Blowtorch Oct24✅

Swan through NTUC en route to the bakery down past Masjid Khalid, two minute slow-stepping along the aisles. A saviour like a cave in deepest summer where ice could still be found. (Suchlike existed in the Montenegrin hills only a couple of generations ago.) In the Fruits Mr Wenli Wei suddenly popped out from the scrum. The old Mandarin Lit. teacher from Beijing had approached the kopi table a few days before to enquire about the incessant activity. Writing, always writing. Sight for sore eyes for a man who wrote poems himself, read a lot and with his wife looked after his young granddaughter. Marvellous on the second encounter to be able to gift the man Li Po & Tu Fu too into the bargain. You’d like to know when the old bibliophile had received this pair on his rambles about the place. The latter especially, incomparable old TuF, made the heart glad. Something about the moon and a L-O-V-E-R, — the poet’s secret squeeze presumably up at the heights. (Wei would be far better acquainted with the biography, or folklore at least.) Are you lonely? wondered Wei, immediately direct and venturesome, knowing something of the vocation’s costs. There had been no lovers for Wei, only his wife, hesitating there over her purchases. The son had graduated from Beijing’s Science & Technological University twenty years ago, come down to Singapore to advance his career. Unable to hack the weather on the Equator, the daughter-in-law kept to the homeland and lottsa to-and-fro. Farewell, farewell, the poetic gods would bring us together again. At the corner haberdashery the old China Uncle sat in his fold-out chair as usual; rarely was the man up on his feet nowadays. In his hand a dark, square piece of something that he was rubbing over his knuckles…. Aduh! The ring and stone was out of sight. It reminded of the tales of the gangster era in the kampungs; in lieu of dusters sharpening the points might have been the way back in the day. Working the thick emery paper while he breezily chatted to passersby. Kinex, former One KM (one always made it a point to forget the branding of the malls in particular), offered the auto entry-doors more often than not. Ah!... Reviving zephyr! No need a close pass—along the front garden-beds one could take the coolness from fifteen metres there, sometimes both doors one after the other. Crossing Tanjong Katong and wending now through City Plaza—phones, shoes, massage chairs, gold shop—out the side and back onto Geylang past the bus-stop. There was little cover Southside at 1PM; across the street full-on furnace right along to Guillemard. Once the crossing was made beyond, however, the trees provided cover and along Sims Ave sheltered walkways virtually right the way to Kwan Inn. Laksa like at Kwan under $10-12 one was never going to find on the Southern continent. 4 at the Buddhist.

Ibrahim & Ismail

We are on the Eve of Hari Raya Haji here, which commemorates the faith of the Prophet Ibrahim (Abraham). In Mecca 2m are currently in attendance, a news item today reported.
Five years ago the ritual slaughter was still on public display in Singapore, where at a madrasa a short distance from Geylang Serai it had been witnessed. The following account was published in Canada by Antigonish Review #187.



Fifty or sixty sheep waiting within the muddy pen that had been improvised against the front fence of the Madrassa. They had arrived late last week, the Qantas flights resumed just in time. The sheep had come from Adelaide; the cheaper goats Perth. Soon after nine an expectant crowd had gathered. Near the side fence a plastic bucket of knives; plastic sheeting spread on the opposite side. The arrangement was clear. Hoses, large plastic bags and boxes, more knives on tables. Above what looked like a pit near the bucket a couple of rails had been laid—in fact it was a drain. The blood would not be collected; that was another kind of practice in northern climates. Two thirds of the meat was usually reserved for the poor, of whom as yet there was no sign. The slaughter was due to begin after the second prayer.
         There was no announcement, no officialdom or muezzin call. The burly young chap who had waited within the pen with the animals made the first move, taking down a sheep by the rear legs. Once the animal was on its side a helper grabbed the fore. It took a short while to unbar the improvised side gate. Three or four more animals were soon waiting in line, held down and quiet.
         The slaughtermen were older hands, unremarkable in the common dress. From an almost vertical position the long blade came down, a prompt and what seemed neat slit following the plunge. Almost like a hot knife in butter: the blade was very sharp. After a number of animals had been done a chap with a whetstone resharpened. Behind, the twitching of the animal's tail lagged a little after the knife. It was only almost an hour later and a score of beasts that the twitching on the pallets before the butchers was noticed. This was a shock. It was possible the second slaughterman was responsible for that; somehow he seemed less accomplished.
         The blood from the knife was wiped on the sheep each time, one side of the blade carefully after the other. It was an integral part of the proceeding. Each time the slaughterman did the same, the second man like the one before him. The remaining blood was washed from the blade by cupping water from another bucket; between times the rails were hosed. The ground throughout the forecourt of the Madrassa was muddy from the rain of past days. Adding further water would only have made the job more difficult.
         A group of men beside the drain raised prayers as the knife came down on each animal, singing a short, plaintive couple of verses that included the acknowledgement of God's greatness.
         — Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.
         The voices were thin and minor key the same as the rest of the scene from one end of the forecourt to the other. It was very much a Brueghel canvas. In front of the chorus as if supervising a young woman stood with a sheet of paper. She had not been present from the beginning; the choir itself might not have been present initially. Various young men helped inside the pen and young boys of ten given a turn too, their laughter and high spirits allowed. After a number of animals had been skinned on the other side a chap produced an electric saw and proceeded to dismember with that. Three or four animals were hung at a time. On a table near the fence on the side of the butchering a man cleaned animal heads. Everyone knew their task without any kind of order or system apparent. This was a practiced communal event far from industrial slaughter.
         After something like a score of animals had been done, the first slaughterman was relieved. The second around the same age, somewhere in his early sixties, wore a black songkok. Once or twice his blade came down a second time after what must have been an imperfect cut of the jugular. At one point there was a clear spout of blood that shot well outside the drain. Possibly the impression of lesser surety was mistaken.
         The relieving of duty was unexpected. Was it the bending that had tired the first slaughterman so quickly? His role was confined to the knife only. The rails were sometimes hosed by him, sometimes by a bystander. So efficiently had the man worked the assumption had been that he might do the entire pen. When he was relieved more than half the animals remained. Somehow the second slaughterman broke the earlier smooth rhythm.
         In the contemporary Christian tradition it is the lamb of the manger that is remembered, if at all. For Jesus the shepherd there is the lamb and the flock—standing for the gentle meekness that has erased the radicalism of the prophet (as Christ is acknowledged in Islam). Abraham and Isaac have been long forgotten in the contemporary Western consciousness. In pockets of the U.S. it might be different.
         A significant number of applicants here were disappointed in not winning a place in the Saudi quota for the hajj. Some who cannot attend pay for an animal to be slaughtered in Mecca on their behalf. Prices of livestock have risen this year because of weather factors. The Straits Times reported $443 per head of Australian sheep and $395 goat — transport inclusive.


NB. Korban sheep this year will be priced at $499; 2,000 animals due, half of which will be Australian. In addition 1,500 lambs from Ireland at $575 per head will increase the supply this year. Twenty-four mosques will host the event this October, a slight increase on the year before. Three years ago the spectacle was visible from the footpath before the Wak Tanjong Katong Madrasah on Sims Avenue here in lower Geylang. (Straits Times item today.)

Publication news - Bread & Circus

Howdy all
A short while ago this author was issued with a lone star badge by the literary sheriff at the San Antonio Review.
High-end Orchard Road, Singapore—a world away from my corner of Geylang Serai—in the sights this time round. 
The piece is titled “Bread & Circus,” which appeared a couple of years ago in an earlier version on the blog.
Open access here -

https://sa-review.com/

Hope you like it.

Pavle

Manet & Titian

This glorious Venus walks into your tea joint from the blind, right side of the cataract, swans past the fire hydrant that has damaged many a knee there, right up onto the Fries platform on the corner. The last part of the passage revealed the extent of her cascading tresses. Would not be surprised if just then the author, unconsciously, like a jockey on his mount, had risen up from his chair in order to take the vision properly…. Wow-wee! You seen it all now, Bud. How many men have looked upon the like? Never before this guy. The long lustrous strands ran like a burbling brook on and on all the way down to behind the crook of the lady’s knees. The bees knees! Blow me down. Double knocking as she strode onward: once against the small of her back and the second time the other side of her mound, waving & flapping. Catching her would have been like trying to seize the breeze; and rooted to the spot didna help any. Initially she had flitted past touching distance, but at that juncture you had no idea what you had before you! Killing not so softly. While she was on the platform at the Fries a man was still  a rough chance if he could gather himself—wits, clear-minded purpose &etc. Problem was the pillar and the corner. If the angel had hung a left there she was away without any possible hope; straight ahead you were not out of the running, maybe catch her up before the shop-stalls. The stabbing pang later was thought of the hotel entrance thirty metres there down Onan past the Cheers. By crickey, she could only have got herself along in there, disappeared up the stairs where her date waited. Nowhere to be seen; not a trace. Had she gone straight up toward the market she could not have escaped, there was no exit point along that stretch. Caught in time she might have been shown the extended portrait gallery of her racial cousins, eventually enticed for a photo and a second arranged for the room where the snaking strands could have been artfully coiled along her torso in the Titian or Manet pose—Venus & Olympia rolled into one. Down on your knees no shame nor hesitation. Congress would not have been required.

                                                                                      Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-2019

Orange Harvest

One single, solitary orange that morning at the market, when there were more than two dozen on display the day before and more in the boxes. All gone, Mr Lim reported, only half apologetically. Ugly and spotted the remainder, for which Mr Lim had needed strong-arming in order to accept money. Every 1^st and 15^th of the month the Chinese bought up, the costermonger’s son informed, as if he were speaking to a fellow just landed from outer space. What the man omitted at the time was that the Hungry Ghost Festival was suddenly upon us again, sprung like a trap on an unsuspecting rodent. Why had there been no mention; not a whisper of any kind. It was the flyweight former ship chandler from the J. C. Complex flats who revealed the matter when he stopped on his bicycle at the Wadi table in the evening. That was the reason for the piles out along the paths at the Haig coming out shortly before dusk. The Haig rarely took such a thorough Han colour; such masses like in the old scroll paintings hundreds of metres long. People on their knees before their offerings, the little candle-lit shrines, joss sticks flashing. Dozens upon dozens. At the path running between Blocks 12 and 9 toward Tanjong Katong Road alone, there must have been ten people, hovering over the little patches they had claimed like prospectors. Throughout the lands of the Emperors ages past the common people had come out like that before nightfall on the appointed day, giving honour to their dearly departed, the candlelight flickering over the lustrous fruit. Pineapples, coconuts and cups of tea before the sticks in the ground. Complete rice meals with orange coloured muffins were common. Someone in the early days had warned the White foreigner that taking these foods meant for the dead was very bad form; very much frowned upon. The play money that was burnt was likely a modern phenomenon. On the return later in the evening after supper when the people had gone, the grounds at the Haig were strewn with the notes, the burnt red sticks and various other refuse, left for the foreign work crews to clear in the morning. The ancestors here were given proper honour. A great number were clearly fondly remembered; they were still greatly missed. Losses such as these were impossible to ever recover. In the midst of it all one inevitably recalled the poor old guy who had jumped from the tenth floor of Block 9 the afternoon before. This was precisely on the eve of the festival. It emerged later, according toMr Lim, that the man had been an outsider; not in fact from the Haig. In the morning he had bought a stool from a store down at the back of the market, in order to get himself over the balcony wall. It seemed he had no connection with the estate, merely chosen it for his desperate act. Jumpers never did it at their own blocks, Jeanette at No. 11 reported. There was no one clinging onto this man's person evidently; not holding him to life. Which meant possibly none would honour him next year at the festival. A sad, logical deduction. In the first report of the event word arrived that that particular incident at Block 9 had been followed by another of the same kind, within the hour, at Block 11. Another person unable to endure trials and hardship longer. In the second case it had been a young boy of sixteen, reportedly. Naturally the tandem had struck everyone at the Haig. On the following morning, however, Mr Lim, a PAP grassroots leader, declared the subsequent report false. Not true; fake news. Mr L. dismissed the matter. Opponents of the government, Mr L. lamented; mischief-makers. There had been something of an epidemic of youth suicide recently. The PSLE—Primary SchoolLeaving Examination—held in the fifth grade, had recently been revamped. There were pressures of all kinds upon the young; the fact was beginning to be recognised. The elderly and the young were the vulnerable groups here. On the mat for the tummy-tighteners in the afternoons one recalled the old medieval monks stretching out in the coffins as a reminder.If the Ghosts were hungry too, it implied neglect, didn't it? Therefore the need of reminder. In the old days as much as current. 

 

 

                                                                                                                       Singapore 2011-2020

Pages from Life & Whatsapp in the Singaporean HDBs

revised April24

Not possible to catalogue the messages from Jo over the term, the last 3-4 months. Mostly they are immediately deleted with only a glance at the content; the pattern has long been established. Three and then a fourth late morning today must stand as representative, in this case possibly forwarded by Jo’s circle. (The lady is by no means on her Pat Malone for such habits of mind in this island Republic.)

Item No. 1, 11:39
Doris Day who died 13/5/19, sang this song in 1950. Still it is relevant today – both in letter and spirit. Amazing lyrics- listen and follow…Every word is worth its weight in gold.

Item No. 2, ditto
“Enjoy Yourself,” – 2:20 audio file, with lyrics appended:
You work and work
for years and years
You’re always on the go
You never take a minute off
Too busy makin’ dough, &etc.
Still of Doris in sharp, arrowing bob, high white collar jacket and sailor stripes below.

Item No. 3, 11:41
Mainland China product: video with appropriate soundtrack showing a deformed young Chinese man strapping a large basket of fries it might be around his neck and on all fours stumping out to the highway, most likely for customers.
Tagged: We have no reason to complain about life.

Item No. 4, 11:45
Unsavoury food prep. likely Mainland China, featuring fries that go into the wok with the brown paper wrapping; dirty, unhygienic floor, &etc.

The fruit and sweets have dried up lately from Jo, possibly because of the lack of response to her messaging. Occasionally one is shot back when something appropriate can be found.
         Early/mid-fifties spinster living with her bachelor brother in Block 2 or 3; a Catlady like Helen, but less devoted. Indeed, casual according to the latter, taking overseas holidays and expecting others to pick up the slack; &etc.
         The goodies are usually left hanging on the door handle or else placed in the fridge. Eye-out kept no doubt to make sure Helen does not catch her. (Helen has noted the suspicious articles, but thus far the cover story employed has proved sufficient. Jo had unnecessarily warned that Helen not be informed about her gifts.)
         Money in the family from an inheritance. Jo always dresses smartly, cocktail Doris era, which still retains its hold here for the post-war gen. Once a slightly risqué venture landing: “Be glad I don’t offer you myself.” (During the course of polite pleas to cease with the high calorie offerings.)
         Recently Jo had changed her Whatsapp photo, something taken from her files of 15-20 years previous, when the lady had her run.

NB. Housing Development Board flats, aka pigeonholes, provide shelter for 85%+ of Singaporeans. The clean, functional ammenities are counted a great success in many quarters.

Resuscitation (Dec22)

5 & perhaps 1 1/2 later overnight, both wakings as usual like the beaching of a whale. In the midst of the turgid washing through the brain, the Etonian Bor envisioning a return to Brit. greatness. Rule Britannia once again! Rule Britannia! Delivered in an upscale version of the lager lout only partially masked. By 2050 when all the fellow’s pink flesh will have fallen from the bone the country would become the powerhouse economy of Europe. The US great! Great Britain great! Bruited by a pair of flaxen-haired trumpeters of identical form and swagger; the latter a big fan of Churchill. Thank the bleeding Jesus the pile-drivers on Onan corner did not start up until later in the morning! Three days now almost unceasingly on a small allotment, perhaps concerned about the rising sea level on reclaimed East Coast, a couple of kilometres down. Theresa like Hillary did the massaging more artfully and with greater refinement. In some ways it was preferable to get the more naked cartooned productions. Some counter-reaction might be provoked, possibly.