The Hari Krishna strangely closed today; supper would need to be taken elsewhere. On Swanston they hadn’t wanted to intrude on proceedings. Numerous of their nationals had of course been herded to the front lines, both wars. The well-known recourse all over. Serving lunch Faisal had quipped, You didn’t go to the march?… With the butchers? Man had gone on to suggest the Brits had been displacing Palestinians from their territories from way back. It long story, Faisal added. Perhaps the finer detail was not quite right; indoors Faisal was challenged later. The day before the PM had been up in Papua walking the track, with the hosting PM (seeking aid) in his golf shoes—an enthusiast, the latter. Our man was shod in sensible hiking boots. 15km on well-defined track now. Stories on the heroism as usual in the lead up, retailed in the newspaper by the local amateur historians.
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Numerous pretty young Asians footing along the upper end of Swanston near the library, with the peaks of their caps screening themselves on the approach. By these means they managed to escape the more searing and unsettling examinations. One among them this afternoon bore the clear sign of the ordeal on her crown, white upper case:
Rain Drops
Keep Fallin’
On
My
Head
Followed by,
What the World —
Needs Now…
Mid-afternoon Orchard Kinokuniya.
For the notation the store pen at stationery was deployed.
There had been rain in the morning and showers later, one distinct grenade of refreshing humus rising from the ground somewhere along the way. It may have been the Haig carpark beneath a tree up on one of the islands, when the path at the end was taken in order to avoid another pass of the funeral party of Hadramis at Block 11. Daunting that gathering; almost as bad as if they had been Palestinians.
In the case of the spattering of drops in the store the flesh of the brain seemed more exposed somehow.
Before being able to make an exit, after a pause in the queue by the cashier, the original, unremastered, What’s New, Pussy Cat? started up.
One might actually have anticipated it, given the chance. Wild claim some would be thinking.
Wow…..Wow-Wow…..Wow, wow.
There were hidden high fidelity speakers near.
Stretching credulity one perfectly well understands. Entirely understandable.
Nevertheless, such was the program that afternoon over the lazy heads of perhaps eight or ten dozen book-lovers, absorbing it all without any noticeable effect. No twitch or shudder on any side.
In the standard rendition of the first the vocalist was unknown. Second was the Burt Bacharach and last the inimitable Tom, shirt unbuttoned to the navel and frilly panties raining down from all sides.
Wow Wow Wow.
Nada. Not a flicker. All absorbed like candy, sweetmeats or perfume.
Nature lovers traipsed through gardens of buttercups in that same fashion. Here along curved aisles by pastel products mounted high, it bore comparison.
And that was not the end of it either at Kino. More was to follow.
There was a serious snag developed in the queue, a lapsed member’s card at the counter, it seemed. Lady was purchasing a stack of unidentifiable colourful titles, children’s series, or mystery possibly. It would be a hike to the car in the basement.
Cooling the heels here there was a kind of warning or challenge suddenly facing us shoppers. Quite unexpected, especially following the short concert.
The Way We Die Now.
After some of the violent eruptions of late in the shopping precincts of various global cities, one could not help a little start.
And immediately adjacent this red flag in some kinda implicit pairing, another missive arrowed.
When Breath Becomes Air…
Body temperature presumably, rather than hot. One was often caught gasping in the dash between the buses and the malls here.
Upper case 60 point face out on the top shelf of the HIGHLIGHTS stand that made a large island in the passage. Neon effect without electric.
Bodilo oci, the Serbs say. Pricking the eyeballs.
No doubt there was some reason between the covers in the case of the books at least.
This other afternoon a recess in the ceiling of the reference section had one firmly rooted to the spot. It had taken a while locating the speaker as the volume was low and the voice riding the hubbub. At first the sound seemed to be coming from a mounting of luxury signature pens like President Trump used for executive orders. Some glinting light emitted there behind the glass too from the gold clips and points. Later after a little hunt a second speaker in the same aisle was found barely audible for some reason. Thought had been after the KV lunch and print at Peace Centre, a quick reconnoiter for a volume of old TuFu—sometimes confusingly rendered as DuFu, the poor girl at the info desk needed to be informed. There was nothing of David Hinton’s translations; that had been established couple weeks before. Only his Analects and I Ching, both previously purchased. Some hope that the largest bookstore of English holdings, at least in SE Asia, might turn up the Tang star. TuF had been rendered by a couple of previous notables—fair chance you might have thought in Singapore, steady sales ticking over. Kinokuniya had been downsized a few years before, usual victims involved. If you were seeking motivational, entrepreneurial, investment gurus, biz management & strategy, conservative histories, mysteries, colouring-in books, comics, celebrity, cook books, photography, design, more photography & design, you had come to the right place, all cards accepted at the register. The great helmsman LKY’s shelves alone could not have been sent up in smoke with less than three molotovs, not a chance, forget it. Man was hardly dead, only symbolically & figuratively. (The feud between the PM and his younger sister & bro over accusations of political exploitation in the use of the father of the nation’s passing had been hosed down of late, all hush-hush in-family.) They had stocked TuFu once upon a time; sold out now, lass conveyed apologetically. She could not be quizzed on it—it was not possible to punish innocents for the sins of the elders. No. Too bad. Good selection of gel pens in stationery, including 0.8s at $3.10, comparable to ArtFriend & Popular. On the shelves there among all the inferior biros and all the weighty navy tomes at Reference adjacent, in the midst of parents with their children, out of thin air, one was suddenly hallowed by Pavarotti early trailblazers. First, like a bubbling brook hidden in the jungle, O Sole Mio’s rhythmic swelling. Quanno fa notte e 'o sole se ne scenne… It was followed without pause immediately after by Ritorno a Soriento. Shiver. Shiver. One atop the other. Gee! Here was a chance to show the locals one’s cultivated, superior taste. Almost word for word with the big man and phrasing perfect. The little jail-bait schoolgirl’s mom in the aisle might have had entirely the wrong idea. Strange in the Asian (more or less) locale, receiving those melodies, those exhalations from the great bellows. The fact the maestro had been dead all these years now perhaps added feeling—gone the way of Caruso, Lanza, Bjorling, &etc. That short stretch of water from the bays of Boka over to Bari, down to Brindisi, Sicily and up on the other side to Napoli. Sorrento itself for a quick squizz without stopping. Thirty-five years ago there had been no malls in Napoli; in the old town near the water there might still be none now, perhaps. Minimum of ornamental trees & shrubs. The mafia there would be a sight better than the entrenched tropical kind that could not be ousted from the political stage for the next hundred years. There was almost as much street prostitution in Napoli as Geylang; no fool would pay for indoor theatre. Fascinating. 14 - 16 hours away for little over a grand. With the usual shuttering for the morning during Ramadan, it had been Starbs for the early cafe & scribble. As the customers piled into the OneKM outlet nearing lunchtime, the volume had gone up on the pitter-patter remastered golden oldies & prairie ballads. That flustering and churning in the guts had something to do with the effect a few hours later of big Lucy standing tall and letting fly.
Kinokuniya, Singapore
NB. Published by Sagebrush Review, May ‘25 in a larger sequence on a music theme, titled The Spheres
http://sagebrushreview.org/wordpress/2025/05/the-spheres/
