Publication: “Code Red” - New World Writing

 

Hello everyone

Hoping this finds you all strong & well. Thinking particularly of Indo friends caught in the fierce grip of this latest Covid wave.

A publication to announce up in the States with New World Writing again. It’s been good to have found a kinda home with Frederick Barthelme and his crew.

This sequence brings together a couple of recent pieces penned this year in Melbourne, with an older flash from my corner up in Singapore.

Here is the link, 2,500 words —

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

All best to all

P

Ibrahim // Abraham

We are on the eve of Eid al Adha, aka Hari Raya Haji in Malaysia & Singapore, which commemorates the faith of the Prophet Ibrahim (Abraham).

In 2011 the ritual slaughter was still on public display in Singapore, where at a madrasa a short distance from Geylang Serai it had been witnessed. The following account was published in Canada by The Antigonish Review #187. (“Ibrahim and Ishmael”.) Posted again here for new readers.

Fifty or sixty sheep waiting within the muddy pen that had been improvised against the front fence of the Madrassa. They had arrived late last week, the Qantas flights resumed just in time. The sheep had come from Adelaide; the cheaper goats Perth. Soon after nine an expectant crowd had gathered. Near the side fence a plastic bucket of knives; plastic sheeting spread on the opposite side. The arrangement was clear. Hoses, large plastic bags and boxes, more knives on tables. Above what looked like a pit near the bucket a couple of rails had been laid—in fact it was a drain. The blood would not be collected; that was another kind of practice in northern climates. Two thirds of the meat was usually reserved for the poor, of whom as yet there was no sign. The slaughter was due to begin after the second prayer.
         There was no announcement, no officialdom or muezzin call. The burly young chap who had waited within the pen with the animals made the first move, taking down a sheep by the rear legs. Once the animal was on its side a helper grabbed the fore. It took a short while to unbar the improvised side gate. Three or four more animals were soon waiting in line, held down and quiet.
         The slaughtermen were older hands, unremarkable in the common dress. From an almost vertical position the long blade came down, a prompt and what seemed neat slit following the plunge. Almost like a hot knife in butter: the blade was very sharp. After a number of animals had been done a chap with a whetstone resharpened. Behind, the twitching of the animal's tail lagged a little after the knife. It was only almost an hour later and a score of beasts that the twitching on the pallets before the butchers was noticed. This was a shock. It was possible the second slaughterman was responsible for that; somehow he seemed less accomplished.
         The blood from the knife was wiped on the sheep each time, one side of the blade carefully after the other. It was an integral part of the proceeding. Each time the slaughterman did the same, the second man like the one before him. The remaining blood was washed from the blade by cupping water from another bucket; between times the rails were hosed. The ground throughout the forecourt of the Madrassa was muddy from the rain of past days. Adding further water would only have made the job more difficult.
         A group of men beside the drain raised prayers as the knife came down on each animal, singing a short, plaintive couple of verses that included the acknowledgement of God's greatness.
         — Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.
         The voices were thin and minor key the same as the rest of the scene from one end of the forecourt to the other. It was very much a Brueghel canvas. In front of the chorus as if supervising a young woman stood with a sheet of paper. She had not been present from the beginning; the choir itself might not have been present initially. Various young men helped inside the pen and young boys of ten given a turn too, their laughter and high spirits allowed. After a number of animals had been skinned on the other side a chap produced an electric saw and proceeded to dismember with that. Three or four animals were hung at a time. On a table near the fence on the side of the butchering a man cleaned animal heads. Everyone knew their task without any kind of order or system apparent. This was a practiced communal event far from industrial slaughter.
         After something like a score of animals had been done, the first slaughterman was relieved. The second around the same age, somewhere in his early sixties, wore a black songkok. Once or twice his blade came down a second time after what must have been an imperfect cut of the jugular. At one point there was a clear spout of blood that shot well outside the drain. Possibly the impression of lesser surety was mistaken.
         The relieving of duty was unexpected. Was it the bending that had tired the first slaughterman so quickly? His role was confined to the knife only. The rails were sometimes hosed by him, sometimes by a bystander. So efficiently had the man worked the assumption had been that he might do the entire pen. When he was relieved more than half the animals remained. Somehow the second slaughterman broke the earlier smooth rhythm.
         In the contemporary Christian tradition it is the lamb of the manger that is remembered, if at all. For Jesus the shepherd there is the lamb and the flock—standing for the gentle meekness that has erased the radicalism of the prophet (as Christ is acknowledged in Islam). Abraham and Isaac have been long forgotten in the contemporary Western consciousness. In pockets of the U.S. it might be different.
         A significant number of applicants here were disappointed in not winning a place in the Saudi quota for the hajj. Some who cannot attend pay for an animal to be slaughtered in Mecca on their behalf. Prices of livestock have risen this year because of weather factors. The Straits Times reported $443 per head of Australian sheep and $395 goat — transport inclusive.


Wak Tanjong Katong Madrasah, Sims Avenue Singapore 

Flyweight

They basically don’t exist any more, in cities. Not Western cities at least. When was the last time you saw one? All gone the reverse, as if they had never been. Here the Indians and Chinese still provided examples; almost never the Malays. This lad casting his eye over the morning paper couldn’t be guessed at that level—possibly something like 40-45kg, perhaps. Like a busy and discerning newspaper reader at the breakfast table, the chap turned the pages scanning the headlines. To begin he had focused on the momentous political upheaval raging in the capital on page 1, following the large print with his fingers like a pianist. In his case like a virtuoso practising the notes in his head without actually touching the keys at first. Entirely mesmerised, one might think looking on. Certainly it was all wondrously dramatic; very difficult to make head or tail of the damn thing even for politico wise-guys. Finally here it was the large fluttering Malaysian flag that brought the finger tips onto the paper, man grinning broadly with it. That there with the sun and moon was a known he showed you. (After a thirty or forty years absence flags were again prominent everywhere.) A coloured picture, Ya, you thought. Then returning to the headline below this time he struck the table-top fortissimo, rapping loudly along the headline. Ta ta ta ta! How well he fitted in the world of Perumal  Murugan. Didn’t he light up too seeing the author brought up on the phone for him! Delighted at the surprise! Reading the name in English script what was more. That certainly was unexpected; a few minutes before the man had been underestimated…. Only three years working here. Highly unlikely he had received any English tuition where he came from in Tamil lands. Could he have sounded the name only after seeing the face below on the screen, despite what it had looked like? Perumal  Murugan. Perumal  Murugan…. Continuing to nag in the brain the though of the mass waiting to be encountered on the streets over there. There was nothing on earth to compare. The Chinese cities were something else. Lovely Lizzie from Beaumaris had told the story of landing as a young woman with her boyfriend in Bombay, as it was known at the time, and after the ride from the airport locking herself in the hotel room for a number of days, crying after what she had seen. That traveller tale beat all others for India. (Some younger professional Indians did not like to hear it: there was so much more to the country, they complained.)

NB. Since published by Midway Journal (US), #14/No.4 Oct 2020

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/