Void Deck (2)

Mid-afternoon weaving through the shadows of the blocks taking as much grass as possible en route to lunch. Patches of tree cover and sharp angles from some of the towers that were followed like a tight-rope. Up the top end it appeared to be the regular karung guni down on the deck out for the count. Beneath him the man had spread wide some of his product, turned his head to one side and no pretense about the matter, freed from all the troubles of the world. In passing automatically one tried to take the degree of softening from board like that: two thin sheets with the rippled inner between them provided a mattress of sorts; a not insubstantial comfort. Otherwise the men would not pounce on the material as they did, the China boys up the road, the Indian and other foreign workers. These chaps sometimes beat the karung guni to the goods; one often saw the sheeting carted under-arm up along the gutters in the night especially. Figure here almost certainly the local who rode through these streets with his cart behind, grisly kind of hombre with sharp canine features. You could bet the man knew some good cursing and rasping put-down. Bare-chested and perhaps it was bare-foot too usually; a fellow who always maintained his deep jet mop. The latter was a distinct marker, a glossy tone that suggested regular weekly application; never once had the man been spotted patchy or with any hint of gray or fading. Earlier in the afternoon a chap had come singing up the stairs with some kind of short musical accompaniment. As the door had been left open his call had slowly risen from the lower floors and was aimed directly into the room when he stopped on the landing. Later Doreen, who had not moved from her kitchen chair, said it was the karung guni; whether the same caught on the deck an hour later beneath Block 11 was uncertain. Coal-coloured head to one side resting on a small bundle pillow of some kind which from three metres could not be properly sighted. Coming out for dinner it was the card game that took one’s notice further along from D entryway, the concrete round-table gathering that side which collected the women and a single younger man with turned eye who was a regular interested observer. This man and two or three other older men occasionally joined late mornings for a game at a smaller, fold-out table in a corner up against an inner wall as if they were hiding themselves. A wee wager likely either side in order to add pinch of spice. Almost certainly it was an American designation going back to earliest pigeon-holing of a populace in another new world, immigrants again in a more optimistic era who had left the old behind.

NB. For an earlier "Void Deck" posting see October 2013

Eggshells (May26)

Three chaps need avoiding along the stretch behind the market up to Dor’s place in Block 2. When any of them are caught ambulant all pass muster A-OK, hail-fellow-well-met per the manual. Motionless on their perch however, altogether a different matter—sitting ducks unexpectedly make you start and quickly whiplash the other way. Short tubby old Chinaman possibly another Eurasian; mid-seventies, slowing & widowed likely, late night parking himself on a bench in the breezy passage opposite the lifts at Block 9. Nine iron benches in three irregular rows were some planner’s idea of community meeting-place for maintaining the gotong royong spirit. Usually head flung back, mouth-agape, transistor on the seat beside him with new batteries sending the old Chiang Kai Shek lounge numbers blaring from the bunker. Back to the passage not difficult slipping by, tip-toe reflex unnecessary… Likewise Bicycle Loner can be avoided on his bench that fronts the exercise yard by the path to Katong, good sight-lines either side providing ample warning. Unlocked bike on the path awaits like a grazing horse for re-supply of the Anchors that start mid-morning and halve the dark of night. Easily passed. Another Indian-Malay like Biker—the pair not surprisingly taking care to put distance between themselves. This chap taller, not entirely friendless in his case, occasionally finding place for himself at the Haig or Al Wadi tables. Talk is under sufferance a sister with family provides shelter & possibly food. Never begging (drink undoes the other); likely slipped something along the paths in the usual way here. Once or twice the chap has accepted a tea. You want to spend me?... A wit quick on the up-take, heavy copper mask alight. In various corners around the blocks this chap can be found late afternoons and into the night sitting and smoking—on the stairs of the electricity exchange by Block 6, down on one of the decks, and late-night at the playground on one of the coloured seats swinging slowly round in circles.

Zeus the Deliverer (SG) Dec24

Thunder & lightning shortly before 6 set the block aflame & rocking. With the curtain unable to stretch to the last pane the light streaked along the opposite wall like some kinda visitation. Still somehow it was comforting. Even had the tower suffered a spectacular strike and we were all buried in the rubble there would have been little cause for lament. The Urbanist Paul Virilio tells the story of a space crew in orbit which fell into danger and needed to choose between a burn-out crash-landing on earth, or else unguided flight into the furthermost beyond, until reserves were exhausted. In that case the decision was made for a fiery internment on the home planet. In Singapore in the midst of the towers with their garden-beds, void decks, sheltered walkways, the plastic fluro playgrounds, swept paths—another foreign worker yesterday was blowing leaves entangled in the bushes of a garden strip—the threatening hot spear of Zeus seemed less than troubling.

 

Big Cheese

Two tees at the library today: Adopt Success white on baby blue long one-piece athletic fleecy sleeveless gym gear good against the aircon and manageable flitting between buses, malls and apartment; then at the electronic exit I’m Very Very Happy — violet on white/soft pink, possibly single intensifier and Heart added. (Rapid pass with toddler in tow deciding against pursuit.) Both women Mainlanders at a guess still negotiating transition. At the bus-stop the surprise was the brand of the glass jar chicken essence used by successful students—New Moon. Seen and read one hundred and fifty times at the illuminated boards without properly registering. In this region a big signifier still, symbolically at least, and continuing to cause the Muslims in particular serious difficulties. Otherwise in its fuller phases on the equator a negligible presence rarely worthy of note: small, usually dull orb if visible at all. In China and the Arabian peninsular some impressive sights must still be available in places.

Blind-Sided

Older duck-billed chap who sold fruit and drinks from the stand mounted on the handle-bars of his bicycle up through the low lorongs where the girls worked only finally seen clearly tonight here at the Al Wadi tables. Once or twice the man had sailed past on the path along this end of Geylang without ever having taken his supper there. Scroungers like him did not patronize eateries of any kind, even for $1 pratas and not often teas. Dark female companion surprised too, middle-aged Thai or Filipina who likely made the drinks, cut the fruit and packaged for each night's trade. In fact it was only beside this woman that the man could finally be sighted properly. Clearly tonight, no two ways about it, distinctly Eurasian. There was hardly any mark whatever of the Han. Nothing. Parachute the fellow into the middle of any Western city you had a ready-made baker, plumber or janitor skipping to his van and flitting through the neighboring streets. How in the heck was that missed on the innumerable sightings in the first year when that night quarter up there fascinated so completely? Man’s manner, occupation, freedom with the girls, his earnest work ethic pedaling tirelessly round and round—for a time one had confused him with the look-outs—had taken every last bit of the attention. The woman had been rescued from the streets, got her residency, sent money back home to elderly parents and schooled younger siblings on the back of that night trade. It was not difficult to put the story together. A help-mate sharing the load and staving off all the loneliness targeting misfits like him.

Uncanny Shakes in Sin’pore (May26)

Oh my! Hottest day in Sin'pore history Tuesday gone just delivered a knock-on effect later in the week.

Today, Thursday, on the Opinion page of the Straits Times, a continuation of the warm-up/run-down to the anniversary of the great bard's passing. 400 years Saturday seems like yesterday.

Marking out the event and teasing out the relevance in this lit. loving country of Singlish, how might it be best done for any left wondering about all the hullabaloo?

Well, reminding of the iconic totemic poet's business-friendly credentials, of course.

In the highlighted capsule: 

"A major reason for reading Shakespeare's plays is their uncanny relevance to modern management issues and corporate executive lessons. He provides thought-provoking insights into issues which are ubiquitous in the contemporary and management scene..."

Readers interested can google the remainder.

Authored here by the founding Dean of the School of Arts and Social Sciences at SIM (Sin'pore Institute of Management); a writer of poems & stories for children, working currently on her first novel.

Ala’mak! as the Malays exclaim. (Always denying any inherent blasphemy.)

                                                                                                        S. T. 21 April 2016, page A31

Flora & Fauna (Equatorial)

Earlier in the morning coming out the scent of cut grass along the central walkway of the Haig blocks something like a micro-forest unexpectedly. Fifty metres on the three young Indian or Bangla lads on the western side, chaps shearing the in-fills between the paving where the islands held minute portions of green. Up on the little mounts swinging their clippers, fuel tanks strapped to their backs and cloth improvised for head-cover. A few square metres of fresh cuttings enough to fill the air and remind of the recent and more remote past—suburban lawn-mowing, a paddock in the country, school athletic events that marked the end of winter. 
            Three hours later coming down for lunch it was a girl heading across on the first branch of the path that caught the attention, her shapely legs initially. Back-pack, shorts and hair tied back in some kind of way that restrained her whipping pony-tail. (For that particular frisson there had been the athletic lass the evening prior on her usual run along the side-path down to Katong, black tail lashing across her muscular shoulders accentuated by her sporting white top with arm-holes that met in a thin band of stretched fabric in the middle of her back.) This afternoon’s girl less shapely and what allure was achieved countermanded by her Chinese Grannie gait. Who had taught the poor love to swing her arms like that not by her side forward march, but rather across her pelvis in front like an old maiden aunt? Was it truly possible within her own culture the lads would find that captivating, prompt them to set off in chase in order to get a word in and make a date? (No Western woman walks like that wager any of you a dollar.)