Thirsting and Itching (May24)

Seasoned old rogue with the green flourishing ganja covering his tee, handsome devil of the classic form unconcerned about the danger of such advertisement in Singapore. A Fine City, as the other mocking tees with their listing of prohibitions proclaimed. 

         Thin, tall, sharp-featured dangerman red-hot bait for any public order official on the prowl. Canna see bag please sir?...
         First intro-ed few days ago by the old Madurese flat-cap cowpoke with the belt-buckles, dyed mullet and big-stepping gunslinger stride. It fitted immediately: couple of rustlers blown into town stopping at the ol' saloon for a drink. Eye-full and a half, a pageant from fifty metres distance.
         Madurese had been absent some months now, made himself scarce, keeping a clean nose. At the stop by the table hooked at finger at his off-sider without need say more—the picture told the story.
         Brilliant hair-cut àla early seventies Keith Richard; not dissimilar otherwise too. Of course Doper could not have afforded the blood transfusion.
         Madurese favoured the gals, lashing out for a table of the Batam lasses no matter how many. Critics said he had dough that was being blown all without regard for the kids and grand. Late, late seventies and ram-rod straightest back on the planet for that cohort. Prance down the street, forget it—beyond any compare.
         Of course Dopers were cut from different cloth. Good English, when the chief had only lightest sprinkling.
         Earlier in the morning with the crowd a chair had been taken beside the Deaf. Drinks. Chat. Abandoned later for some better elbow-room in the next row, which is where pretty boy grandpa found his man. 
         Howdeedo? Howdeedo? Ah-hum, yeah. This and that. Yeah, yeah. Hmmm.
         Nice bangle slipping over a coloured cotton or hemp band as the man rocked. Always a feature of the pretties bones like that. This bloke didn’t seem vain. Easy cool floating smooth.
         Chat with razz without any substance. Sweet but. Over his rims lazy-eye surveying the tables and falling on somebody back there was it?.. Who, what??... In fact none other than the gentle, quiet, mind-your-own-business Deaf shrunk in his chair. 
         That one?
         Ohwee! Yes indeed, knew him inside-out. The same katal for the gals, you might not know.
         Ah, what?... You mean? The D-D-Deaf?... (Man saw the arrows aimed in his direction.)
         Katal big time. No sooner he sees a one, itching all over, shiverin’ an’ shakin’. Katal.
         The fellow would have convinced you of a murder charge, cannibalism of new-borns, what have you. Easy, easy cool walking on water.
         The Deaf. Quiet sheepish no-say-boo-to-a-mouse. (Not to be confused with the showman Deaf, the charmer and one half double plus. Slays them that one, three tables joined of a dozen all peeing their pants hanging on his next move. Mesmerizing. He certainly was never short of a companion of the semi-fair sex; not the other.) A surprise. One never knew. The quiet ones.
         There had in fact been heard the English here before without giving it too much mind. Shame to tell and blushing all the while, one or two of the girls had been found in deepest toils itching, itching bad. Itching good and bad, and leaving lasting memories. City gals never quite pleaded for scratching in that same pussy cat curled way. 
         Katal. A new acquisition to the vocab, learnt in the preferred way in meaningful context where there was a chance of sticking.
         Brought to mind Bloom's Irish Molly itching for it too—katal.
         — Oh, give us a touch Poldy, the wandering Jew recalls as he waits out Blazes Boylan back at the ranch. God I'm dying for it, poor darling all aflame.
         Katal. They felt it in these parts too by the volcanoes, under the branches in the jungle and plenty other places now.
         The old Montenegrins would say, Zedan na nju, thirsting for her. (Horny was so-so OK possibly, when one considered early usage perhaps, for the male at least. Appropriate language and a certain kind of evocation raised.)
         Noted appropriately and filed.
         Incidentally, shortly after when the Deaf was challenged (Doper passed on), the man stoutly denied. Absolutely not. That fella… Doing a circuit lands back here, blabber, blabber, running at the mouth—fingers making the universal duck-bill for chatter-box. Full of it that guy…. One hand half-clasping the other cross-wise was uncertain; the fore-finger cross low on the brow on the other hand well-known now.
         …And hold your horses steady there partner, too! Doper had never gone to school; lad preferred fishing by the river for shrimp instead, trapping birds in the thicket. No such thing as katal at all. Noooo. Delete. It was GATAL. GGGGGeee. Luckily Osman the ex-schoolteacher providentially happening along and file corrected.

Nature Uploads in the Wings

New nature reserve splash announced today linking with the old Night Safari, River Safari and the Singapore Zoo—there will be five wildlife parks altogether in the integrated arrangement. Eco lodges mooted within "a rain-forest-themed park where visitors can get up close to wildlife.... sleeping under the stars could be an option for those who want to spend a night or two.... tents, suites and family rooms…. being considered." (Stars somehow high-tech computer generated presumably.) Highly likely on completion the development will be in the running for a new regional award for environmentally sensitive urban amenity a short drive from housing projects. In the artist's impression accompanying a large tree stands ringed by walking paths that terminate a short distance away in a timber-clad viewing platform casting over the forest canopy.

                                                                                            Straits Times, 2 June 2016, p.1

NB. On the day following large red V-shape winged pelican-like birds added to the graphic.

Sucking It In

Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head followed by What the World Needs Now mid-afternoon at Orchard Kinokuniya, unpaid pen employed for the note-taking. There had been rain in the morning and showers later, one distinct grenade of refreshing humus rising from the ground somewhere in the travels. (It might possibly have been through the Haig blocks car-park in fact beneath a tree up on one of the islands when the path at the end parallel to the road was taken in order to avoid yet another pass of the funeral party at the base of Block 11, the Arab Hadramis. Should one go over to offer condolences in person?...) An attempt to exit the store without further ado proved fruitless: What’s New Pussy Cat?, unremastered original in this case by the cashier. Wow, Wow-Wow, Wow, Wow. There was a speaker close-by. Stretching credulity of course one perfectly well understands, but, how to say, veritas and nothing but. Consecutive tracks in this precise order: unknown vocalist the first in the standard rendition; the Burt Bacharach and finally topped by inimitable Tom. Not only that either: there came more delay in the queue for payment with a lapsed Members’ Card at the counter, lady buying a stack of unidentifiable titles, children’s series best guess. The Way We Die Now and When Breath Becomes Air face out on the top shelf of the Highlights stand bodilo oci, as the Serbs say—pricking the eyeballs.

Buffoons and Worse (Dec25)

Paul Virilio throws up the reminder of the "buffoon Berlusconi," a particular Italian joke for chuckling at a dozen years ago when City of Panic was published. These few years later the note rings rather differently after the imminent nomination of Trump, the South African Zuma (husband of four wives concurrently: polygamy was written into the South African constitution) and beneficiary of a $20m government funded renovation of his private residence; then add Najib's alleged involvement in thievery and murder, Sisi in Egypt, the Sauds forever in Arabia, Putin's PR machine manufacturing the Strongman cartoony. New boys on the block Duterte in Manila (boxer Pacquiao in the wings together with the young Marcos) and the pistol-totting candidate for the Austrian presidency losing by a whisker last week. Placing Kim Jong-un in the midst of that crowd, the youngster might be perceived in an altogether different light. (On our local little red dot the son of the revered founding father has remained in the jockey seat a decade—the party a half-century—after a short round as a Brigadier General, in a famed corruption-free meritocracy, with free elections and single state media throughout.)

The sting in the tail comes in the suggestion that it was in fact ever thus, only much better managed and presented usually.

The Agency Jan25

As if someone gives a right royal FFF. What's the big deal? So damn well what for christ almighty’s sake, there’s far more important things to worry about. Young pretty pre-pubescent beauty happily swinging herself in the Haig playground. Cloud cover from morning holding through the afternoon. Long high swings in the air and no-one needed to supervise. (Copper-coloured Malay; the Chinese were far more circumspect where risk-taking behaviour was concerned). Thin long limbs that would make the boys' hearts race in a couple years, legs pointed, arms stretched and smiling. CIA orange caps on sleeveless olive green. In Manila, Vietnam, Laos & Cuba by now it will be the same.

Clear and Distinct

From a quite unexpected quarter one morning.
         — Good thinking; good doing.
         Frizzy-haired chap offering slightest acknowledgements up to that point over the five years. Early or even mid-seventies, always dyed and in good trim.
         The Malay might have been infused with some part Indian in his case.
         Earlier the man had never sat at the lower end there, all the previous passes had been up at the Haig, almost always with quite uncertain acknowledgement and most often nothing explicit.
         Chap had drawn some conclusions from his quiet observations over the term. More than a little surprising.
         Only in the last couple of weeks had there been more deliberate nods and inaudible words. These here the very first distinct—something like an oracle finally giving unambiguous utterance.
         Fellow had gone across under the awning on the other side of the passage to have his fag. (Two hundred and fifty dollar fines recently exacted for smokers at the tables.) One of the street chaps who slept rough and relied on charity was there on a chair he had taken over; joined by the sage. On the return passing behind the chair and bending to whisper in the ear.
         Clearly respected pen and paper, when there had not been any indication whatever.
         Left one wondering; still waters and all that.
         And more treasure almost immediately afterward as a kind of follow-up illustration.
         An old, irregular Malay tissue-seller had stopped at the adjacent diners. Yes, a sale. Lady would take a single pack, that would do. Keep those two. Makasih, makasih.
         Furthermore, chap accompanying the lady wanted to know whether the woman had eaten. Hungry or thirsty? 
         Usually perfunctory enquiries of course, though not in this case. Pressing at hesitation. (The ancients in Montenegro needed to be asked three times before they would accept hospitality; that way you could be sure of true offering.)
         Iced lemon teh then, no need let up on the gula. Sugar hit for all she's worth.
         Politeness meant the woman should sit a while, short conversation sufficient.
         Not so hot, good cloud cover. Quite enough for a thirst of course.
         Had the woman truly eaten? Would she like a plate of something?
         Sudah, the tissue-hawker re-affirmed. Seemed she had indeed taken some morsel previously.
         Half the teh consumed; the remainder she would take with her. Away then. Thanks again and best wishes.
         In delivering a couple of drinks unasked in the last few days Mr. Yusof the SMRT (“death” in Serbo-Croat!) bus-incident stand-by explained with Ramadan approaching a Muslim needed to reach out to one's brothers, to one's neighbours and strangers too.
         The extremism was chickens coming home to roost after more than a century of devious manipulation and vicious devilry in one particular region of the world most especially. Colonialism and Neo.

Forest Thicket - published by Rambutan #5, 2018

Without any other way to record what must be recorded, these fragments continued.

         The man with the turned right eye usually found on the Block 2 Void Deck either at one card-table or the other, observing from the side usually; striped red, blue & white polo cycling through the estate; sometimes seated by the passage legs up on the railing.

         Good mornings, ni haos, zhao uns and how are you? This morning on the return from the teh and newspaper the same. Going out earlier there had been the same.

         After the second pass this morning a short wait was needed at the lift, where unexpectedly from around the corner the man suddenly appeared. He did not live in D Block; he had never been encountered there. 

         — I give you mango. Abruptly thrusting a red plastic bag at the shnozz and pulling back the cover either side.

         — Verrrry nice! As if afraid he might be disbelieved and his offering rejected.

         After a momentary start it was clear the chap wasn't kidding; man knew his fruit. 
         A hard, green specimen of average-small size, yet the perfume emanating was difficult to credit; more than substantiating the man's claim. An exploding grenade of richest heady perfume. 
         One hundred to one this was not supermarket product, and far from it. The fellow had access to a tree somewhere in deepest forest where trunks crowded each other and the foliage shredded the light; he knew where, as the old story-tellers would have said.

         Like everyone else, the man had observed the fruit carried in hand day after day up to Doreen’s flat, naked oranges, apples and the yellow Thai mangoes usually that gave only the most trifling scent. In his keeping this man had an appropriate gift for the stranger. Even late night from the entryway returning housemates remarked upon the fragrance.

         How to return something fitting now was the question.
         A couple of days later when the man was thanked again for his gift and the fabulous bouquet underlined, chap was surprised it had not yet been tasted. The hardness made no never mind, the fruit was ripe. It was in fact fallen fruit, not picked. After two days it would be "spoiled ready."
         In season a fig they used to give as an offering to children, friends and passers-by on the Montenegrin coast between the wars (and proverbially of course one would not give the same for anything less than worthy); an apple, orange or almonds and walnuts too from the fortunate ones in possession. Kampung folk easily identifiable here over the void decks, sitting on the steel benches, under the care of the dark-skinned maids and pacing the aisles under the supermarket fluro, old ways retained.