Bystand (Nov23) - published OfZoos

published by an online Singaporean lit. mag called Of Zoos, Jan 2024.

You’re actually alternating standing-by like the rest and being pinned to the bed mooning, with some mental equivalent of running down the road flapping your hands and mute screaming like the napalmed Viet girl sixty years ago. (God forgive the comparison.) 

So much was foreordained. 

Bucket loads, street after street some days in endless array. Wherever, every which way you turned. All sides & little variation. Caps, crosses, jade bands, silver bangles, didn’t matter, all were deep in together.   

Win an aspic 5-Day K-Pop Experience. 

Government notices, commercial, motivational, spiritual / religio.  Blurred. 

The karung guni were never idly standing-by. Recall the elderly HK-er or Shanghainese cleaner reported in the paper, delivered to her job in her wellies & apron back of the family Bentley. Say die? Never those ones. (The Yanks would have no chance against them.)   

For some reason there were more of the myrmidons here. Some kinda misadventure had cowed the populace. What had undone so many? The coolie past? Meritocracy rammed down throats? Unbroken sixty-year one-party rule you would have to call political by-standing, big time. 

Dyeing & comb-backs. The heat brought the dopiness, yawning and collapse at the tables. Shop assistants, the gold-shops particularly, epitomised the matter, perhaps especially post-Covid. Like hungry dogs hanging over their empty bowls, Bab would have observed.  

Going by one of the bathroom supplies the other day, you actually swung an arm indoors to scoop some cool. Downplaying the heat was State policy. 

The gap between morning & night teeth-brushing had become razor thin; calendar days peeling like scraps in the wind.  

Hal was wonderful, but there was no flame. For Yani & Rina fortnightly management tided over.  

All the strife from the demented Bhutanese down in Melbourne the last six months didn’t help. More troubling still was the looming sale of Bab’s. It could not be avoided; the hour had dawned, obliteration of the last physical remnants.  

With their pigeon holes, no such attachment applied in Sing. In SG the past clung on in the various observances, the ceremonials & festivals. Foisting the alien tongue had done its darndest—remorseless deracination.  

Pulverising over-work. The lass at Toast Box told of her hours: she would finish at 10. But she had not started at 10. In fact, she had started at 7AM.  

Die, she laughed, in the usual, choking way.  

Die. You die, they mock-moaned at their ordeals.  

Once more the library had become a refuge. Twelve years later a return to Toast Box. The Serangoon KV was far less congenial than Buffalo Road, which the pandemic had killed off. Ice cream now in a traditional Tamil resto. 

Shirt & shoes guys showed ugly the way they ordered their drinks. MENU. Abrupt tone reminding of the caste system. It was abruptly repeated when the waiter couldn’t hear over the hubbub. Only the cashiers wore saris. Queues, plastic cups for water, the uppuma rarely lasting to lunchtime. No doubt the place featured in all the government promo; ( recent years Modi had visited). Less punishing than elsewhere. And the colour helped. Rarely was it countermanded entirely; it usually took more than a single generation. In the inner-city down south colour almost always dressed passable white; the immigration arrangement guaranteed that. Lashes & body art remained rare at KV; even nails. And nothing of multi-coloured & speckled. By the stairs around Tekka, the faded loitering signs hinted at livelier scenes in the past. 

Eyelids, shy smiles beneath baseball caps, look-aways on passing. The hints of the entrapment made it more painful here. Before the purpose-built dorms the Mainland construction workers in Geylang had indicated the richness of the Han past.  

Regular scenes of urban slaughter at tables, benches, the concrete at the Voids. 

In Jogja a sculptor off Sosrowijayan had mounted on a little rooftop the only representation of the heat sighted in near a decade: three tin men in poses of utter exhaustion. 

Lately you were pulling some house of horror faces yourself too, Bud. Very little headway on the serene. The old Buddha continued to defy imitation. How did the artists ever get it in that semblance in the first place? More mysterious than Mona’s smile. Living humans bearing such visage, really? Once or twice you had caught something approaching it, memorably in the old painter in Malacca, up on the Peninsular.  

You would think soulful ease could be carried a few hundred metres from the library to the Box. Awareness Place. Evernew on the other side, with some decent shelves at one end. (Decent tag for old classics.) Passing by there was like a breeze. The portraitist Eric’s art supply opposite was not hobbyists either—artists actually grappling.     

Just so happened we had whip-cracking thunder on arrival at the Box that particular afternoon. Made the gal at the register cringe, hunching her shoulders. Window glass vibrating; sprays drifting in. Magnifique. More refreshing than any of the spa retreats up the road in the Arab Quarter.  

Bucketing rain always released animal spirits. You wondered endlessly how the pours were received by the old folk in the lee of the karst up in the hills with the flocks   

The ancestors were commemorated yesterday with a fast for Orthodox Veliki Petak—Great, rather than Good Friday. More than a little inspired by the example of the Muslims, who carried it all through the whole of the Lent equivalent.   

 

 

                                                                                             Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-23

https://www.ofzoos.com/12.1=pavleradonic2.html

 

                                                                                         

	NB. Between times the third Tin Man had collapsed entirely and was carted into the garden of an adjacent losmen, where he lay in an undignified heap in a garden bed.

Publication news: The Two Alis — Hobart

 Hello all

This will look like something from the Apple Isle down in the deep South. Hobart is actually a US mag, one that was involved in a bit of controversy in US lit circles couple years back after carrying an item on wokeness in the industry.

The piece is a Melbourne - Singapore twist, taking a local identity from the Republic on the equator and serving him up a Gertrude Street, Fitzroy (Melbourne) boxing story from the early '80s; one that matched his own involving Muhammad Ali. It is a work that was first drafted about 10yrs ago, one of those that took a wee while to properly resolve. ☺️

Recently the historical crux here has blown up with a new relevance following our King Charlie's visit Downunder and the reception he received from Senator Lidia Thorpe.

Read all about it, —

https://www.hobartpulp.com/web_features/the-two-alis

Wishing best all round 

Pavle

———

Zdravo mojima

Jedna malo cudna prica ovde o cuvenog boksera Muhammad Ali. Komplikovano, ali u sredinu negde su nasi raniji emigranti dolje u Melburn.

Hobart je Americki magazin, besplatno na link. Samo eto da znate; vise vas necete moc lomit ljezik znam.

Puno pozdrava

Pavle

—dako se vidimo 25!

                                                                  Ali bin Ismail Hussein

Need to Void

The rough-sleepers & foreign workers on their cardboard sheets, half-filled two litre bottle pillows, the domestic workers picnicking Sundays, will all need to find a patch somewhere under a tree, rear of a mall or laneway, where they will be less of a nuisance. The authorities have returned the Haig Voids to their intended purpose.

Attention! (Jan25) - published by Airplane Reading

At the terminal and passing the boutiques the adjustment was always needed for the frequent flyers. First-classers even, if not A-listers, might be sprinkled there too. Directly from the street a little shock was unavoidable.

At the gate it was a different story with the budget travellers, the regular uncles & aunties going down to Jogja to visit relatives. The domestic workers returning to their kampungs made up a good proportion, even an old ahma from the neighbourhood at G. Serai was in the mix.

Blush to tell, you were pretty much the coolest dude in that scrum at Gate C18 that morning. Few could have picked the slightly worn thrift shop Levis shirt and the panama dazzled as ever. The Versace specs were likely lost on that crowd. (Sacred Heart, $30.)

Up in the clouds there had been the usual resort for the shuddering & roar of engines. Ni again featured, even now after her passing. No more would Ni reach out like she did in the dead of night in the railway hotel in Jogja, where the shunting & horns never let up, checking whether there might be anything stirring for her beneath the bedsheet. Making her discovery, the slow, shy, yet resolute steps from there would never fade from memory. Ni had had precious little experience of sleeping nights with a man; on holidays she made sure to get maximum benefit. A lover like Ni was extremely difficult to find, as she herself had warned in advance. That memory returned regularly, but for the buffeting through the clouds it was a constant reflex.

All regulation 130 minutes otherwise, without any disturbance. The pilot’s warning of turbulence in the second half of the flight had turned to nought.

A fumble came at Immigration—the visa on arrival needed prior payment, back at the counter on the right.

Almost done and away, when a chap at Customs, a regular Joe, wanted the attention of the white guy.

Yeah, Bud.

There was some noise coming from a big 4 - 5m screen. Jokowi, the ever popular former President, was leaving behind now a little dynastic route for his heirs.

And, oh! That ugly critter Prabowo, newly in the saddle. Air-brushed ex-Kopassus commander, who they said, like Hitler (at least in the Brit. wartime propaganda), had only one ball. In Prabowo’s case the mishap had occurred in East Timor during the attempted suppression. For a number of years the atrocities had kept Prabowo from being able to enter the States. There were some questions now too over the count in the recent election that were being quickly buried.

Someone back in Sing had mentioned the likely reappearance of Prab’s white steed for the inauguration, possibly a second enlisted if the one from the last failed campaign had buckled under the weight.

National anthem! the patriot by Customs informed after some confusion.

Most of the people in the hall, certainly the uniformed officials, were standing stock still. One of the domestic helpers at the carousel was ignoring, likewise ignorant of the protocol.

Though time was short for making the tren into town, it was wise to follow the observance. With Prabowo ascendant, the military would be playing a larger role in government now.

            A week later Agus was employed for a trip out to the other side of Kali Code, the river. First stop was Gramedia in the hope of the Jak Post,

It was almost the hour on arrival. Once it struck 10, a repeat came of the earlier.

The form ought to have been immediately recognised, even at first hearing.

Same again at the store, this time with one or two of the kids in the Gramedia livery leaning against benches, rather than bolt upright. 

Downstairs Agus had not the faintest. A minute was needed for untangling. 

You don’t mean the Security? Military personnel in the building?… 

Of course Agus and his fellow becak drivers, the street pedlars, the angkringan and other hard scrabble folk, knew not a thing about any of that formal scene. In the three years since the local Regent, the Sultan who doubled as Governor of Yogyakarta, had instituted the 10AM playing of the national anthem, they had not entered any government office, mall, hotel or the like, and it might be many a moon before any of them would do.

Two weeks after landing, shortly after the former General assumed the Presidency, the Parliament in Jakarta followed suit with the anthem at 10 every morning. In the media release announcing, sure enough, wajib sikap sempurna stipulated—perfect posture required.

 

https://airplanereading.org/story/541/attention-5131

Of Birds & Men (Mar26)

The writer & editor A.O. in his usual stance & presentation. It did make you wonder. How would one describe it? In the old TV comedy skits the bystander who has just witnessed some kind of faux pas, and syncing his reaction with the canned laughter, helps the audience along to partake. Pregnant blankness. Innocent fall guy. When he and his friend Othman are allowed a separate table in order to continue their usual Sunday afternoon conference at Al Sarah, A.O.

answers in his second language, Conference of Birds... A long, deep return like that restores the man somewhat. The reference needed WikiP and then an addition to the TBR file. (Another Sufi poet appealed.) The echo of the American painter had caused some confusion. A. O. owned the common shyness of the writer and observer. Forced In Singapore to the challenge of English, he had eventually given up his notional valuable citizenship and migrated over the Causeway to Malaysia. A few years he had taught in some senior colleges in the Northern States there, but his roots were after all in the Southern Republic. Many Singaporeans resorted to the lines of popular songs, advertising jingles and the like in their exchanges, even with their own ethnic group. Possibly they deployed the old traditional pantuns too, if their access had not been denied them. Some years ago A. O. had participated in one of the well-known writers' workshops in the States. Thus far all his writings were in Malay and he was struggling to find an audience.

Ring Girl (May26)

 

A jumble as usual this morning with Mr. Hussein. As on earlier occasions, the man had rocked up suddenly, calling out on his approach. The rains had kept him confined last few days. It was only when he went for his ciggie that the electric blue trousers were sighted, white leather belt & shirt. Attire from his younger days, most likely, though the older Malays & Arabs too often decked themselves in flourishing fashions. The matter began after the man had been provided his beverage. As a few days before, sweet Horlicks, thank you. Against the cool now the hot instead of iced. Back in the day long ago the concoction in the blue tin was recalled in one of the households of the neighbourhood. Along with Milo, Horlicks was popular here and available at most of the hawker centres. (Milo was in fact ubiquitous, drunk more by adults, rather than only children.) The thanks from the Arab came once, came twice, and on the third occasion was elevated supremely. Jesus bless you, and Noah too, John!... Gee! Almost a buckling at the knees there. Checking himself a moment later, Mr. Huss asked, You are Christian?… Told in the local vernacular, Last time, the man tried again. Muslim? A spontaneous belum was offered as a sop to the old man. (Not as yet.) Third guess was the logical step: Free-thinker. That covered it pretty well, yeah. As a matter of fact, he himself, Mr. Hussein, had been one of those, last time. A Muslim Free-thinker. Something that had not been encountered before in the region. And moreover an Arab. Mr. Hussein’s father and mother had travelled to Singapore from Ambon, one of the more remote islands of the archipelago, where back in the day, Mr. Huss had recently reported, enemy heads were taken and victims roasted on the spit. As Mr. H. spoke his flipping hand signed. Rather brutish; against which one would put something from the other phase of Mr. Hussein’s life journey. Back in his boxing days Mr. Huss had mentioned his mother’s opposition to his chosen profession. During the amateur period at the local Badminton Hall the mother had been gotten round somehow. However, after turning pro and the trip to Bangkok presented for a couple big fights, Ma had protested. When you hammer men, you hammer Allah. Pleading and begging eventually won her over. Reluctantly, the old woman agreed: two fights in the Northern capital. The proceeds from which went to the lady and financed her hajj pilgrimage. That was the end of that. Career switch thereafter, one that ended in 27 vinyl records, together with trips to Malaysia, Brunei & Southern Thailand for concerts of Tom Jones & Engelbert covers, as well as the Malay repertoire. But where were we?… Religion, free-thinking, Mr. H.’s phase of the latter. That particular period may have coincided with the pro boxing, or else the crooning. Yes, Mr. Huss began forthrightly. We are men. We see ourselves. Not someone tell us this, that. Some Joe had gotten into Mr. Hussein’s face back then and the man did not like it. Siapa kamu?… Mr. Hussein had sat up straight in his chair. Siapa kamu? It was nice to take that in the original without need of translation. (Though Mister did oblige.) And who are you? Who in the heck are you?! Here without the expletive; the Malays generally did not use them. Some trumped-up dude pontificating. Along with the free-thinking, a period of drinking was owned. Mr. H. mentioned beer, but there may have been a little more than that; and more than liquor, possibly. The exploration seemed to have been wide-ranging. Smoking started; not previously. Also girls, naturally; at least one particular girl. (The sense was more than one.) This girl had been a beauty queen, ranked No. 10 in the world, if that was right. Thai beauty. And on his side Mr. H. had been a right handsome lad too. The B&W in his youthful pomp, bare-chested with fists raised in the stance, had been placed in the files. More than capable of pulling a beauty. The babe had been a ring girl. Number girl, or card girl, in the swimsuit holding up the round numbers for fights. The last of the Horlicks morning tumble/jumble had involved the President. Shorthand here for the local kampung guy, husband of the previous office-bearer in the Republic. Another Arab the Pres, one of a big group of pals from the former settlement there where the market now stood. A few years junior to Mr. H. As well as the boxing & singing, Mr. Hussein had been a masseur of some repute, his most famous client none other than the former World Heavyweight Champ, Modh. Ali. The President had his flesh pressed on numerous occasions by Mr. H. Fellow Arabs.  Two bull Arabs indeed, sadly falling out in their last encounter. Mr. Hussein had provided the usual service; afterward recipient proffering the agreed sum, as he thought. Thirty baht. When in the provider’s mind the agreed had been three hundred. A bad, bad confusion. Well beneath the dignity that of a proud, headhunting islander (by ancestry). Keep the change, returned the senior to the junior here. Stick it you-know-where, in the Australian vernacular. Even in this day it was easy to get lost in currency redenominations, revaluations & devaluations.

 

 

NB. The story of Mr. Hussein Ali’s encounter with the great Mohammed Ali in KL before the Bugner fight was published in the States by Hobart Jan24.

https://www.hobartpulp.com/web_features/the-two-alis

Publication news: The Deaf’s Ma - Panoply

 Hello all

Another flash of mine has been published by Panoplyzine, the third on their platform now up in the States.

This one again comes from the hard streets of Footscray (Melbourne), gifted me by one of my street friends there.

Free viewing, 500 words —

https://panoplyzine.com/the-deafs-ma-by-pavle-radonic/

All best, 

Greetings from Sing after November in Yogyakarta 

Pavle

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