The Captain (May26)

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 frau 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 the 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 & 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

Lazy Java Sunday

Near noon @ Java beside the Sun Theatre, Greek town—or Yarraville at least once was—en route back from Bunnings Warehouse! after picking up the possum basket. Advertisement-like gathering both sides of the sunny street for a bank or homewares. Exchange from adjacent tables one row up: What’s its name? Invisible under the table from behind. Toby…. Broad gleaming dental row for the enquiry and the wordless response beside his mother, wife opposite. Sensibly the chap opposite his own paramour answered after an understandable pause….You can call it what you like. Both run aground; giggles that didn’t get out. Fake grass 25-30 metres to the end of the street, last night’s football telecast providing the inspiration for young children with their mums and dads. Overhead heaters—it was feeling a little unseasonably warm even after the ride. Shaun Micaleff dozen face-out in the bookshop window, comedian you could tell by the cover photo even if you were way off the pace here. Crazy guy. Children aplenty, some screaming because of the inadequate provisioning as parents sat at their tables chatting. The birth rate must be on the up with the affluence, same as in Africa. Iron trees sculptured and patterned like in the iconic Singaporean Gardens by the Bay that featured in selfies right throughout Asia mainly, the new iteration taking the place of the former everywhere. Make-up, brows, lippy and nails even on a Sunday morning—the contemporary Sunday observance. Street cool throughout without exception—puffer jackets, richly woollen knitted scarfs & caps, soft shoes all in subtly concealed brands. The tasteless and dowdy went elsewhere for their brunches on the weekend; they were dissuaded here. First Viets/Chins happening by clearly marked apart as if branded. In inner Sydney that might no longer be possible in any assembly of one hundred; many other corners of Melbourne likewise you’d wager. The Greeks had almost entirely melted in the pot here. (The Balkan eye could of course pick them out.) A number of admirers of the wheels; one or two furtively and another voicing his appreciation to his little boy or girl. Ah! You forgot didn’t you. You were the cutest chappie on the street. Highly individual. Enviably. Our Lawnie Robbie had found the thing on our own street a couple of months past, on the nature-strip directly in front of the Studio no less. Rather eye-catching. Brand new and all snow white: the frame, pedals, inner rims and leather seat it looked, with cross-hatch patterning. MOJO BIKE. The assumption had been it was Haze’s before her collapse proper. Done the decent thing Robbie, knocking on the front house to enquire. Ya, Haze’s, Nina at the door thought; for the taking. Didna have to be told twice Robbie. Thank you very much. $480 advertised online. Haze was indeed a style queen of the natural, Op Shop, patina/unique bent. Get around to the cafs, the supermarket and wine shop, had been the filmic inspiration. (French classic film.) Rubber fibres were still sticking up from the tyres—never seen the road this MOJO mover. Word subsequently followed from housemate Kristie that she had in fact never laid eyes on the particular object; not possible it was Haze’s. Of course Kristie would know; could hardly have forgotten. Hhmmm. Interesting…. No hard evidence, but suspicion now fell on only one other possible candidate: the Sing Chinese gal opposite with the two Mercs (white) and three poodles (reddy-chocolate the one seen to date; colouration of the others forgotten from two years prior). Lady had gone blonde herself since the last visit. Lost weight too, but likely had thought better of pushing outdoors in the unforgiving winter. Where to store it too? Get in the way in the garage. A sighting of the gym in the back would settle the matter. (Our Bosnian refugee had built the super-size pair of Semi-D ten years ago.) Woman had of course preferred to leave the item out on the opposite side of the street in case the Council here objected, pensioner tripping up; &etc, Born and raised in Sing going back to the early days of the more astringent guided democracy, it figured. She would never own up of course.

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.