The Novice (May24)

Even a novice of almost perfect ignorance knows that was not how it was supposed to go, flipping Rina, Era, Sugi and more briefly Ni and Neet throughout the entirety almost. 35min+ cross-legged staring at the crack in the lining board on the opposite wall, with some few passages of closed-eye more or less empty mind. Regular straightening of the spine was needed, shifts in the draping of arms. In the brief online investigation the arms hung down over the knees, loose fingers outstretched almost reaching floor level. But that was in the lotus position, the full lotus. Even the half lotus was well nigh impossible for these bones (there was credible mention of straining ligaments and knees forcing stiff limbs). The settled empty mind that was presumably the chief object was going to be a task and one half. Empty and still mind; not racing and certainly not erotically charged. The serene expression of the Buddha stood as a strong reminder; you could understand that startling visage brought with it even temper and calm. If you could achieve a cross between that and Da Vinci’s smiling young beauty you were getting somewhere. Slumping of the spine was a problem, but what was strange was the restlessness of the arms and hands. It was exceedingly difficult keeping the arms and hands in one place for very long, anything more than two minutes at a time. On the knees, hanging over the knees like in the online, placed one over the other or clasped in front making a shell of the hands. The arms were as large a problem as feet, legs, spine and neck. There was no alternative to the crossed legs with feet beneath thighs. A couple of the finger gestures recalled from the statuary were trialled, thumb on small and middle or ring fingers, palm upturned. Like for the exercises, the hope was after two or three months there would come some ease with it. On the return to Singapore Ranie could be enlisted for help; she had encouraged and offered her expertise often enough. Very likely some kind of breathing pattern was integral. For all the arduousness, the rising numbness and jitteriness in the thigh muscles, it was still rather remarkable to be able to regularly maintain the posture for thirty-five and on a couple of occasions even forty minutes. In Vivekananda’s book on Ramakrishna it may have been the old masters sat for days at a time. (Could that have been a stretch like the accounts of astral travel?) Breathing had to be key, the crucial element; intake and release at certain intervals that eventually became habitual. Whereby that state of calm, lightness, serenity you could call it; settled acceptance perhaps covered it best. In these beginning weeks of baby steps the beatific gold-leafed Buddha of the statuary that the Florentine could never have seen himself, but would have immediately prized, and his own hint back in that direction with Mona, suggested the prospect. You needed that even holding up a place at the café tables. With inattention the default graveyard visage descended when really there was no reason, when you were far enough advanced along the path; few tremors and never completely unmanned, not even after those sprinkled carbonised remains in the creek on the weekend. The older painter with the young Thai wife in Malacca often returned to mind with his easy, untroubled features. Of course it came more naturally to him as part of the tradition; but equally the man had seen more than enough in the Buddha itself. (The Davinci Christs were nothing like.)

 

 

Threads

Not forgetting the Nicholson Street roughhouse gal Linda, with the unique, reliably fetching gear every day of the week, never two days the same. 

COLOURING BOOK hoodie today. Nice tone of chalk on navy. Yes, from the Op Shop on Albert Streer, if she could recall correctly. 

There had been another on the racks the same day of Colouring, she reported, whose tag she didn’t hate, before it was eventually trumped.

NB. Incorporated into a longer piece published by New World Writing, July 2024, titled On the Street (Linda)

https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-radonic-on-the-street-linda/

Publication news: “Blue” - Sunspot Lit

 

Hello everyone

Zdravo & veselo/Healthy & gay, hopefully!

A publication to announce, this one from a few months back that had somehow slipped notice. 

Another single flash here that describes one of the regular pushie rides along the river and bay down in Melbourne, during our 111-day lockdown of last year.

Sunspot is US based in North Carolina. (400 words)

Here is the note from the editor—


"Blue" appeared in Vol 3, Issue 1, out in March of 2021. You can download it for free here:
https://sunspotlit.com/editions

Editions | Sunspot Lit Get Lit with Sunspot Literary Journal 2019 Print Ed. Sunspot Literary Journal September 2019. Download Vol. 1 Issue 3 sunspotlit.com

Scroll down past Vol 3 Issue 2 (the most current edition). The work is on page 23. 
"Blue" will also be in the print edition out at the end of this year. 

All best

P

Pelicans & Egret (published NWW)

Down in the shallows pelicans fed on the fish bait, Barry said, or ghost shrimp perhaps, John added. Later John spotted an egret sunning itself on the spit of land opposite and we came around to the corner of the clubhouse to see it. The egret held symbolic importance in Zen, Barry said, something concerning rebirth it may have been. A day or two before Barry had seen one fly over his car and perch on a branch near the creek where we had planned to sprinkle the ashes; a little augury it could have been taken. 

There were more pelicans than gulls on the water; a couple of swans came over later when they thought there was some feed being offered.

            Barry knew the area from the time of the old racecourse grandstand further around; a palm that had been planted at the time of the racing remained as the sole remnant now. Further around again on the point the pines that European newcomers had planted stood along the water’s edge.

            A hundred metres off the road looking across the bay the sky stretched wide, the water below and the body of space between more vast still. Two container ships sat far out toward the horizon. John knew not to attempt any photographs of the scene, it was impossible. In the streets of the suburbs behind the visual field was always sharply narrowed.

            From the corner of the clubhouse where we watched the egret John and Barry pointed out the joyrider out on the water speeding between the ships. The white caps they indicated were difficult to sight so far off and so low on the water. It took some while. The waves of sound carrying across the distance seemed to bear no relation to the cutting of the surface out there. It was likely a jet-ski, John thought. During the war the British had erected some kind of large artificial ears on their shores attempting to pick up any approaching German ships. (The Anglophile John again,)

            A couple of chaps later told of the imminent demolition of what was the Deaf Angling Club on the right. There had been a long, unsuccessful campaign trying to save the building and on the Monday the bulldozers were due. The older clubhouse adjacent John knew from a previous investigation. With its simple fireplace and rough seating it had remained unaltered from the time of its construction fifty or sixty years before. 

            Prior to the sprinkling of the ashes Barry read out a couple of Bible verses he had prepared, something from Johnabout the light after the dark passage. Baz like his cousin had read the various spiritual texts over the years. The sljivovicbrought along was relished by Barry in particular and enjoyed later by the other couple of chaps concerned about the demolition.

            A simple ceremony like this was fitting, for someone like Al in particular, who had never had anything to do with formalities. Expelled from the local Tech in the first form, hard drinking so many years, improvised Blues and the dope—it was difficult to think of anyone in the acquaintance so far removed. The depth of Al’s private grief over the English girl Nora  in youth was only properly suggested by Baz later in the afternoon, after the ceremony at the creek. There were hidden letters Barry had found up in Alan’s flat. A voluble man like that—we had called him Yell at one point—keeping the hurt so close.

A couple of generations ago up in the ancestral village the improvised arrangements for death might have been something similar—without any officialdom of any kind, religious or other; simple words and straightforward dealing.

            The weight of the plastic cylinder was unexpected; five kilograms John estimated. Pepper-like carbonised traces dotted the white and grey grain and dust. 

Barry took the first turn and we two followed, the wind blowing some of the lighter granules back over the little dock and onto our shoes.

            Against the dock in the shallows of the creek the bulk of the fragments made a little billowing cloud, before slowly sinking into the water. Barry had brought some flowers that he had picked somewhere, the magenta being the colour worn by the highest rank of Buddhist devotees, he said.

            There had been six or seven visits to the hospitals and the home over Al’s decline. Barry had managed more and for his part John hadn’t been able to bring himself to it. 

            Words like images on a photographic roll were impossible. On this particular western edge of the city where only the smallest sliver of the built environment intruded the breadth of space seemed to funnel down onto the little dock and the tin clubhouse behind. No graveyard within the urban limits could have offered anything like it. The system of water, sky and air, with the birds and the sand bed of the estuary, served the purpose very well. Smoke or feathered ash might possibly have been the most appropriate release into that space, but that was a poetic nicety.

            

                                                                Pic John Goodman

NB. Later incorporated into a sequence published by New World Writing, titled Code Read, July 2021

https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-radonic-code-red/

Publication news: “Nonno” - Nine Cloud Journal

 Hello everyone

Hope you are all hanging tough wherever you are. Lockdown in Melbourne again (the 4th), the original 7-day term extended another week.

Another publication to announce, a single flash this time. This one features a rascal some of you might recognise from a couple previous publications.

Nine Cloud is Brooklyn US. 

Print & ebook is available on Amazon, image gallery is here—

ninecloudjournal.org/issue2

All best

P

Without Sting

The Other Al

Al went off to a better place today. To the no place maybe.

Cousin Barry called couple minutes after he passed, shortly after 3pm. I went over and sat with him at the bedside, door closed, low light, just the 2/3 of us for a couple hours.

Barry was brilliant, full of feeling & fine reminiscence. Damn beautiful.

No pain throughout in this case, all well-managed. The Filipinas & Indians were delightful. They were not proper nurses, but that native inner feeling was precious. One Oz gal attendant apparently cried when Baz told her Al wasn't going to make it through the day. Baz knew he said. No one told him. Remarkable kinda guy. Very striking.

Sad. But a release. Baz talked to him about Robert Johnson's Crossroads. Gotta get offa the freight train.

.

Salam/shanti

P

 

....

 

Re: The Other Al

 

Yep. That’s it.

Really very fitting end. He wasn’t for it any more. No point.

Nothing ugly. Not even the shrunken body and parchment face there with us on the bed. I had my foot up on the corner of the footboard listening to Baz. Smooth. Baz enjoyed the receptive ear.

Fine farewell.

Salam/shanti

P

 

 

 

 

G. and I had had another Alan pass the year before. This Al G. had not really known, although he had been properly struck by him at a couple of meetings. By the solitariness he noticed and perhaps some understanding he could not himself become acquainted with a man like that.

           Late night there was no energy to tell more. G. had needed to be told, however, not have the matter left over for the next day. We had talked about the situation in Carlton over dinner a few days before.

            Cousin Baz was a godsend, as he had been when it became necessary to move Al outta the back bungalow at Bab’s shortly before the departure for overseas. Barry had immediately accepted him at his Werribee house, no rent involved.

            Much of their past had emerged over the years, especially during that transition period at Baz’s in Werribee. Yesterday at the bedside other elements were added. 

            For some reason the dope featured, arising from the music probably. The dope and music went together. Al had always advocated dope for raising writing too to another level. 

            Before the discovery of Robert Johnson there had been others in the line. The Doobie Brothers. (Doobie was slang for dope in the neighbourhood where the brothers came from.) The Shadows from the UK might have come before the Doobies. One of this pair had been pure instrumental.

            The Shadows’ “Apache” song or instrumental piece was an early marker; they were a British band. Carlos Santana, who had been born in a Mexican village, Baz said, had been the only guitarist in the early days over there who could play Apache. 

            Big Joe Williams lived in a caravan, carried a long-barrelled colt it may have been from the war and a switchblade. I’ve got the soul of a hobo, he said, in song no doubt. A white you might guess.

            From Big Joe and Woody Guthrie it had been a short step to jumping the freight trains near the bridge over the Maribyrnong River and riding a few mile into the North Melbourne yards, one notable mishap resulting in a badly cut knee for Al when he mistimed his jump. 

            Muddy Waters had come from the Stones. The Beatles in their earliest period too had been notable, surprisingly for these Blues guys as they turned out more fully formed.           Neither of them, Baz nor Al, had liked Jagger; they never got on that bandwagon, so didn’t need to get off when the Tory faker was exposed.

            Prior to leaving for the home Robert Johnson had been given a play on YouTube. Nothing again in it for this unatuned listener. Baz explained the line about jumping the freight train was from another song, not in fact Crossroads.

            The boys had played with Al’s older brother Rob and the Willy guy Peter Vincent on bass. Baz lead and Al the drummer. They had played at Baz’s place in Footscray and then later Al’s in Newport. Early stage for the drumming a 44 gallon oil drum had been adapted, the lid and handle on top serving for some kind of special effect. By the time they were done with music-making the lid of the drum had thinned to a wafer.

            The first meeting with Al had taken place in his early forties after his pancreas operation, long after those music days. Late late nights in the bungalow at Bab’s Al’s guitar came out muted from the back bedroom, the staccato plucking through an amp producing strange, enticing rhythms.

            The Nursing Home staff had let us sit undisturbed in the darkened room, Barry leaning forward in the lounge chair in the corner by the window. Earlier he must have brought the chair close. The Friday before when Baz had called, thinking the time then may have been narrowing, he had been found close by a doped Al in the common room holding his hand. 

            On the phone yesterday afternoon Baz had choked telling of the passing. Strangely, Baz had not informed his brother Tony of the death of their cousin. Tony, the oldest of the two pair of brothers, had in fact been the source of the musical awakening, playing records for Baz which were later shared with Al and Rob. One night in their shared bedroom at Footscray Tone had read Baz a passage from Dharma Bums, the Neale Cassidy book, Baz had called it. The signal opening that was to lead to decades of exploration for Al, works discovered that never made it into the official cultural canon. Before Al Playboy had been dismissed as pure titillation.

            Al had never mastered cursive script at school before he was expelled in the junior grades and Barry’s writing was similarly unformed. 

            They were a remarkable group the Ellis boys, with their particular Welsh, Jewish and Aboriginal heritage at least partly.

Mondays (Gurdjieff) Oct25

There was a kind of eagerness for the St. K. trip Monday mornings, over to the Glass Merchants first of all and then the Opp Shops. Glass M it was more usually than Wall or the Pole on Chapel corner. The staging at Wall was off-putting and as lunchtime neared the Pole was often struggling to contain patrons. After the cafe, newspaper & journal the Salvo pair in Carlisle Street was visited first of all, followed by the Windsor leg up Chapel Street and rounding back to Sacred Heart in Grey Street. At each of the shops the pre-loved products were artfully presented in the various sections, the feature vitrines at the counters in all four checked first of all, then books, clothes, footwear and oddments. One weekend years ago the Choir of Hard Knocks it might have been had rehearsed upstairs at Sacred Heart; more recently Dusty Springfield’s Stay Awhile had burst suddenly on the speakers there, when usually none of the shops played any music. In the past few months two books now from the Salvos had been read and 25 or 30 pieces from recent back issues of the LRB, which some kindly soul in Windsor was donating. One of the books was an entirely new discovery, Barry Dickins’ Unparalleled Sorrow. Having been immune to the kind of depression that ran through Dickins’ maternal side did not make that material any less interesting. Accidentally coming across such a wonderful, completely unheralded book was unusual for a life-long reader, especially one by a local author. A particular piece of Dickins’ newspaper columns had made a mark years before, but to find a book as captivating and powerful as this was a complete shock. How in the heck had something like that never come up on the radar and the publishing industry allowing it to go out of print? (The vow has been made to buy any copy of Unparalleled found and pass it round.) Two pair of sport shoes had come from the shops, as well as kitchen utensils & dish-ware. That Monday run and the other couple of regular outings to the fruit and veg stalls at Victoria Market Fridays & Saturdays have been the mainstays over these almost thirteen months. Outside Faisal’s café in Footscray, which had closed for Ramadan, there was almost nothing else, no other particular draw in this city. Some recent online sampling of Gurdjieff had rattled irritatingly in the brain. An incidental reference of some kind finally led to a little acquaintance with the old mystic. Proper honour and acknowledgement ought be given those worthy ones who had passed away, Gurdjieff suggested; but finally the past did need to be put aside. The point was a common one of course; in this instance the way it had been put presented a challenge.