Mod. Malaise (April26)

  

Old Chinaman at the Lavender stop in a not-so-new green tee with mainly large Chinese characters. Too many, far too many you would have thought for a translation of the English at his waist:

PROHIBIT ANXIETY

Perhaps the modern illness needed quite a bit of the old form to put properly.

Difficult task fully and immediately conceded by the man. And more strong agreement again at the suggestion that such a feat could possibly be pulled off precisely here in this Republic. A Fine City, as other ambulant billboard tees routinely mocked.

Definitely. Definitely.

The bus was too quick for further.

The Albino (July25)

 

Late afternoon on Jalan Sultan the Chinese albino had it about right—a world of horror and nothing else, unable to be endured. Eyes clenched tight, shielding arm raised high and the other feeling his way along the shopfronts. It was torture right enough, the man likely knowing only the half of it. The rain had come down almost without cease the last 48 hours, puffer jacket needed against the aircon in the library and Helen’s big payung, which even so was unable to protect the cuffs of the trousers. There was hardly a squeak of light, yet the poor man was dreadfully assailed. One hundred the number of casualties in the renewed bombing in Gaza according to initial reports, climbing in increments into the 2- 3- & 400s. Zainuddin forwarded a member of the Irish Parliament it must have been, crying out against the inhumanity. For those who did not know such devastations from their own sources, their own race memory, the newreports & photos could be stomached for many, many months more. Years in fact.

Publication news: Attention! - Airplane Reading

 

Hallo all

Another short of mine has just been published in the States, delivering again some aerophobia, with couple other matters intermixed.

Free on the site here—

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

All best

Pavle

Slovenian Slalom (Melania) - published by Action, Spectacle Winter 2026

 

Robot wending its way through the tables, by the blue-striped FT on the bench. Couple patrons obliged bringing their cups & plates. Nadia had long been boycotting Starbs, Amazon & the others, she had revealed a few days before. For a minute it seemed paper was unavoidable; in fact if you asked specially, glass was provided. (There may have been a net thing about germs after machine-washing.) Mr T. T. tutup again and Sarah’s tea counter only opened at noon. OneKM’s outlet was running their golden oldies and prairie ballads on high rotation; far better the neat and shiny eager beaver grandsons & -daughters of coolies at PLQ. $6.80 small. (Sing had the highest McDs per capita on the planet, and Starbs could not be far behind.) Entirely other world. G. Serai was a 6-7min walk, during Ramadan all mosque-mouse quiet. The older FT in blue was the only other white in attendance... No. A young IT in track pants was working from home. (Alone in the condo was even more crushing than these generic chains.) Couple gleaming stainless belt-buckles sported by the mid-30s prematurely aged Chinese biz guys. Oh! And another older FT too, neat casual chosen by his wife. Closing 9. Every last one of the tables was shortly to be filled and many late arrivals would be forced to turn on their heels disappointed. The Robot delivered to the lady at the bar, where there was beer on tap & cocktails, presumably. Blog hammer continuing apace, 19½ dozen LLM scrapes yesterday, there was little doubt. Not productive of SG to take a stronger stance against Israel, according to the usefully Muslim Assistant FM on CNA, modest, quiet chap who occasionally patronised Sarah with his wife. The little robot faintly reminiscent of Casper the Ghost had its battery fully charged overnight. Kept up indefatigably. After slipping from notice for a few minutes, there it was again like a proper apparition. There came a couple hesitant, neutral glances in its direction from one or two patrons, with the resulting blankness. This was not exactly a friendly ghost. On first noticing the model a number of weeks previously at Bras Basah, the lack of crafting came as something of a surprise. Cartoon marketing was ubiquitous in the Republic, both commercial & government forms. We had entered the Cartoon age of course. Many of the figures in the urban spaces were used for photographic props. On it went over the floor, breathing down the neck more or less. The sense of a pickpocket, or in the current climate, assassin. It was only the CCTV that restrained. Little accidental knocks in passing once or twice was the most that could be ventured. The strength of Ned Ludd’s righteous arm needed to be kept in check. The China boys were the exception; all the other patrons sitting solitary. Not getting much lovin’ any of them, by the looks. (Plummeting birth rates continued, no one could explain it in the safe & clean island haven.) If the heavy lashes moseying up was trying her luck with an old Foreign Talent, she was definitely overplaying her cards, like greenhorn Zelensky. Poor sweet. The persiflage was always wafer thin here and nervously carried before the eyes of the whites particularly. Hegarty with the tattoos beneath his suits siding with China, N. Korea and someone else at the UN on the real aggressor over there. 30-40 casualties overnight at the Ukraine military training ground; ninety injured—and Mr T. the only pollie whose heart was bleeding at the loss of life. (Biden would fight to the last Ukrainian.) In the afternoon hitting BBC highlights of the speech to both Houses, was it? A long lead time was needed before the man finally emerged. Cameras panning the crowd. Vance & Mel. Panning. Finally, finally, the blue suit slowly making its way to the podium, like an old punch drunk prize-fighter. Shakes, hugs, pats, air kisses. In the opening acknowledgments the First Lady was given her dues. Clap-clap-clap. Clap-clap-clapping some more. The post-box slot had never been noticed previously. That was some helluva trap; Don’s own duck bill couldn’t compare. As the lady gathered the accolades, her eye-liner gleamed like mercury. Really great shape. Dieting and anxiety had worked a treat. Were there another global leader like her husband she would have received compliments; if the wife wasn’t around, cocktails offered in his room. Left / Right like a metronome. Nothing like it. Seen nothing like it. Spectacular. The short six weeks had surpassed all previous records in the history of the Republic. Mega MAGA. Minor heckling. Placards. Some guy ejected. (In the Serbian parliament the day before smoke bombs had been discharged by the Opposition.) Resident 18-19 years now, was she? (While in labour at the hospital he had had it off with the intended babysitter? Or was that another guy on Epstein’s list?) Folks fast-tracked for Green Cards. Great people; good, decent. The right colour. (Which was the senior again, son-in-law, or the father?) The lady must cast back regularly to the early years doin’ the rounds, putting out in the big city, ironing her dresses. The big moment; her lucky break. Musta handled it just right.

 

                                                                                                   Singapore 2011-25

 

 

 

NB. Melania’s statue in her hometown has gone missing; some anarchists suspected and the intel services on the case. https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/cvg7egyrk40o 

NB.2. Now the bio pic, financed to the tune of $40m—$75m with marketing—by Mr. Bezos, who has gone missing from Epstein’s list. Still climbing the ranks at the time, perhaps. Audience numbers thus far less than spectacular at early screenings in the States. It would be different in Ljubljana, where sellouts will be guaranteed, though the anarchist Yugostalgics might cause further bother over there.

NB. 3. The Economist now reports of the $40m odd Mr Bezos provided for the Melania pic, the First Lady pocketed a cool $28m fee. 

 

 https://www.action-spectacle.com/winter-2026-part-ii/radonic

NB. 3 Couple weeks after the new issue was posted in March it was taken down. Now word from editor awaited. 

 

 

 

Taking Wing (Mar25 update)

Rather a sight this young woman out on the paving by Block 7. On the return from supper it was nearing 9. Some fun with a drone was the initial thought. Chinese female of that age, alone at that hour, amusing herself with those infernal killing machines? They did love innovation here, anything for new frontiers, frictionless whatnot. Truth to tell, there had not been any deployment of those particular contraptions here, whether for amusement or anything else… Well, ten odd years ago on the shores of Bedok Reservoir a group of young men had been encountered sporting with something that we struggled to identify at the time. When approached here at the Haig the lass became startled, alarmed in fact and began moving off to the sheltered walkway. Oh! No! Lassie. An elderly pair had stopped a few meters off, ready to offer aid. From the courtyard of the house a paper plane was eventually sighted. Anything other would not have drawn the observer back. It was doubtful the woman had noticed the first pass, so engrossed was she. Slowly she paused in her retreat and the old fogeys got themselves off. Instructions online had guided the gal, but something was wrong here. The plane she had created was supposed to boomerang-like circle a little way out and duly return to her. Not the simple version that shot out in a straight line 10-12 meters, before nose-diving to the ground. The more complex other, with a particular wing fold, would make a short half circle, then without much loss of altitude, obediently return to hand. At school some of the boys had mastered the art. The lady’s attempt was inadequate somehow, hardly in fact able to launch on the air at all. Some little wind associated with this NW monsoon was giving trouble too. Friday mid-eve and getting on. Presumably the woman lived in one of the blocks, or else the landed properties on our side. There was no one in her orbit who had taken a fancy in this aeronautical interest. No dog or cat had been brought along for company. Doubtful there were children at home. It was impossible for the scribe to offer real fellowship, much less perform meaningful rescue; the stars were mis-aligned. (There were never any visible in Singaporean night skies; the lack was impossible to gauge properly.) Here was only the usual resort next morning, falling far short and negligible of course; in some ways like a mention in prayer. In early teens one had fairly worn oneself out bedside at night attempting to recall all who were in need of succour—the household, neighbours, the teacher in the hospital. The German lady in the Vernon Street post office was recalled in this context, for some particular struggle now forgotten. In his late-70s Zainuddin reported the very same problem currently for his good self.

More Recent Billboards

 

Going out for lunch an old uncle at the Kallang stop stumping along under the sheltered walkway beneath his baseball cap, rolls over his belt. There was an acquaintance at the airport perhaps, or giveaway for ministerial visit at the CC.

         EXPLORE

         In the pass it wasn’t clear whether it was one of the Never Stop EXPLORING.

         Yesterday meeting Gabby another older uncle on North Bridge had fared more badly in the trenches. Some years stooped and without his stick he was completely shot. Fairly crawling, but striving best he could nonetheless:

         SURPASS

          yourself

         A nano second the smile passed into a guilty grimace.

         Properly cashed-up foreigners—and we’re talking juicy load of $$$—could join the protected species here and rejoice.

Kallang MRT

They blew only hot here, citizenry as much as government. The Chinese majority, needless to say; earnest Han civilisation—then add the coolie history. (Difficult to recall Malay in particular bearing such apparel.)

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.