Foodie Imposter

Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye all!
         The first ripe locally grown pomidoro, the first paradajse or tommy tomato has been consumed today here in old Melbourne town with thin sesame crackers, marinated olives and likewise marinated Greek cheese.
         Yasu! Wonderful. A universe of associations.
         What a change from the equally wonderful but radically different fare on the equator! And from the transported, refrigerated like/unlike produce.
         For the last two days a green apple lightly flushed with rose has been plucked from sun-dappled branch at Bab's as an appetiser before lunches. The apple tree in the front yard there has been dropping its fruit for some time now, the large bulbs lining the gutter, the footpath and lawn either side. Bab had always said the tree was a beauty, only being misplaced by the letter-box and overhanging the footpath. Just too tempting for passers-by. We would watch them sometimes from indoors helping themselves, neighbours from the surrounding streets who will remain nameless. (Neighbours within the street waited to be gifted each year). Like the principled vegetarian Lowell mentions in his famous poem, Arthur next door even picked the fallen fruit from the lawn and cut out the wormed segments.
         To the suggestion that we pick the fruit at this tail end of March Arthur felt, No, it was too early. Let the fruit ripen some.
         It was the lawn man cutting at the Jankovic's who thought otherwise. They're falling anyway. Best to pick them before the birds get to them, the little tubby suggested.
         It was only later preparing to wash the apples at the kitchen sink in the Studio that the earlier heat of the day was noticed in the orb. Remarkable. It came with a slight physical shock to the cheek. Something like being tenderly patted by Grandma; young newborn chicks might not have been a whole lot warmer. Delightful. Sun kissed no exaggeration. Remember Paris raced for such-like in order to win the famed beauty
         After the tropics of course it was a startling contrast. The apples from Cold Storage or Giant had been the standby in Singapore, at $2.95 a luxury that always brought comment from the cashier. Picture book shape and colour had one chewing that fruit warily and guiltily.
         Slowly, by the strangest, most bizarre osmosis, one was turning into a half pie Food Writer (more than Foodie per se); this morning a submission to a Canadian lit. mag. for their call-out on the theme. Might just be able to wangle sometime perchance.
         ….And news just in from the States: young Amos Ye granted asylum in the US for well-founded fear of persecution in his homeland. Three cheers for the resistance from the US Immig. authorities to the Trumpet. Lad punched in the face on the street in Singapore and the miscreant let off with wrist slap; mid-teens brought to court in leg irons; kept in solitary so many weeks, the author's correspondent recalled. Fair grounds. Bloody rogue state! the older dissident opined on the matter.
         Missing Komala Vilas already here, where young Amos was encountered last year and bought lunch. Best of luck to the young rebel!

Easy Afternoon

At the end of Anderson Street opposite the old Cop Shop, Willis & (fortuitously) Anderson name of the place. Veggie wrap & cafe without the sweet potato on the side $14 plus. Mag. & Fbook tattooed dog-lover boys & girls, both genders working out. Only a single couple duelling phones, the remainder conversing without. Speech rhythms that almost certainly the young nephew and niece will have adopted now remote as outer terrestrials. On the far table the odd man out accentuated; within the scrum itself it might have been utterly impossible to get the food down. Cloud architecture at the bottom of the street and rounding from behind the old Greek neighbour of Aven's bearded now, still wandering with his prayer beads. Unlikely the man could pace by these tables without them through his fingers. A stranger in his own neighbourhood not ashamed to crane his head down into the gatherings as he passed. And hot on his heels suddenly Frank Noonan with perfectly matching grey straggly beard, much longer hair, rocking up to the street bench with his bag of fries. Dimmies first guess, but it might have been tatters. Last six years Frank hasn't lost any weight, the routine of the Defence Department office clobber hard to shuck even weekends. Unidentifiable newspaper which outta use is kept clasped to the chest with a wing arm. The brother immediately before or after Frank was the achiever at school, prefect and model student - likely got himself a wife and moved out somewhere. After polishing off his pack waddling off back toward the station and no stopping at the pub for Frank. The ABC in the evenings, favourite serials, slow mornings and sunny afternoons out. The royal comfort of the lazy day recalled Bab's appreciation of her life in the new country: none from either her rod or dom had ever lived in such fine style. (Rod was house of birth and dom of marriage, motherhood and mature life.) Couple of dads with their baby: that did not take long at all - second sit in Yarraville. How to settle on the biological seed in such arrangements posed a question. Cat last night organized a recent start-up Sheba taxi with exclusive female drivers for young Soleil's return from her punk party. Something of the Wahhabi taken hold Downunder. Earlier Señor Niccola and Senora Teresa from two doors down were caught in their front-yard, eighty-three the former; latter recovering from her heart op. and subsequent fall. A lawyer and CFA manager with company car next door, other professionals nearby too. No more piss-pots roundabout, suggested Sen. Nic with the accompanying gesture for the line at the pub pointing percy at the porcelain.... Younger dad singing along to the Beach Boys, or else one of their later clones. Not wishing to be nosey, unwilling to catch eyes, focused on the pages, it was only later that the size of the dads' pram was noticed. Oh dear yes! Aha.... Lads knew exactly what they were about, organized their arrangement with aplomb: a pair of babies co-ordinated, one only slightly older than the second. Brothers of a kind.

Reprobate (published July23 NWWQ under the Omni title, These I Commend To Thee)

The drunken old street-wreck had been treading on exceedingly thin ice lately. (Not such a stretch on this portion of the equator in fact, where there were numerous rinks and sculptural fantasias of various kinds.) Emboldened recently, the man had been stopping at the tables to chat with the regular punters, the diners and tea-sippers. Children strongly drew Rep, extended families, proper scarves & whatnot. Most endured the man’s blather patiently and well enough; kindly and allowing many. But of course there was always a fine line, inevitably. In the morning he had approached the table while Mr. Ee, the old agarwood trader, had sat for a while. God damn it! one thing. God damn it! something else. Watching from the side the burly prata-maker had come out from his hot-plate, snarling and ready to pounce. In this case the Wreck had quickly calmed down and in fact made himself useful. Discovering Mr. Ee was over for a pack of the untaxed, he was just the man to oblige, ready and willing. What was the preference? Name your brand. Indo Garam. Marlboro Red. What?...Twenty minutes later there it was, duly delivered. ($7, one added for services rendered. Mr. Ee had established that from the start.) For the evening however the man had picked the wrong table. No nose at all for the matter. Elderly stout scarves, pious and proper, sitting in council; they were unwilling to tolerate any unmannerly intrusion. One saw from three rows back the temperature rapidly rising. God damn it! God damn it! Wheeling away from the table and rounding back the Wreck, flaying his arms; flapping. All was not well and far from it. Coming down to unburden it was clear the complaints had wounded the man; badly and cruelly wounded. Spittle flying in his delivery. (What was noticed now too in the evening was the dye. A recent application, given during the course of the day.) God damn it! Damn it! They call me stupid!...Am I stupid?...Wheeling and spluttering; tottering while somehow keeping his feet. Flaying windmill arms; chicken wings flapping. It was best to remove the cup from the line of fire. The spectacle this time outside the eatery drew Zahruddin, the goodly manager at Al Wadi. An understanding, fair man Rudd, with whom the Reprobate had had trouble before. Told to move off. The pair jousting, holding their respective ground. It made an unfortunate spectacle. At the pleading sign from the side Zahruddin graciously withdrew. He was stupid was he, the Wreck? Is that what everyone thought, then?... Well, granted he had only his O Level, maybe that was stupid. (In  classrooms school-teachers often confronted such doldrums from confused teens.) Cripes man! No. No. Not stupid. That was unfair and uncalled for. No-one had a right to that language. (Many roundabout on Geylang Road of course fell far short of even the O Level, as the Wreck knew well enough. In the meritocratic Republic the distinctions ran through the community with military order.) Dribbles by this stage. Tears what was more, full and flowing. Unrestrained tears from a man in what, his early-sixties. Chap had begun stealing from his father in early teens, the Reprobate had confessed some months before. And progressed from there. Twenty-something times in the lock-up; errors freely owned and duly paid. This Reprobate had never accepted a teh, nor requested alms. Once he had offered the present of a broken winged angel he had been given by someone or other. When the Reprobate had discovered the significance of the figure, he immediately threw the piece into the gutter, where it shattered into pieces. I'm a Muslim, God damn it!.. And the fellow did hold to that with some firmness. All men searched for god, the Wreck had offered the private insight some months earlier. Whatever their profession, whatever their rank or standing, that was the chief endeavour of man. So memorably did pronounce the Wreck of this Geylang street on one particular occasion; a chap who ranged from the Haig Market down to Changi corner and not much further. Two hundred meter ambit. (That morning he had crossed to the larger Malay market for the fags. Where though might he have obtained the hair colour was a wonder.) Saturday night spluttering at the table, leaning close, listing. The tears issuing from the turned eye pitiful to behold. The right socket seemed to have the depth of an inexhaustible well. (Street fight you had to conclude, what else?) Difficult to settle. Hearing himself quoted on the matter of human yearning might have registered and helped in the present case. Helped pacify. Some slow, slow simmering. The storm slowly subsided. In the finish there was safe journey wished the mat salleh traveler, this white guy who had become a fixture in the quarter and soon needed to leave. Among the others of that community that had been accidentally found in that back corner of the city-state, the Reprobate too would be sorely missed.

     

                                                                                                                  Geylang Serai, Singapore

https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-radonic-these-i-commend-to-thee/

 

Disarmed Warriors (In the Mall)

  OH 
  MY 
DAYS

speckled white tower on red borne by a Chinese ahma blaring into the street more than the old love knew. Shopping trolley pulled behind and hoicked over the Onan Road steps; recent dye and eyebrow tattoo it looked. Buoyant easy stride swivelling her head as she cast over the tables and stalls.... By contrast the figure of Omar yesterday so poorly disguised by his neat, maid-laundered persiflage—white long-sleeve possibly even starched; likely the woman had polished the shoes and certainly ironed the trousers. (After three or four maids that failed to meet expectations the current was quite satisfactory. The woman even needed to be encouraged with her food, both the size of in-take and the avoidance of meat and fish apparent. Finest humility and respect.) A thunder strike from the newspaper that killed two joggers in Malaysia mentioned by Omar in the walk up the road. (In memory Omar had the event taking place locally.) Poof! No more. How many million was that chance? chuckled Omar, mouth askew. Fourth stage cancer was another nightmare fate awaiting some Misfortunates—morphine and the finish of that show, apropos of nothing. 

Having gotten off the bus Omar had been unable to catch his friend's long strides, a call on the phone needed. Going that way? Omar would come along to the hotel and proceed from there to his Arab Association in the next lorong. It was open, yes; normal office hours someone always at the desk. 

Thirty-seven years school-teaching, eight money-changing and a stint driving a cab. A couple of other half-hearted side-lines failed to amount to anything and almost a loss of a pile in a bad loan.

O starosti! Sramotno oruzje!

Oh Age! Shameful weaponry!

For Montenegrin hill-tribesmen the same as for desert Bedouin. (Transplanted the same.)

The old ahma’s billboard took one back to earliest days in our street kitchens with tea-pots steaming and biscuits on a plate. There may have been some currency in early television comedy skits featuring put-upon housewives in hair-nets and unreliable husbands. 

Would a single person in this republic on the Equator have the faintest idea on the exclamation? One single solitary? It did not appear an especially worn or faded tee.

Publication: "Hindu Jazz"

A couple of weeks ago an Indian online journal called The Criterion published a piece from this blog that dates back to the early acquaintance with the Indian diaspora here. After a decent interval I will re-post "Hindu Jazz."

Meanwhile here it is, a longer piece near 5,000 words: www.the-criterion.com/V8/n1/Pavle.pdf

Cruising Forty Years Later (July26)

 

Couple Florida Viets in drab street-wear asking directions at the Al Wadi table. Do you speak English?... (First a face like that bending from the pavement with such a question.) How might they get to the city? What was there to see? Something to recommend for a one-day stay… They knew of... forearms erected and a horizontal spar spanning across the top. Ya, ya, Marina Bay Sands. Trying not to be a party-pooper squirming, no call for that for nice people. (Later the woman had the iconic wonder up on her iPhone.) Jocular warning to be sure keep their money in their pockets at the casino, unlikely as it was they were those kinda suckers. The morrow was a cruise ship. Ah, cruise?... They were going on a ship cruise?... That was what they was doing. But, surprise-surprise, not around the local islands. Dubai. Eighteen days!... Seriously. There would be a casino on-board, too. Yes, the chap knew. All cruisers had them, he likewise knew. The picture here before you did not tell the story at all, and far from it. Pair had left '75, grateful to America, considered themselves very lucky and reluctant to call out any racism. All part and parcel. Nonetheless, it was pleasing to hear unexpected responses from a fellow migrant, he said. Pretty decent English; surprised to be immediately picked. Husband was a little less accomplished: let's say twelve when he climbed outta the boat at the Thai or Malaysian camps, looking like a drowned rat. Lady four years younger, carried in arm by an uncle and the meeting in the food queue… Let’s say.

…Was Le Van Thai still going strong Downunder, liver holding out? Continuing with his placid pictures he painted for the local market, that gave no hint of what he had endured? (Showing them for the first time, Le was surprised to hear the POV.)

And Nguyen with his PhD, going to Arkansas to marry the lady running the nail salons. Still wearing his PJs around the streets of Footscray? 

Pair here had been down to Oz, found a good place, with good people there. They had been very good to their people, the woman had heard. (Mal Fraser at a time when the Jesuit A. was still in short pants.)

Trump. Oh well. Couldn't be blamed too much. (Hardly, after what they had endured.)

The Viet quarter out back at Joo Chiat was known to them, they had passed through the night before. With the dark the woman had gotten a bit concerned about the bars & karaoke joints featuring their compatriots. (No Soliciting On the Premises.) Over in Florida one would no doubt need to keep wits about you too, even Viets.

 

 

 

 

Gaming Culture (Photos & Books)

North African and Middle Eastern refugees in the Balkans in the World Press Photos. Worst had to be the Syrian father fixed on the dead young daughter lying across his knees. In that group there were injured children in makeshift hospital wards and in another series children sleeping in tents in the forests. 

            The others viewing avoided any possible sharing of reactions. There was nothing to be said of course.

Exiting the basement portion of the show, unexpectedly there was more on ground level by the escalator, lesser sport and quirky matter. Something else too that had not been noticed earlier near the gift shop.

The vending machine by the girls at the desk was not in fact drink or nibbles. Wrapped mystery purchases rather in some kind of series, all of a size, $19 each.

Unusual. How did that work? Key in the code for the particular item… 

Blind Man’s Bluff or Pin the Tail on the Donkey. You would unpack the surprise present to yourself on the bus home.

Young  Kenny operated Books Actually out at hipsterville Tiong Bahru, where they had tried to get World Heritage listing for the earliest of the housing towers. Kenny had become a local celebrity, photographed numerous times in the Life! section of the newspaper. 

Crammed with all the titles like a candy store BA; this venture was set to tease book-buyers in a whole new way. 

Innovation was the mantra in Singapore. Automation. Robotics. Staying ahead of the curve.

The jaded reading public needed to have their interest piqued; colourful cover product only gained so much traction. 

 

 

National Gallery Singapore, 2017

The old 2G phone bought in Jogja will be inoperable here from April. (A couple of weeks ago Nancy Ong was good enough to gift her mother's old Lenovo.) Needless to say, no camera on the slim-fit Nokia. A couple of young Malay girls manning the gifts at the National Art Museum on Bras Basah Road obliged.
Wrapped mystery purchases in some kind of series all of a size @ $19 ea. Key in the code and one was yours, courtesy of Books Actually. Young Kenny operated BA out at newly emerging hipsterville Tiong Bahru, a minor celebrity himself who has been photographed in the Life! section of the newspaper a number of times. (Doppleganger of our Readings Marko Rubbo down in Melbourne, who bought books in the States unsighted by the crate-load. Or did some years ago.)
Innovation the mantra here in Singapura. Robotics. Staying ahead of the curve. Adapt or you're dead.