were weather watching… Marvellous rosy flush in the West one night caught somewhere between Yarraville & Seddon. There was at the time a momentary stab just like in Sing’, because there seemed to be no one giving any regard. Streets vacant as usual. You would  have thought someone within those houses might have come out to their front gate. The skies most days offered marvellous layering of luxuriant pillowing, with intense blues poking in odd corners. The old Slavonic in the Serbian liturgy for Our father didn’t speak specifically of heaven. It was Oce naš u nebesi; Our father in the skies… Earliest days there had been some confusion there. Out on the back veranda Godfather Luka had once remarked on the sky-gazing. That day Kum had revealed his belief that god was in fact the clouds in the sky; crossing over the world was how everything could be surveyed by him. It had been no child babble; that was a different thing entirely. Child humouring was rare among the South Slavs, at least a decade after the war that was the case.

Therapy

 New cuts over both hands again after another two/three hours in the garden. Handling a sharp frond resulted in a slicing of the soft flesh between fore and ring finger, which needed to be disinfected with some sljivovic. Ninety dollars for a 750ml dusty old bottle of Zuta Osa left on a shelf of a liquor store in Charles Street after two other outlets had been tried. Rather odd that the old Viet owner there would know the current market value of such particular stock. The first slug was yesterday with Veki sitting on cushioned milk-crates in the front garden; disinfectant dabbing today resulted in another half-shot. Boza suza, Tear of god, the old Bosnian Soaks used to say. After so many years of pencil and paper the hands were exceedingly soft, as any hard boy commonly remarked at greeting and shaking. All the generations behind returned to mind bending the back and getting the hands dirty. Ne moze sjedeci, Impossible seated, a slacking worker in the field might be upbraided by seasoned veterans. No need of gym or running, Bab used to remark in latter years when the tending of her back garden was being neglected. During her better years Hazel had found pleasure in the garden. Its state now was testament to her plantings over the decade and more of her occupancy. Wind through the trees on demand more or less offered a new music after the long term in Singapore in particular; a number of times a larger branch striking the pailing fence produced strident variation. Walking the bike across the overpass to lunch the streaming cars beneath would need to have their windows wound tight and the radio turned up in order to avoid the hellish roar. Two weeks later the penny dropped for Haze’s coal. There were pieces in the polished shelves on entry and others around on the rear porch, some of it crumbling and dusty. All natural elements drew Haze. A committed Catgirl who in the UK had since graduated to orphaned hedgehogs, Haze populated the gardens with variously coloured rocks, weathered fallen timber and bark, succulents, cacti and other plantings. Coal was not common indoors in any of the style mags one was sure. Eventually the penny dropped. Wales! Ah! Yes, indeed. All the reason and more. A grandfather with smears over his collar and a flatcap must have laboured under ground in the Welsh hills. Overnight Hayden’s Ferry Review had returned another Cock-Tease REJECT, damn them to high heaven! Terse and straightforward, “very impressive” nonetheless required that bulging folder rather than the Upper-Tier one. (Likewise bulging.) Islamic Studies—SE Asian Hemisphere, like a number of others, was reserved for the more notable journals. A year or more of submission might have delivered a dozen REJECTS and four-five C-Tease & Upper-T in addition. What to do? Soldier on. Heroes are known by their suffering, or trials, the South Slavs say. Groan…. By the strange calendar here that ignored the equinox, September 1 on the morrow was the designated start of Spring. A twenty degree day forecast after the weekend, on the Tuesday. In the slow run-up on the Saturday the plates on the drainer in the kitchen had given off some of the goodness of the morning sun. The guff on the Cornies pack offering mindfulness & situation in the moment by colouring in the sunflower pictured rather wrecked that blessing…. GROAN.  Big time GROAN! Even the better bookshops were well stocked now with colouring-in books, themes to satisfy the most discerning. Was it at all possible in the twelvemonth for a kind of socialist to be actually elected to the White House? A White of the right sort inclined in that direction able to bring off the miracle redemption in the Land of the Free?... The dark of renown had been returned to this traveller here in his hometown walking back from Footscray most nights after the late lunches and café sitting and mooning. A three-quart hour jaunt in the cold turned into a song going by the greenery and beneath the wide, expansive sky. Underestimated for the first week had been the added close darkness of night. Like Haze’s coal, it had taken some while to realise the strength of the new/old seduction of night. The street lights were few and far between in this neighbourhood and the trees acted to concentrate the darkness further still. There were few stars, but the restoration of the natural, diurnal rhythm seemed like a greeting. It was possible no place on earth was illumined from outer space like the tiny pinprick of Sin’pore. Perhaps only the island of NY could compare.

Glick (Schoolboy Files)

The Greek honey bought in the Sing’ supermarket failed to run out of the sachet here, almost solid lumps squeezing. More strange still, in the cold the scan of the forefinger, distended and faintly coloured with garden grime perhaps, could not access the iPhone, and sometimes not even the Pad. Two week on it was the same. Mornings preparing breakfast the pale sun through the glass of the side door and window warmed the length of the galley kitchen; taking the bowl onto the step of the back porch provided more warmth again. On the second Tuesday the forecast was for low teens & only 10-15% chance of rain. As ill-luck would have it, needlepoint falls struck on both the ride out to lunch and then the return at night. Knuckles and fingers aching. It was such a wonder—after almost eight years in the Tropics—that one hand after another was given a brief inspection for some kind of impossible verification of ownership of the sensation. Later in the night before the Nobo fanless heater, following Arthur’s practice, the feet were warmed before bed. As Arth said more than once, it was impossible to warm the feet no matter the bed-cover if they were chilled to begin with. That second Tuesday night the hands had been ignored. Under cover one went under an armpit and the other against the woollen night-cap. (The new, blood red woolly picked up in the style-only Seconds store in Anderson Street actually fitted beneath Robbie’s fashionable Nazi era helmet that received smiles from pretty fellow cyclists.) Pale early morning light on the towel hanging from the bathroom door, entering from the skylight, was again newly striking here. On the first morning of the return trooping up Clarendon Street toward the Optometrist biting cold was biting. Thin trousers, long sleeve thermals below a tee and tightly buttoned Route 66 shirt proved far from adequate for 7:30am Melbourne winter. (The puff jacket was in storage in one of the cases at Four Chain View back in Sing’.) Add the straw Panama, which actually helped a bit; better than nothing. A sight for those few who were about on the street at that early hour. Among the very few was found a tall, bearded, Celtic chap walking his dog with his daughter. Unless these poor, clouded eyes greatly deceived, none other than big Glick—Ian Garlick, coming on. Wah! Like a wandering hero suddenly confronting one of the Furies come out from a hidden cave when least expected. An old footballing frenemy Glick. Centre-Half Back in the first Under 17 team before the captaincy was assumed in the following year, by which time Glick was too old for the age group. Glick had always been hardy and tough; the old man, who joined in training some nights and acted as runner game day, was tough as nails. For all that, Garlick needed to watch who he called a wog. Never let that one pass, no matter what. That was in the days before the club was joined. A short little raising of the fists on a nature-strip one afternoon on the walk home from school. Ra-ra-ra. Harmless. With a name like that calling anybody a wog was pretty strange. The gumption! Once the team was joined relations quickly smoothed; in the trenches you needed to watch each other’s back. Later beer & ciggies followed over card games at Glick’s bachelor flat in Francis Street. Palsy bonhomie near enough, in a group. In the first five minutes back on the Melbourne street not the first familiar face one would wish to see—not on the way to the Optometrist at that hour in the cold stopping to chat. How you bin goin the last fifteen/twenty years, Ian?... Glick had married a fellow psychiatric nurse, an older woman who had never been met. The pair didn’t do the couple thing; two or three kids. The girl in company on Clarendon could only have been his daughter; Glick could never have pulled young chicks. Mature, understanding years, nothing whatever against the guy. Most certainly not. Last few encounters twenty-five/thirty years ago the voice suggested some kind of proper road travelled. Even at one of the card nights long before Ian had informed of the over-representation of the South Slavs in the wards, schizophrenia especially. No kind of barb involved; simple insight…. Well, was it in fact Glick? is the material question here. With the dog there was available a prompt switching of the eyes down to ground level. On the man’s side too, not altogether an immediate, easy ID either, mind. Strangers passing in the morning. Coming to the larger point, in subsequent days there followed not one, but indeed two other sightings of Glick. One was on a train headed to town and the other a Footscray street near the station. Tall, lumpy grey-beard with bad skin. In the latter case the memorable stumbling gait. (Ian had run like a camel with the ball.) After almost eight years in the Tropics it wasn’t Chinamen who looked all alike. A measure of the strange, passing strange passage.

Onward & Upward

Looking the worse for wear Carlo when we met suddenly on the landing between the back house and the Studio, very much the tippler in Dickens with the bloom in his cheeks, red-button nose and ragged coat. Celebrating an experimental film-maker friend’s fiftieth in Hepburn Springs on the Friday was to blame; it had taken Carlo all of the weekend to recover. Two years ago on the first return from the Equator this birthday boy had been met down at Cat’s, the pair of film buffs bent over an old vintage camera. The chap, Carlo remarked, sometimes seemed ten years older, rather than the actual reverse.
         Carlo was working from home now, going into the U only for meetings with his fellow researchers. One of the AI projects Carlo’s team was working on was a Sensory Room for dementia sufferers. A comfortable room furnished with beanbags and rugs was lit with soft, ambient light, suitable soothing music programmed and it may have been scented candles and artwork added. Another project involved training a camera on a small sandpit where the visitors were aided in their manipulation of form by a program that sensed intention and that helped the sand granules collect in the desired shape. Castles, yachts and animals presumably. The earlier Defence contract of Carlo’s developing sophisticated AI helmets for fighter pilots had reached term a year or so ago.
         In the back house Kristie, a twenty-something Kiwi, was working in an upmarket travel agency on the other side of the river that catered to the Scandinavian market. Well-heeled travellers had their cruising, hiking and sight-seeing all neatly packaged by Kristie. Two and a half years ago Kristie had moved into the house; after housemate Hazel’s breakdown the sorting through the latter’s abandoned belongings had fallen to her. The remainder of that task now would be left to the landlord.
         Old tax returns, ancient docs, old photos, clothes, nicknacks and a stash of empty wine bottles and glasses went out in the first round. Beautiful fabric was difficult to discard and the handmade soft toys likewise. One of Haze’s signature woollen scarves has come in handy in the cold; a number of other silks will go down to Cat’s girl, Soleil, before the Op Shop option.
         Haze eventually replied to a Whatsapp telling of her further progress with her troubles. The first message a few weeks ago had mentioned two things that were helping over in Wales—volunteering and mountain climbing. In the latest message the former was again mentioned, though not the later; added was the fostering of an orphaned hedgehog through an organisation called Hedgehuggles.
         One of the old photos left behind of Haze with a mass of flaxen hair from her early teens show precisely the kind of Famous Five adventurer one could work back toward from the mature woman.
Tuesday Veki was met at the Viet bakery opposite the African café after his annual ophthalmologist appointment. Retired now from the library, music, painting and sports fandom kept Veki occupied. The previous weekend he and his band had performed at a ninetieth birthday party where the particular person involved had unfortunately been unable to attend due to illness.
Veki’s relationship with Jen was going strong as ever, a little triumph of matchmaking. Bab had managed more than one brilliant union and it was wonderful to be able to continue that tradition with a schoolboy friend from earliest days.
The old family home in Altona North had been sold after the death of Jen’s mother, the proceeds sufficient for Jen to buy the new house outright. As the most financially stressed, Jen had been provided a half share of the estate. Initially the older brother had demurred, but after the intervention of the next eldest he was brought round. Following her marriage breakdown Jen had returned to the house of her parents and cared for both over twenty-five years. It was a pleasure to hear of the concession over the property and the absence of grasping.
For the last number of years Veki had written of the marvellous dog of Jen’s. A wonderfully friendly, playful and loveable dog. Veki had said more than once that he did in fact love the dog. The enthusiasm had surprised.
Now suddenly it was a different story. Some months before the dog, Shenzi, had nipped at  Veki’s cheek. In the usual way Veki had bent down to say hello and instead of the usual playfulness, all at once Shenzi snarled and either nipped Veki’s cheek, or else scratched with his paw.
Prior to Shenzi another dog named Benji had been the house pet, a tiny little fluffy fly-weight. The process of succession had been missed up on the Equator over the email. The new dog was an entirely different kettle of fish. Not a little cuddly nipper, but in fact an American Staffordshire Terrier. Initially it had been thought that the dog was the British Staffie breed, the one that had featured in recent news stories mauling owners to death. Shenzi was the American variant, but still a daunting prospect in the wrong circumstances.
        That the old mother, Teta Marija, had allowed a dog in the house in the first place had been unexpected. It must have been because of the granddaughter, Jen’s daughter Chantelle, who suffered badly after her father had abruptly turned his back on her.
Since the drawing of blood the pair, Veki and the new Staffie, Shenzi, had become estranged. Now on Veki’s visits the dog needed to be barricaded in the back of the house.
Usually Shenzi slept at the foot of Jen’s bed. Sometimes however it slept with Chantelle. In the bed in fact with the young woman.
While being walked by Jen Shenzi  had attacked one or two dogs on the street. When Shenzi saw Vek and Jen hugging goodbye the poor jealous devil growled and jumped about behind the security door.
If any other incident occurred Chantelle told her mother she would have the dog put down. Meantime she continued sleeping with Shenzi.
Chantelle had briefly tried counselling. It was over fifteen years the father, an Indian who secured his PR with the marriage to Jen, cast his daughter aside. The new wife was to blame, some in the family circle judged. Chantelle’s struggle continued. How she would cope in the event she was left without Shenzi was unclear.
Now the oldest resident in the street, at the bottom end, Arthur continued the same as ever, a reassuring, fixed and steady point. Arthur was truly a treasure, always ready and helpful for all there by the rail-line. A delightful, wry sense of humour lightened any encounter with Arthur.
         Arth had noticed his sagging frame in the bathroom mirror over the last couple of years and eventually bought himself an inversion table in order to try to correct his posture. In the cold of winter he had perhaps not kept up his exercises. When he went to fetch a washer for a leaking tap at the Studio Arthur had moved like a caricatured ancient again from Dickens; like the elderly in the old villages after a lifetime of carrying on their backs.
It was over five years now that Arthur decided at the last minute, while waiting on a hospital trolley before theatre at Peter Macallum, not to proceed with his skin cancer operation. Face marked for the incisions and in the hospital gown, Arthur had made his way out onto the street and down to Flinders Street for the train home. Black seed oil and granules and various other resorts found on the Net had Arth in pretty good shape. His blue eyes still shone bright in the winter light when he gave a direct glance.

            Spotswood,  Melbourne, Aug 2019

Cyclops (Veki in Altona Med.)

Quart three, ful down and Sarina the Vietnamese barista—christened by the clientele—suggests the stronger African soy chai latte today. An Uber driver eating at the long table reported no increased racism here since the election of Trump & Morrison. Australians were not interested in politics, completely ignorant, the man declared. Africans, Middle Easterners, Eastern Euros knew the drill, the man continued. When a friend turned up only to find there was no more ful the Uber immediately pushed his plate over to him and they fingered together with their bread. How in the heck was a Cyclops meant to take the street outdoors, this wintry one or any other? Highly limited. It was a surprise yesterday Veki reporting blindness in one eye did not disqualify a driver here. In the event of some kind of mishap leading to loss of eye, or loss of vision in an eye, there was a period of acclimatisation mandated—three months it may have been—before one could get behind the wheel again. Out on the highways as before, turning the periscope carefully left and right it seemed. It seemed strange with that level of limitation. Little wonder Odysseus had managed so well with the Cyclops; how was the poor guy meant to battle a cagey old warrior half-blind like that. A couple of years ago Veki had suffered a partially detached retina. The day of the meeting Veki had in fact come from his yearly consultation with his ophthalmologist. In Altona Meadows, in Classic Court there amongst all the acres of the subdivisions, the shopping hub of fast food, Specsavers, Liquorland and supermarket sat two or three kilometres off, Altona with its larger offering near ten kilometres—therefore understandable concern becoming stranded without the option of the motor car. Like all the big cities now, certainly in the West, you were stuffed without the motor. Veki had enquired about the regs in advance.