Appears the preferred dental technician might have gone overboard on the recent treatment. (Perhaps also a clash with orange.) Shown up additionally beside the more level-headed guy, still maintaining his modesty down in the Southern land, by all reports.
(Noted too the personal doctor the other day wary of extravagant exaggeration with the14 year younger health card. Third term excellent chance.)
Any more of a danger than journalistic & magazine guff? Advertising, graphic novels & t-shirt screed? Unnecessary lit. product in artful covers? Really?
Joking with Mani about barefoot tricks on hot coals / embers at the temple later in the week, man could only take the matter seriously. There was no joking possible. As he began, Mani started with an apology. I tell you. Sorry. After which he went on to explain what was needed in order to participate in these festivities. (Deepavali was a public holiday in Singapore too, the 22nd this year.) At home Mani would keep full vegetarian 40 days, in preparation he may have meant; his mind, heart would be free and clear. Here that was not possible. Working, stress, bad thinking; calm and settled mind quite lacking. None of the boys at Mubin could manage it here, it was simply not possible. It seemed clear what was required was not in fact only fortification for the physical ordeal; there was far more than that. And the apology at the outset was another matter in itself. Laying it on, telling another something as if he were in some superior position, some higher knowing, was felt as presumptuous and unmannerly by Mani. Not simply either because here was a coloured guy telling a white.
The Heart of the Matter
A wild entry from Helen this morning, positively raging she was and without any preliminaries. From the get-go there was something clearly the matter. Helen had entered the kitchen with her shopping trolley, which she kept inside the main entry door. Ordinarily, when Helen needed to fetch it she came in from her room and immediately took it outside. A woman of the neighbourhood who she didn’t know but who knew Helen had approached her the night before to offer her rice. Helen fed birds (illegally), right? She could use it, right? Turned out later there were 6-7 packets of a kilogram or more that almost filled Helen’s trolly, when she was encountered shortly afterward by the waste bins after breakfast. In the kitchen Helen had little time to talk. While she spoke her hair shook and came loose in a couple of places. No time to talk, OK, Helen reiterated sternly. She wasn’t going to be held up. The woman was going to leave the rice at the corner of the lane toward Onan Road. Later in the subsequent conversation by the bins it turned out the woman concerned might have been a Malay man’s maid from Block 2, sent over on the errand. The man often passed by there and knew Helen and her feeding, like so many others. There was the rice and around the corner in Onan proper by Galaxy Tower, a cat that Auntie Ena formerly fed had overnight passed away. As Auntie E was weak on her pins now and found it hard to come down, Helen had accepted the responsibility for that particular cat too. Last night she had noticed it looking poorly; for some few days she had not been eating her food. Something was wrong when a cat was not eating Helen’s choice food, but in this instance the cat had not looked that bad. Then this morning she was dead. At the waste bins when Helen had calmed down she told how she had come upon the cat in the morning, saw it lying there and when she came up to pat it found it stiff. The cat was not particularly old, maybe fifteen years. Helen had been feeding it since 2020. Dog years were x 6-7 in human terms, Helen more or less agreed. In cat reckoning it was a factor of 3, Helen said. Making this particular cat 80, Helen had calculated in the kitchen. (Later in the morning Wan Ling had explained the more complicated life terms of cats.) Ordinarily there was nothing wrong with Helen’s arithmetic, or reasoning. Clearly she had been in a state. Off to get the rice. Don’t want to talk to you. At the bins Helen was met coming up from the slope and showed the rice in her trolley. That would save her $40-50. Monthly Helen spent $30 just for the bird food. Helen fed the crows, pigeons, mynahs & sparrows only at night and careful about it. So many people had the so-called bird problem wrong, the government included. In the telling in the kitchen it had seemed someone had brought the dead cat to the rubbish bins for disposal. Out there later when we talked again there was no sign of it. No. There it is, Helen indicated toward her door, where a large cardboard box sat on the paving beside Helen’s outdoor chairs. It was of course Helen herself who had brought it over. Some of the sharpness again in that, though not as bitingly as in the kitchen earlier. If it was up to her, Helen would dispose of the body in the large green waste bin. What was the use of anything else? But in this case Helen could not do that. Over coming days Maureen would notice Bush Girl’s absence and ask after her. Helen had called Maureen between times to convey the news, knowing that Maureen would want to arrange a cremation. $120-30 wasted, according to Helen. What was the sense once the cat was dead? This had long been a point a friction between Helen & Maureen. Instead of helping Helen with the cost of good feed that saved on vet bills, Maureen spent money on hopeless cases, $8-9K recently on a couple of doomed cats, whose condition the vet had clearly explained. Irrational. Money down the drain. But one could not reason with Maureen. Maureen would come over shortly to see off Bush Girl. (Not Gal, Helen had snapped earlier in the kitchen leaving for the rice.) It was Maureen who gave all the cats their names; by which Helen meant the outdoor cats. Helen had names of her own for her litter.
Geylang Serai, Singapore
2.
Lorong 16 corner the fellow was truly tickled to receive the order. Not a little astonished.
— You want Jiang Cha? Yes, sir.
Local not more than one-point-five rattling at the tables with the customers. Now the man was newly delighted.
10pm was too early for the girls; only a small number had landed. Men drinking beer, including one or two Whites. Perhaps that was some part of the surprise. Jiang Cha. Ginger tea.
A good deal stronger brew was going down on the other side, three large shot glasses with Carlsberg chasers. Somehow the Danes had cornered the market in Geylang.
Seasoned lads here knew what they were about, seen off a couple of novices and settling in for the evening.Gestures like sober judges weighing life and death. The big beefy carrot-top needed another treatment; his faded tattoos too dated from an earlier generation's inferior ink.
Budget One Hotel on the main road; off further two 81s faced each other. The Hotel 81s had started as hourly Love Hotels in Geylang. Now they were all over the island and the founder likely one of the billionaire class.
On the pavement workingmen using thumb and forefinger for nose-blow. The locals had disowned their cousins from the Mainland long ago—perhaps here with somewhat lesser contempt. Middle Geylang was almost entirely Chinese.
The first star in seven weeks stood high above the neon, pale and faltering. A single example standing in for the mass invisible in the grey cover.
It was Pure-heart, Minhtan the Viet, who had commented on the absence of stars here a few weeks before.
Ho Chi Min presumably was not the standard Minhtan had in memory; even in her childhood that city’s night skies could not have been covered by stars. Minhtan must have been thinking of her hometown two hours out, where she had been brought up by her divorced teacher mother; her "idol," Minhtan had called her.
In youth Minhtan had not allowed her mother to re-marry, being unable to accept any of the suitors.
My mistake, Minhtan had frankly confessed.
Working in the capital as a materials engineer, Minhtan had been sent to Singapore for training by her German company. Chosen especially no doubt.
On the walk back from dinner that night under a blank sky the absence of stars had been felt by Minhtan. Earlier sitting at the table in upscale Katong, the Amerindians had come to mind during the conversation. Minh tan; Pure heart.
The young woman contained a great deal in her short, slender person. Like her manner and movement, the talk was measured and decisive.
For the first week here Minhtan had been chaperoned around the city by a newly married Filipino colleague, whose wife was jealous and monitored her husband's movements by phone and GPS. Minhtan could not help scoffing a little in her report.
Freedom was essential in a marriage, in living, Minhtan maintained. Belief too. Minhtan herself needed both, she said.
The ruling principles stood clear without any need of elaboration with Minhtan’s words; something like newly emerged stars from the blank heavens above us, in fact. Freedom and belief together; not an automatic pairing usually.
Somewhere where Minhtan had lived there had been masses of stars; it sounded like the numberless cover that gave off enough light to see. Much about Minhtan made it easy to believe throughout her life the woman had been drenched in starlight.
It had been a pleasant evening. There was no surprise when Minhtan had not accepted the invitation upstairs at the hotel. The suggestion had been one of those reflexes that sometimes sprung out unintentionally. Another date during Minhtan’s short stay had seemed unlikely.
Now there were two more stars out above the Geylang street, dim and barely visible in the grey blanketing. Scanning more carefully, an unsteady third too on the other side. Champagne Hotel's vanilla signage skipped a couple of letters further down along the slope.
Two generations here, like so many in other cities across the globe, had lived beneath only empty stretches of night sky.
Katong, Singapore
3. Tableau (Good Friday)
At first you wondered whether the four on the end were connected to the nearer five—a woman with two boys and a girl and the chap sitting with his group of four.
The entire row was almost filled.
No, they were a unit alright: husband and wife with their seven children.
The eldest was the girl beside mother, eighteen or nineteen. The three young in the middle were girls.
Eldest boy sat opposite dad and next eldest lad opposite mother.
Earlier dad had given the youngster beside him a hand massage, with the suggestion of good expertise. Chap sent a brief, sliding smile behind when he had been turned working the girl’s fingers and saw himself being observed.
Not a whimper of any kind from the children for the duration, the quiet in the row making it seem two groups of strangers had been thrown together.
In the beginning dad appeared the only one armed with a phone. One Hard Rock Classic sported by a junior; dad advertised a coming six pack, on the back of his tee in this case. Unbranded like this, and the Islamic garb declined, one wondered where this woman would have shopped in the Republic. Prices at the mall were beyond the family budget.
The wife was not hankering for any of the handbags at the boutique up past the Levis outlet; nor her eldest either. A day or two earlier a chap had been found taking a photograph of a pink studded item displayed in the window. Imitations were cheaper, or secondhand online.
Quiet, patient youngsters. There was no sign of fidgeting or swinging legs beneath the tables. These children would never play on an inflatable castle (currently erected in the mall beyond the KFC, where rock-climbing was provided other weekends); nor take turns in the sandpits or on the play cranes & backhoes at Diggersite, at the head of the rear escalators. (XXXS hard-hats & work boots were available there.)
Did these people even have television at home? Music or toys?
Patient sitting and hardly a sound; certainly nothing audible behind from any of the chairs.
It was unlikely the crew would get any goreng pisang after the meal.
One could make a spectacle of oneself here; merely watching was beginning to overwhelm.
Fascinating.
The Coke cups came with the iced water at Al Wadi, 30 cents. (Twenty without ice.) In fact it may have been Nutri Soy cans that were being shared. The older lads had their own tall plastic cups—Iced Milo and limun.
Elder precedence was laid down: the oldest wore a simple necklace and the boy opposite dad gold-coloured watch. (The latter’s phone came out afterward.)
One could not ask questions; they would have been blurted.
Father Lazar had had five siblings, counting the first boy who was lost in infancy. Mother the same. One-room thatched stone houses at 1,000m above sea level. But that was another generation; dark side of the moon. (The kampung living had been a universal across the globe, once upon a time. Doklen je srece bilo, while there had been fortune, Bab said.)
Even congratulating the old guy here—only in his early or mid-fifties—the words would have failed.
Unexpectedly, a red ten was produced by dad and eldest brought back from the counter a couple of Cokes with ice-cream floats for sharing. Sore-hands took a few sips from dad’s offering only because he pressed, sipping on the straw once and then again when he pressed again. One or two others had a taste.
Altogether stupendous the whole while; vivid like a genre painting by one of the old masters. In time Eldest noticed the observation and must have quietly wondered to herself.
Not even the pair of lads on dad’s side was drawn by the EPL on the screen. Eldest opposite kept his back turned throughout.
The drizzle came unnoticed and suddenly the rain was angling in, causing dad to bunch closer to Sore-hands. Being out of sorts, the child received the cuddling coolly. All here had learned to share the affection of mum and dad in their turn.
A coin was produced for a new face doing the rounds at those tables, framed in virginal white and baju the same. Practiced old auntie smile.
Elder boy was given the coin. The lady having turned to the next table, lucky for her she turned back again in time. One of the seasoned Indian-Malay group she must have been, who had come from the gates of Khalid for any of the worshippers who had been missed there.
This dad could not manage the Friday sermon, living the holy life as he was instead. It really did appear the complete picture.
Forty minutes later a bag of fries appeared, with chilli. They would not have such a treat every day of the week.
Hardly a smile, much less chatter between any of them. The under-current however bubbled up at many different points up and down the line—in the looks passed among the youngest three; the closeness apparent between the two boys opposite mother; and in the responsible manner of the eldest delegated for delivery of the various items to the table.
On such a day, sitting among these people, you would make them wonder. Going back to the room the night before, one of the chaps at the Haig at parting had offered, “Happy holiday.” For the upcoming. With the community’s own practice, the people assumed the same for the marker days of others. The Chinese in Singapore allowed what they called “Free-thinkers;” they were found here and there among their groups of Daoists, Buddhists and the rest. For the Muslims in particular, such a category was more than a little baffling. In the official record on the identity cards in Indonesia, each citizen was noted as belonging to one of six designated faiths. Anything else was inconceivable.
Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-23
recently published in a micro / nano anthology called, Vine Leaves Press
Stumblin’, Bumblin’ Bad
NB. Published by Sagebrush Review, May 2025
Mid-morning teh tawar manis—black sugarless tea—on a Chinese corner across from Beringharjo. Chairs with backs & high tables; good lighting & fans.
After so long in Singapore the absence of the Chinese in Central Java was striking. Faris the Arizonan convert had made an unavoidable point earlier in the morning on the return from the music school a short distance off Sosrowijayan. With his mounting dental problems, soft food was essential for Faris. The sign for bubur he had spied in passing.
We had popped into the stall on the way out and returned after his performance, only to find the common Chinese blankness at the encounter with a stranger. At the stove the woman had not only paid Faris no regard, quickly turning aside, but there had also been a kind of scowl flashed. Something that was not to be countenanced.
I'm not going to accept that. Faris turning on his heels and allegro down the steps.
The not uncommon reception from the wary Chinese that was in marked contrast to the ready and generous Indos at virtually any encounter. It prompted Faris to recall the terror at the fall of Soeharto.
A room opposite the reception desk at another generic hotel turned out to be the music school Faris had mentioned a number of times. Piano one side and two electric keyboards opposite, in what was a disappointingly dark, drab, corner annexe. The high ceiling was some saving grace.
Approaching his mid-seventies, Faris carried a paunch that accentuated his heavy tread. Melanomas had long threatened his pale skin and the last of the teeth were going. (Poor maintenance in earlier years was owned.)
Whereupon seating himself at the keys in this shabby space, a young, energetic and astoundingly nimble sprite suddenly leapt out, as if from behind a fern.
A Rameau improvisation had been developed decades back by the talented young pianist and his teacher. There were racing passages, feinted returns, virtuoso dashes and plunges into sudden depths. The sweep of the movement, its intricacy and force, took a listener away on a breathless chase. One sat high in the chair listening to that extraordinary elan.
After the Rameau from the eighteenth century, the program progressed steadily in the direction of the present. Among some unidentifiable others, two Beethovens and a Schubert were included, before Faris rounded back to Mozart for the finale. In the event the piece might be found a little corny, an apology preceded the Fur Elise.
Schubert recalled Brahmas' love for his friend's wife, Clara. Being a gentleman, Johannes had restrained himself, channeling his feeling into his music, Faris explained. Closely acquainted with unrequited love himself, as was shortly to emerge again in the days ahead, Faris infused his interpretations with the ache of a lifetime.
In early days Beethoven had been Faris's favourite; since that time the colossus had been replaced by Mozart, who gave some little trouble that morning.
The small room barely contained all that swelling force unleashed by the Arizonan convert, at Rp25,000 for the half hour. On entry it had been assumed the owner of the hotel indulged the old man, providing access to the instrument. It was a small sum to provide for the privilege of the performance. The artistic journey had left Faris chronically short of funds.
Outside returning via the bubur stall, the treacherous, broken pavement needed to be negotiated, piles of soft volcanic dirt in a number of places and pungent fumes from the road. None of which had been apparent earlier.
It was often like that after the music, Faris enigmatically reported, in a remark that set one thinking.
Faris had forgotten his mask and cap at the hotel. 2014, well before the Pandemic of course. For a number of years Faris had been using a mask against the traffic in Indonesia. Many of the beautiful old becaks were beginning to convert to motorisation, something which Faris decried; and it only added to the fumes, of course.
Yogyakarta, Indonesia
*
Rain Drops
Keep Fallin’
On
My
Head
Followed by,
What the World —
Needs Now…
Mid-afternoon Orchard Kinokuniya. For the notation the store pen at stationery was deployed.
There had been rain in the morning and showers later, one distinct grenade of refreshing humus rising from the ground somewhere along the way. It may have been the Haig carpark beneath a tree up on one of the islands, when the path at the end was taken in order to avoid another pass of the funeral party of Hadramis at Block 11. Daunting that gathering; almost as bad as if they had been Palestinians.
In the case of the spattering of drops in the store the flesh of the brain seemed more exposed somehow.
Before being able to make an exit at Kino, after a pause in the queue by the cashier, the original, unremastered, What’s New, Pussy Cat? rounded out the musical offering.
(One might actually have guessed it, or something similar in a Singaporean mall.)
Wow…..Wow-Wow…..Wow, wow.
There were hidden, high fidelity speakers near-by.
Stretching credulity one perfectly well understands. Entirely understandable.
Nevertheless, such was the program that afternoon over the lazy heads of perhaps eight or ten dozen book-lovers in that particular quarter of the store, absorbing it all without any noticeable effect. No twitch or shudder visible on any side. Perfect ease.
In the standard rendition of the first the vocalist was unknown. Second was the Burt Bacharach and last the inimitable Tom, shirt unbuttoned to the navel and frilly panties raining down from all sides. Wow Wow Wow.
Nada. Not a flicker. The trio had been absorbed like candy, sweetmeats or chocolate. Nature lovers traipsed through gardens of buttercups in this same fashion. Here along the curved aisles the mounted pastel product was in fact not dissimilar.
And that was not the end of it either at Kino. More was to follow.
A serious snag had developed in the queue, lapsed member’s card at the counter, it seemed. The lady was purchasing a stack of unidentifiable colourful titles, children’s series, or mystery possibly. It would be a hike to the car in the basement.
Cooling the heels only briefly after that lot, there followed a kind of warning or challenge suddenly confronting us shoppers. Quite unexpected again, especially following the concert.
The Way We Die Now. Inexplicable warning from high on a shelf. It may have been fire-engine red cover.
After some of the violent eruptions of late in the shopping precincts of various global cities, one could not help a little start.
Immediately adjacent too in some kinda implicit pairing, another missive added concern.
When Breath Becomes Air.
…Body temperature presumably, rather than hot.
Upper case 60 point face out on the top shelf of the Highlights stand that made a large island in the passage. A seasoned bookman was left flabbergasted.
Bodilo oci, the Serbs say. Pricking the eyeballs.
No doubt there was some better reason between the covers in the case of the books at least.
*
This other afternoon a recess in the ceiling of the reference section at Kino had one firmly rooted to the spot. It had taken a while locating the speaker, as the volume was low and the voice riding the hubbub. At first the sound seemed to be coming from a mounting of luxury signature pens like President Trump used for executive orders. Some glinting light emitted behind the glass too from the gold clips and points. Later, after a short hunt, a second speaker in the same aisle was found, barely audible for some reason. Thought had been after the KV lunch and printing at Peace Centre, a quick reconnoiter for a volume of old TuFu. Sometimes confusingly rendered DuFu, the poor girl at the info desk needed to be informed. There was nothing of David Hinton’s translations; that had been established a couple of weeks ago. Only his Analects and I Ching, both previously purchased. Some hope that the largest bookstore of English holdings, at least in SE Asia, might turn up the Tang star. TuF had been rendered by a couple of previous notables—fair chance you might have thought in Singapore, steady sales ticking over. Kinokuniya had been downsized a few years before, usual victims involved. If you were seeking motivational, entrepreneurial, investment gurus, biz management & strategy, conservative histories, mysteries, colouring-in books, comics, celebrity, cook books, photography, design, more photography & design, you had come to the right place, all cards accepted at the register. The great helmsman LKY’s shelves alone could not have been sent up in smoke with less than three molotovs, not a chance, forget it. Man was hardly dead; only symbolically & figuratively. (The feud between the PM and his younger sister & bro over accusations of political exploitation in the use of the father of the nation’s passing had been hosed down of late, all hush-hush in-family.) They had stocked TuFu once upon a time; sold out now, lass conveyed apologetically. She could not be quizzed on the history—it was not possible to punish innocents for the sins of the elders. No. Too bad. Good selection of gel pens in stationery, including 0.8s at $3.10, comparable to Art Friend & Popular. On the shelves there among all the inferior biros and all the weighty navy tomes at Reference adjacent, in the midst of parents with their children, out of thin air, one was suddenly hallowed by Pavarotti early trailblazers. First, like a flash of sun in deepest jungle, O Sole Mio’s rhythmic swelling started up. Quanno fa notte e 'o sole se ne scenne… It was followed without pause immediately after by Ritorno a Soriento. Shiver. Shiver once more. Gee! Here was a chance to show the locals one’s cultivated, superior taste. Almost word for word with the big man & phrasing to perfection. The little jail-bait schoolgirl’s mum in the aisle might have gotten entirely the wrong idea. Strange in the Asian—more or less—locale, receiving those melodies, those exhalations from the great bellows. The fact the maestro had been dead all these years now perhaps added feeling—gone the way of Caruso, Lanza, Bjorling, &etc. That short stretch of water from the bays of Boka Kotorska over to Bari, down to Brindisi, Sicily and up on the other side to Napoli. Sorrento itself might get a quick squizz, without stopping. Thirty-five years ago there had been no malls in Napoli; in the old town near the water there might still be none, perhaps. Minimum of ornamental trees & shrubs. The mafia there would be a sight better than the entrenched tropical kind that could not be ousted from the political stage for the next hundred years. There was almost as much street prostitution in Napoli as Geylang; no fool would pay for indoor theatre. Fourteen or sixteen hours away for little over a grand. With the usual shuttering for the morning during Ramadan, it had been Starbs for the early cafe & scribble. As the customers piled into the OneKM outlet nearing lunchtime, the volume had gone up on the pitter-patter remastered golden oldies & prairie ballads. That flustering and churning in the guts had something to do with the effect a few hours later of big Lucy standing tall and letting fly.
Kinokuniya, Singapore
*
In the days when music could still be received it had been strange hearing from Al that he could not risk listening to classical music. It would only produce tears, Al had memorably explained. Of course the old Blues man was not kidding. Highly striking back then, hearing it and difficult to find a response. Even now it was difficult to explain finding oneself in rather an analogous position. In this case it was not the fear of tears that prevented the listening to music, but something like an exhausting of the medium. Yes, indeed, strangest of turnarounds. Uncanny you might say. What exactly had transpired? Bab’s passing was one significant factor; losing a parent one does not go on the same. In the last decade and more there had been some YouTube blasts of Maria Call & Jussi Bjorling, especially at mini triumphs. The more noteworthy publications, for example, had been something to mark. Now and then that could send one back to the musical realm. In fact, a little blast of Maria was almost enough to produce tears on those occasions, the opening solo of Casta Diva, for example, and her O mio babbino caro. The Pearl Fishers duet with Jussi more than once had proved overwhelming. Plato had famously banned music from his Republic; the dangerous delirium, all that unhinged Dionysian lunacy, had been well understood from way, way back. When the undercover narks had followed the car home one afternoon after the regular sitting with Al and the others at the Williamstown café, a search indoors had been requested. There had been no warrant, but the guys had asked politely enough. After a few minutes one of the cops had enquired after the music unit. Where was the ghetto blaster? The chaps were rather dumbfounded. A stash was often kept in a cavity of the players, presumably. Good gear went with the soothing fave songs piping into the ear, as one reclined on the bean bag on the floor, curtains drawn. What, no music? No radio or CD??… Even back in those days the great artists could no longer deliver their punch. Those days were gone, unlikely ever to return. The concert hall had always presented its own problems; always a challenge abstracting the music, the pure aural essence, from the trappings of the secular temple with all its frippery. A few years ago the young John had sprung an ambush in the favourite student café in Yogyakarta with All My Loving suddenly pouring from overhead speakers. The golden oldie in that particular locale that evening had voiced like a solemn pledge, a kind of prayer that had not always been the case decades earlier. The new café in Leeds Street, run by the young hipster Lee, often played fine, easy tunes on the turntable. Sometimes after a morning’s labour these gave reminders. George was mining material on YouTube and trying it out occasionally on his resistant friend. Other muso friends had done likewise. Two years before on the last return to the land of Oz, Veki had made a compilation of the old, long forgotten faves from our early teen years. Mighty strange experience that one.
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