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OF ZOOS is an electronic literary journal by Singaporeans for Singaporeans, and everyone else. We publish poetry and its sub-branches. ofzoos.com |
Lawn mowing of nature-strips. Beer cases carted through the streets—underarm, a-shoulder and high on the chest ($70+). Gay couples. Dogs, even more numerous since the pandemic (in some cafes they were prohibited in garden areas). Sophistication of street advertising and graffiti (exponents of the latter were not jailed in this country). The slowing of the traffic and the courtesy (since the advent of the pandemic?). Absence of litter & littering (esp. marked from time of first departure). The ageing—numberless worn faces, bloated faces, in some cases catastrophically wasted over the decade. Like Singapore now, the old model cars of earlier years were almost completely disappeared. Likewise the former varied housing on the western side of the city (the inner West at least), all going/gone; gentrification, home pride & beautification all off the scale. Halloween spider webbing like a virulent infestation (front yard decorations may now exceed Christmas). Tattoos. (By contrast in Kelantan State in the North of Malaysia recently banned and China currently attempting the same with their influencers.) Participation in the reality tv show featuring the immediate neighbours with their beer slugging all-nighters on the veranda, jokes & light patter until hours after dawn. (After endless appeals, mercifully restrained the last few months). A horse race that stops a nation. (It had not been forgotten of course during the absence, but returned to immediate reality here the confrontation was like new discovery. The Australian football grand final now has also the preceding Friday designated a public holiday in the State of Victoria.) Luscious mown sporting fields that appealed to inner bovine instincts. (Dogs particularly relishing in the play of fetch-the-ball that was flung from the plastic slingshots). The scopes & drones that sought to capture the birdlife along the creek and wetlands. (Simple photography by contrast was much less in evidence.) Dark faces that were almost unknown previously over the lifetime, outside Fitzroy & Collingwood—in this case the new aspirational immigrants from the Sub-Continent. (Few of the current generation would credit the earlier whitewashing.) Having become a stranger in one’s own street was odd too, though recalling early years of the migrant settlement perhaps not so very much. Little jolts re-crossing old paths: where Johnny Miller was killed outside the primary school (possibly the accident having been witnessed and subsequently buried along with like horrors); Severn & Francis Streets where Bruce Miller’s father died in another smash; Reed Street’s old hag with her piled washing lecturing a bad boy for some forgotten misbehaviour; the block by the Circle where Momo Jovetic had a house burnt down for the insurance—originally the land had been planned to be used for a large Serbian Community Centre, only the perimeter wall of three courses ever completed. As the summer approached the beach umbrellas, bikinis and adults engaged in water sports. Much too many matters to mention. The loss of boundless health & energy another kind of adjustment.
NB. After eight years roving Singapore, Malaysia & Indonesia.
Along Dudley Street on the return a short queue of Indians mainly for a Christmas special of some kind at Festival Hall, the little flags showed. What might that be about on a late Saturday afternoon, one week out?... Young Chinese making up the hill uncovered the mystery. Songs would be delivered there shortly; sweet tunes. In fact, precisely the business of the hall decades past—songs, and doubling for wrestling & boxing. The Beatles & Stones had played there, among numerous others over the years. Had to be a church thing now, right? Yup, the lady confirmed. And which might that be? Hill Song. Ah, Hill Song... That was the one that boasted the PM Scomo among its members. On that matter the lady was none too sure. She would be taking a brightly smiling, expectant face in there herself. Further down the path coming up American apple pie accents about to join. Like for the rockin-rollers of the past, a singalong was on the cards behind those walls shortly; if a fellow hung about maybe he could have heard from the pavement despite the hurtling traffic. (The roadway on Dudley was sure death for cyclists.) In Yarraville for pitstop the bookshop was checked again, this time the volume in question found soon enough. There it sat face-up among the other candy-coloured offerings. Yes, too right: Bonaparte, Corsica, John Berger & the Côte d'Azur all received a mention in the first 230 word paragraph of one of our literary prize-winners here in her latest release. The last jewel in the string, the famous Mediterranean playground, had been forgotten. A few years ago in another novel by the same there had been a particular perfume, a native tree and a couple of other similar signposts in the treasure trove opening. Out on the fake grass that covered that end of Ballarat Street by the cinema & bookshop, a little live ensemble was giving more Christian cheer, a Chuck Berry number among the rest. That old rocker Chuck’s only item of the genre, the C&W gal behind the mike revealed. Memorably, the Chuckster had always been cash up front into the guitar case, Sir, if you don’t mind, before any appearance. Other big names got ripped off bad by promoters, like the boxers & the rest. Not the wise ol’ daddy oh.
Water before the cafe this afternoon at Faisal’s. Earlier in the morning the open studio door had let in some of the furnace and needed to be closed. In the heat here more than the equator those old football players in Nis, Southern Serbia, were recalled, contemptuous of the suck-holes on the team who would curry favour with the coach, hladeci mu muda, cooling his cock; or cock & balls both it might have signified. As the torch ratcheted up the good sense of the matter returned again and again. (Once it had been pretty well incomprehensible. Heels you can forget.) Mid-December, summer only just begun. Through the week the Africans from the Horn had complained, suggesting it was an entirely different heat down on the great Southern land. At Marble Bar in the Pilbara near 50 degrees had been forecast a day or two before, expected to be the hottest point on the planet, with fears the aircon might break down. (The latter was the pinnacle of human invention according to Mr LKY a generation ago in Singapore.) Economical pacing on the Footscray Street, the wrappings of the Somali & Sudanese women just the thing—not to mention the beauty of even the simplest of the hijabs. Toxic Cokes however remained the beverage of choice for some of the lizards resting on the benches. Round dawn a short spattering of heavy rain drops had surprised, arriving on the doorstep like misdirected mail . Yesterday Faisal had attended the communal prayer at the makeshift mussolah a few doors up at the back of one of the shops, after having steered well clear the past few months, performing his observances beside his cash register, where customers tip-toed by. With escalating numbers again and omicron threatening, yet one more lockdown might prevent another gathering until who knew when.
Couple young homie teens sweet on each other prompted a thought of gifting a tenner, perhaps five each, although that pair could be counted on to share. Caressing. Bumping torsos. Kicking their trainers in one of the new Covid greetings. They circled each other, taking turns against the aluminium shutters of the shop on the corner, at one point the girl simulating the bumping of sex that they had commenced a while back. The tram at that stop went out to HighPoint, where they could wander the halls without any money. Of a height and colouration; lad had sprouted the first wisps of facial hair and her breasts would soon swell. A tenner would have bought a shake or juice for sharing, although the FreeChoice Tobacconist there had drawn them indoors. Sometimes one could act on these impulses.
The narrow ford crossing the creek was dry outbound. On return 40 minutes later bubbling water like champagne covering. There had been no rain. A seagull's momentary distraction saw man & bicycle fall in, both completely submerged. Therefore, a new number now and in order to milk a little fondness the contacts only gradually informed. Blue sky above, rushing water over the face, the concussion producing a momentary black-out—filmic sequences of such frame-by-frame vividness deserved a large audience sitting transfixed in their seats.
Farid was run off his feet, struggling to keep up in the kitchen and then at the coffee machine in front. The new girl put on that week for a three day stint had declined the opportunity of a further day on the issue of the $17 per hour remuneration. As agreed, the girl, a student, had worked her three days and wasn’t coming in to cover for Yayah, who had suddenly pleaded illness that morning. Thus Farid was left in the lurch. The agreement with Yayah had been to put on another worker for three days and Yayah would cover the other three. Working six every week was too much for Yayah. The new arrangement had begun to settle well enough, until at the last minute that stunt of a sickie, the girl declining and thereby F. left on his lonesome. 35-40 meals and 9-10 dozen coffees were taxing even for superman Farid. Now Farid was dirty on Yayah as well as the girl. Twice in the last couple of years Yayah had begged Farid to take him back on after sabbaticals for one reason or another. On both those occasions, in the course of hearing the pleas, Farid had found his leg clutched by the petitioner Yayah. Standing by his machine at the window and despite the press of customers and orders, Farid raised his leg a little and bent to show the firm hold Yayah had taken of his ankle. Twice taken like that and twice demonstrated by Farid when he failed to be understood at first. A tight clasp like a shackle at the ankle, Farid’s eyes staring out. The question then became whether the pair had been seated in those two rounds of discussions over the return of Yayah, or whether in that pleading there had been involved some old practice of servant/master supplication from the Horn.
The guys did a Belushi in the wee hours Sunday morning, reason Greg was looking a dishrag. All impromptu, naturally. The call came through at 2:30, at least the third that Greg actually answered. Pulling the phone out of his pillowcase it was Danny alright. The deal was sitting right there in front of Dan on the table at his place, ready to go. Good gear; and Danny knew the difference. $350 each; smack a gram. A couple of gals had landed with it, all set if Greg said. Danny & Mick knew of the money come through from the probate. Greg had been shouting the pair for a few weeks now. It had taken Greg a number of weeks to get the figure from the ATM straight—not two-point-nine hundred something. Plus two noughts. For a number of weeks Greg maintained it was a mistake; he had even been down to the branch in Acland Street where the woman told him. With his eyesight so bad, last few years Greg hadn’t been able to do himself, anyway. Mick walked round from Robe Street to the ATM with Greg’s card. Danny put the whole of the gram in the mix off his own bat, when Greg as usual wanted saving for later. It ended up felling Danny; for a while there Greg thought he might be in trouble. Danny thought Greg had a remarkable constitution, still standing up to it like that at almost seventy. The girls were good chicks; there was plenty to go round. It wasn’t clear whether Brock was there. Brock had cropped up recently a number of times, encounters on the street and joining occasionally, for the Belushi too it may have been. Brock that was; not Rock. Rock the hairdresser was a different guy. Rock had come up to the flat in Jackson Street regularly in those days when Greg had little money, shouting him. Greg put in a couple of basins for Rock at the salon, hosted Rock at his place, let him pull the pud on the couch during the rushes, yet Rock still thought Greg owed him something. Sometimes Rock brought a working girl and stroked off while Greg screwed the lady on his bed. The addition now this morning was Rock’s penchant watching girls pee. Number 2 Rock would have added, but Greg didn’t want a bar of that. (Ellmann’s mention of the famous compatriot’s coprophilia had Greg wanting to know the writer’s name. Famous guy on a level below even Rock.) That was Rock; not in on the Sunday morning Belush. More in the bundle was the story of the fiancé of the richest farmer in Emerald, and somehow also the cleaning of the fingernails in a construction site tearoom with a toothpick for a joke after sewers. (Poker faced with the dirt looking like the muck). The farmer guy had the snazziest ute money could buy, with a mount included for rifle. The honey used to come to the caravan where the boss was housing the workers and throw gravel onto the window. When the matter got out Greg shot through on the spot. Even in those days they were farming rice and alternating some other water sucking crop, in the driest region on the planet, basically. Within the interstices somehow Gaye entered the mix. The matter of impossible rescues maybe. That someone wanted him not dead caused a raising of eyebrow. Somehow, impossible to fathom, the final episode with Gaye had previously never penetrated. Earlier, whenever it had emerged it had been blurted in the usual blur, one on top of the one before, through endless annals. This was a difficult fit. Over the years the references to the incident over Gaye’s casket had been heard a number of times, without ever being properly grasped. It was always too much and all of it scrambled/bundled. A king hit delivered at a funeral. By the graveside. Under the force of the blow the victim lands on top of the casket that had already been lowered into the ground. Brother of the deceased. Greg was definitely a lover, not a fighter; nothing like a hard man. But here he was swinging at Gaye’s funeral and sending the brother into the hole after his sister. Gaye had had a very unusual blood type. Numerous people offered their kidney—Gaye’s sister, one of her friends, Greg himself of course. None matched. The brother, a PhD in two fields, had promised, before in the end backing out. Almost twenty years later the sewer rat with the gift of the gab of his tribe was not done. Real Malloy.
At the Viet cafe by Footscray Market.
And more legibly on the desk back home.
Lew M. on Barkly corner at the lights waiting to cross not a pretty picture with that habitual gaping, as if he had seen some horror up on the hill. A keen-eyed prize-winning portraitist missing that signature visual of himself? We can never see ourselves, a wise old grannie once said, one who in her time had been a great beauty. Discovering that fact about the lady only when she was in her late-70s came as a great surprise. Former beauties you assumed acted and deported themselves rather differently. Like any portraitist, Lew had studied his reflection, without any hint in the work of the habitual Munch fright.
Suggesting old daytime TV Roman toga movies this pharaonic pose high in the seat; elbow protruding; highest disdain. Something too like a celebrity under the gaze of paparazzi another gent in his mid-range, well-maintained and polished model, radio’s steadying whisper audible within.
Rear-view on the freeway giving the uneasy sense of crazed chase, five-six lanes all the more so. Years of TV pursuit— afoot, horseback, cars racing along LA highways.
Lingering cop or ambo sirens audible miles afterward, like smoke from burning ruins. Miles and miles and many streets behind.
The 6s or 8s when they're lowered ride not much more than arm's length from the bitumen, beefy lads hanging out, sometimes with fag ends that make you look for the moment of flicking. Other times they merely rattle the cage, thumping against the side.
Often too without musical accompaniment, the arm hanging limply, trailing for air.
Freedom. Something. Unfulfilled. Often only haring it once they are on the straight.
Compulsive scanning of the abbreviations in the number plates, as if seeking hints lost in a maze. All the signage, logos, stickers. Interpretations lacking.
Side-view bent at the wrong angle, the white line unreeling from its spool slipping under the wheels, confirming the passage the bigger picture fails to convey.
The fixation will never be relinquished by democratic means, just like in the States the right to bear arms.
2.
Cool wintry mornings the reflected heat gives a brief charge—like coming indoors from the cold and reaching for the logs in the grate. Pleasurable hit; mainlining serotonin. Sometimes when it’s a B double you get the first blast and then bask in the expectation of the following. Painted steel was ineffective, the same as tarpaulin or plastic-coating. Impossible to anticipate, on each occasion the blessing comes anew. The first few times it happens on especially cold days the confusion momentarily overwhelms.
3.
Case of brake failure on the freeways the dividers were the first resort, scraping along on the passenger side, tearing steel slowing and perhaps puncturing a tyre. A medium/light vehicle in front for the final halt, if time permitted.
In the wet roll the window down a fraction for proper notice of the speed.
The truck canyons on the freeways and around the port exited ASAP; blind spots in the mirrors avoided like the devil.
Annoyance with other drivers was noticeably curbed of late, use of the horn especially. Possibly due to the virus.
The childish instinct to display exemplary motoring was still difficult to curb; that and the attempt to win pretty girls behind the wheel with elegant gestures and gallantry.
Early November in a mild Spring immediately after Cup Day, the hands, elbows & trailing arms appeared outside driver's window. (Sometimes passengers joining on their side.) Relishing the end of lockdown.
Always a matter of frustration for an accomplished, courteous driver who mostly kept within the rules not being recognised or rewarded. Radio shows once upon a time conducted competitions where listeners would nominate examples.
NB. Segments of this piece date from 2009-10; they have been augmented recently during the recent return to motoring down in Melbourne. Living without a motor car had been another benefit on the Equator.
That peacefulness along Beacon Cove was strongly suggestive. There was no mistake. Since the development thirty-five years ago it had been the same. Almost never pedestrian traffic. Occasional dog walkers, most prominent the late middle-aged men waiting on the ends of leashes on dawdling house pets. Across all the tower balconies over the years and low rise on the other side, there may have been appearances a handful of times—briefest glimpse of moving figures; never sitting. On the beachfront it may have been different, but those prospects soon wore away everywhere. Neat kerbside plantings, clipped lawns, stretched, taut silence. Strongly suggestive of those other wide yards peopled only sporadically, Mothers’ Days & Easter. Designated grave-cleaning days did not appear on western calendars. There may have been 30%, or possibly more, price differential between water and even this strip one block back.
Shouldn’t have told young Riley the doc this morning it was a boring town. What meaning could it have had for the chap? No call for it. Likely the man would have known of Yogyakarta without the nowhere near Bali. Nice guy easy to tell, tough gig on the revolving door, Mondays especially. Sometimes it gushes out, impossible to curb. Man knows he’s got a slippery customer, flickering eyes monitoring from the chair behind the mask. The sport, alcohol, car-dependent suburbia was the summary in the car afterward for telepathic explanation—for starters at least.
Young bantam by the flowerbeds beside the rotunda in baby pink gloves working on her jab & hook with not one, but two personal trainers. (Perhaps she was taking turns with her sparring partner.) Late night little parks like that presented danger, this lass determined not to be caught unprepared.
After a life-time of reading, the Auschwitz pathologist Miklos Nyiszli presented the extreme of human drama with Mengele and some of the other notables in an account that defied comprehension. All knowing and understanding fell to nothing before those scenes in his memoir.
Turning onto Beaconsfield in the days later those palms, the Spring greenery and curved paths in the park appeared as intangible as drawings in a children’s picture book. The émigré Jews who settled after the war in Balaclava must have looked upon it the same when they came down the road to the beach.
NB. Auschwitz: A Doctor’s Eyewitness Account
Only snippets of her over the years. She’s been rediscovered last decade in particular by the techno-entrepreneurs mainly. The truly filthy rich aren’t in need of that schtick. Young IT friend thinks she's pretty hot and onto it. When yr designing systems & actioning events in the meat world, RL, from yr man cave on the big screen, gets mighty frustratin watchin the stumblers bumbling along, crashing into lampposts standing right there in plain sight. Canna waste time on dross, that’s what the trash bin’s for. Only takin up space.
NB. A friend recently come upon Ayn Rand.
Hello again everyone
 | For readers with good Mandarin—back-alley Mandarin it might be—the significance of the term is perhaps apparent. The guess would be street language passed into the halls of the Imperial Palace; never formally inscribed in the lexicon. newworldwriting.net |
Flat grey sheet of water right from the port to St. K this morning, cutting the eyeball like the editor from the States wanted his prose submissions, the guy who was later attacked for sexual offences, using his position for favours it might have been.
Earlier the Anglophile Johnnie Good had sourced more material again for his arsenal in a report on a young Nigerian artist’s charcoal portrait of a grinning, grandmotherly Queen Lizzy. The world over worshiped the English, London in particular; the royals & the fabled civilisation they stood for; &etc. &etc. Failing fifty years ago to find himself a place in that sun over there had never been overcome for JG. Condemned instead to the wasteland of Oz with its unforgiving sun, the superficially pretty waterfront hometown of Williamstown in his case.
With the new15km allowance the circuit was extended to Altona now, more wide seascape garnered, a little fetching along the native grassed segments that cast the city towers further back on the other side of the bay. The old Dalmatian’s villa carrying the mounted life-buoy a few doors off Miller’s corner. Dugi Otok the man hailed from, proudly inscribed on the old, weathered item hung beside his balcony—Croatia’s own Long Island.
Plenty of airborne salt and wide vistas sucked up along the ride, when the mind had narrowed so badly during the record-breaking lockdown. A seat in the park could be taken by the Morton Bay Fig and the old homestead where glass-eyed Brett was born. Living without a phone or computer, there was only the possibility of a chance encounter with Brett on the street.
The exercises on the mat too were more important than ordinarily; particularly prized those endorphins now. Brett had suggested a couple of new ones at the last meeting.
A new perch too on Carlisle Street beside a cafe counter offered the passing parade: shapely women in athletic tights, cute canines (another toy poodle after the first was sighted in Footscray) and the local street people, who received better than average consideration in that particular locale.
The Jewish Las Chicas offered a soft wooden bench recessed into the building immediately abutting the pavement and looking down the street beside hipster Wall. The railway station adjacent funnelled more humanity again, a number of regular commuters reappearing. One shy old Serb who caught a train there early afternoon came equipped with some kind of device that blared old familiar folk songs. Late mornings a cheeky Peloponnesos tried his native tongue on all comers, the vulgar lexicon mainly once he had established some rapport. A number of passersby saluted the fellow with yiasous and ti kanis?
Chicas stood in place of the old German sandwich shop that had been located just a few metres off thirty years ago, the only café along the strip then.
An alarming 1,400+ new cases reported that had been boosted by the illegal football gatherings—another record-breaker with the Delta strain. A couple of days after the final that event alone delivered 500 fresh infections. For the politicians it was difficult hammering an iconic marker like that, the allure of the biggest game on the calendar simply undeniable. Over in Perth there had been a number of arrests of Victorians crossing illegally to attend.
How far the erotic had been suppressed over the globe through the period an older man could not judge. Occasionally beneath the masks some flickered wincing was apparent. Without input from any side, the past rushed in even more than usual and almost completely overtook.
Dress-ups and office smart were much less in evidence, the simpler attire delivering a kind of relaxed, democratic spirit. Women must have been feeling the denial of male admiration, even with the terrible attacks and murders in so many corners across the globe. The cop in London and his beautifully fresh-faced young victim played again and again in the media.
Shaggy-haired Greg turned up regularly at the Chicas bench in his old wino guise of late, trying his shtick with the passersby. Only the once was he told to FFF off by a gay gal he had rubbed up the wrong way with his rattle. Mostly his good-natured banter was accepted and well received. The last week he had begun to synchronise meetings with calls, though sometimes he simply popped up out of the blue. Even he had finally been prompted for the jab against the Canova, as he continued to call it. Mornings when he was talked into his other jab by Danny or Mick he absented himself.
Melbourne, Australia
October 2021
