Man of God (Nov24)

 

How tellingly she had used the phrase. You can describe it like that now; back then it was just another example of her other-worldly rattle, that bizarre, mystifying flow of hers that erupted in talk with compatriots. Čovječe Božji! Creature of god; male. Man of god. Within a tale of some kind it concerned a person who ought to have known better, one who had said or done something beyond bounds, transgressed the code and needed to be pulled up. Of course there was none better than herself for that kind of task; she knew all the ways about it. The indiv concerned had pretty much demeaned himself, clearly and plainly. It was invariably a man. Women were not prone to suchlike; they had learned to be much more circumspect. (Although she herself was a blabberer; lajava, as she confessed, used usually for a dog. Barking mad in the Oz vernacular of recent years.) A man of the right sort, enlightened and knowing, could never have slipped like that. There was a standard implied, always. Bog stobom! God with you! Following some other like error that ought have been abundantly clear. Reading Annie Ernaux on her parents and anticipating further jousting with Zdravun, the lexicographer for our old tongue up in the village, the phrase came back late in the night, bringing her person up close. It could be deployed against Z; it would ring for him nicely. His head was also full of those voices from the era. And it was marvellous to throw him some of that curved ball from out in the field. Made in god’s image was implied too. Even rude mountain people were included in that. Ernaux had surprised when she suggested the speech of the dear departed was recalled more clearly than face or form.

 

Long Distance (Jan24)

Despite best efforts falling wee short last night with Yan, unfortunately, just near the precipice, within sight of the rocks. An initial missed call was followed by messaging. Where was she? what was she doing?… 2 - 3 weeks she had been patiently awaiting the promised first call; departure had been almost 7 weeks now. Yes, home. Doing nothing. Which was precisely what was required. The stricken ahma who was her charge, little over 60 in fact, was shown later in her bed, full-eyed and unresponsive. As usual Yan had her dressed in a nice, clean blouse. Yan herself was in the living room, unmade-up and a little self-conscious. That first call had been routine catchup: how was she? what news? the kampung? Had she heard of the eruption on Sumatra?… All well. Nothing special. Yes, yes, the bam near Bukit Tinggi, she had heard. A trifle strained after the questions were answered. Even in Sing we had never had a video call. Some sneaky, accidental-like glimpses of nakedness while she was shown around the studio passed without comment from her. Once we had done with that a couple of following messages drew a remark about fond memories of the secluded kamar back in Geylang Serai. Ah, that was more like it. Good to hear. Unprompted, as it needed to be in order to have any value. Oh, well, yes. Fine times, true. Matter of fact, the burung / bird was currently standing tall remembering that. Instantly, the something further that was wanted was duly provided. A breathy real Aaaahhh! You could clearly hear the exhalation behind the text. Oh! Nice. Precious. Indeed just what the doctor ordered. This was duly rewarded with another call providing immediate focus on the vision splendid. There you go, honey. How’s that? Without any unnecessary commentary. The close attention quickly elicited on the other side likewise passed without words. At first it was not clear why the image Yan’s side was confined to only a close-up of her face—her cheeks, peering eyes, lips. Soon the lips were unpursed. Pursed & unpursed again. Here was the tongue now beginning to dart. Retracted, poked again, darting and beginning to lick. (On the Equator fellatio was colloquially termed ice-cream.) Little of Yan’s forehead was visible on the screen. Nay, none at all. Nor the chin either, or anything of the ears. Drawn up mighty close to her phone, the gal. Even at almost forty, Yan had not progressed to glasses. Post-coition in the dimly lit kamar  in Sin’pore there had been numerous instances of her squinting at her lover’s midriff, when the gal was trying to confirm an older man’s mediocre ejaculation. In 5 - 6 years of marriage Yan had never given her husband fellatio. The man had asked for it and gone to an early grave without being pleasured like that by his wife. Yan had not been fibbing either. Since the first venture her technique had come on in leaps & bounds. Definite late-starter. During the marriage too, in love making, Yan had never assumed the jockey mount. Again, a common state of affairs in the kampungs. The 8-year widow came to make up some good ground. As ill-luck would have it, now the lady had been almost 2 months widowed anew, Yan complained in a little whine. Very sweet. That got us closer to blast-off, though in the end only the near approach to the void. What to do? Couldn’t be helped. A fine initial attempt and hope for better on the next occasion.

 

 

 

Sneaking Suspicion

 

Nellie’s fine, nothing whatever wrong with Nellie. Nice, industrious St. P’burg lady working the two jobs, Jarik’s cafe & the bakery. Genuine Nellie, not a convenience following immigration. Only thing, sharp girl senses we are contemporaries, of an age, nothing between us in all likelihood. Yet her intuition tells her here was a guy still thinks he’s a lad, scoots around, sexually active and likely omnivorous. Makes it hard. A little barrier. Some teeny hint of reservation. And it’s not like you’re trying to project; nothing especially flamboyant. Some more regular attire suiting the age would perhaps camouflage; zipping. Bit of a fix. Unfortunate. Nonetheless, we try the dual text Mikhail Dudin from the op shop this morning ($2) to blunt that little needle, perchance. After some more sampling trying to get a touch of the original. (She knew Alexievich & Tarkovsky.)

Daggers in the Heart

 

The  kitchen knives were a good find in a drawer of the back shed today, every bit as good as Rilke’s old mirrors that had reflected  those who had journeyed onward. How often they were chosen for the table, even after a series of upgradings. Forged Sheffield steel—there was no need to check. The other somehow fits in the group, the memory of its wielding, its added use for peeling, clearly retained. The grasp of the handle was different for spoon & fork. (The wearing of the right was from the flame of the stove, not the hand. A cook pot most likely.) Painters could reproduce something of the feeling of like objects in their work. 

The preparation for the selling of the old place proceeds slowly.

Santa’s Reindeer (aka Santa in Sing) Oct25

 

Soon after the bend of the river a middle-aged Indian was caught at her orisons only a moment too late. When the observation fell on her, her eyes were just re-opening, palms rising to her forehead.

The look she showed one could no any longer find on the city streets; its faking in the movies was the closest approximation. A particular moment of sexual abandon produced something of the kind, part release and part concentration. It was a remarkable, brief glimmer. 

Beyond the open grassy field after the river a temple sat marooned on a street corner. The plot of land and the building it held were about the size of a suburban subdivision. The tall, stuccoed front fence was painted a fawn colour and along the parapet on top lazy white cows, elephants and snake charmers were evenly spaced.

Worshipers at Sri Manmatha came from a distance, there was little housing in the vicinity. The woman on the bus must have been a newcomer, suddenly catching the sight while gazing out the window. 

Over a coffee at Starbucks shortly after, the re-arranged big-number Christmas carols were being held over for the lunch crowd. For some reason this morning the blades of the larger windmill in the display by the fountain had been removed. The resulting hole at the top of the tower didn't stop the photographers, however; with some care, it would not be visible in the snaps. 

Across at McD’s there was an even larger crowd. At the busy thoroughfare at Bugis Junction, shoppers passed thick and fast. In that dead corner opposite the fountain one would have expected the Nativity scene, perhaps; it was about the right scale and might have been tucked in place without hampering the foot traffic. Instead, this sketch of a kind of rural idyll from the Northern hemisphere. The windmills referenced the water spurting adjacent; that might have been it. From the perspective of Singapore, the Netherlands was not too far distant from the Pole. 

The windmill was covered in mirror shards, both the column and blades. A junior mill stood to the right and a kind of salt cellar on the other side were wrapped in aluminium, couple of yellow stars topping. Three reindeer had come up to the forecourt of Santa's cubby, one down on its haunches, back arched. 

It was the reindeer that gave the firmest clue. Two of the animals were black with white spots; the other, larger one reversed the colouring, head back and finished with an upturned, red button-nose. Three dark little pines completed the setting, the whole sitting on a carpet of green that was more moss than grass. With all the captivation of the screens, it was a wonder the children gave the corner any mind at all. 

The final hint came with the pair of ladders resting on the inside wall of the large windmill. Tall, tapered and silvered, these disappeared into the top of the felt interior. Fairy lights strung from one tower to another would bring the glittering scene to life in the evening. 

The 24 x 7 cycle might have begun already, or perhaps the Minister of Culture was visiting for official lighting. Twenty-five sleeps until Christmas.

The wavery gold lettering over the arched doorway of Santa’s retreat needed some study. Angled over the curved surface and following a boomerang line made the deciphering difficult. One was always off-balance here with the English usage, in the case of advertising and promotion in particular. 

GO GAGA 

this christmas 

Linear on the page robbed half the effect.

 

 

     Singapore 2011-25

 

 

 

 

NB. Eastern Orthodox Christmases, at least couple of generations past, were entirely different to the latter-day Western consumerist. In the case of the first Christmas in Singapore, the transposition in the tropical setting was something else again.

 

 

 

 

Matinees (Donnie) April26

 

Donnie’s grave (internal) threat, vermin again reminded of the funtime afternoon cartoons. You return to the Hans-Barbera days on the floor before the TeeV, when Bab finally relented and bought the box. (Luckily, only in early teens, when she became concerned over possible scholastic issues 😭😭😭.) Good guys & villains, sock it to ‘em, the dirty rotten rats!  And remembering, the champ was never without company in such cases. Wasn’t Idi keen on some kinda similar fare? Silvio a big fan of… spaghetti westerns, or something. In the White House’s home theatre Ronald had regularly relived the glory of the old B classics. Up on the Peninsular in Malaysia one of the Sultans was not long ago gifted by a fellow Regent a functional Fred Flint jalopy as a birthday present. Serious motoring enthusiast (like the Sultan of Brunei with his scores of red Ferraris) and great fan of the show and its cast, — Fred, Barney, Wilma, Bambam. Caligula and the others were once assumed absurdities from humanity’s dim, backward past.

First Tuesday in November (Melb Cup)

 

Yesterday at the port a large P&O Cruiser was coming in to dock. This morning another sitting alongside, labelled for the day presumably, Carnival Splendour. The big three minute race was now listed on the itinerary of cashed up retirees able to afford $60-90K whatever jaunts on the high seas. The beer festival in Munich, running of the bulls in Pamplona, Carnivals in Venice & now here. 

In Carlisle Street a closer look at the intermediate St Kilda end found numerous stores vacant, perhaps a dozen or more. Landlords were offering affordable pop-up options for some cash to tide over this tricky patch. Trainers against the glass in one shop, bites of various sorts in a couple and bespoke tees & accessories in another, where an imperious manikin stood in the window luring passers-by with white caps on a forest background—

BIG

PUSSY 

ENERGY