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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 and 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 ago, 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 like misdirected mail on the doorstep. 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 wide 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.
At the Viet cafe by Footscray Market.
And more legibly on the desk back home.
As usual Lewis Mueller up on Barkly corner waiting to cross at the lights. Not a pretty picture carrying that almost perfect O mouth agape, as if gripped by a sight up on the hill. Could a keen-eyed prize-winning portraitist entirely miss that signature visual of himself? We can never see ourselves, a wise old duck once said, one who in her own 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 quite differently and could be easily discerned. Like any portraitist, Lew M had studied his own reflection, without any hint in those works of that habitual, affrighted Munch pose.
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 the thing. When yr designing systems & actioning events in the meat world from yr man cave on the big screen, can get mighty frustratin watchin the stumblers bumbling along, crashing into pylons standing right there in plain sight. Canna waste time on dross, that’s what the trash bin’s for. Lottsa losers 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
Just when you didn’t need them, 4-5 drones in the last few days, all adults apart from the chap tutoring his less than captivated young boy. The first few sightings among the birdlife you wondered what in the blazing FFF. Around the creek mainly they appeared and along the mangroves by the wetlands. Could in fact have been five in the last two days alone. The hand-held devices presumably operated both the flight and gave exclusive video of the captured terrain—the muddy water, the grasses, sand and plastic litter. Foot long telescopic lenses were even more common, every second day, usually targeting the birds out on the rocks and in the water. Retirees in the latter case and younger men former. Sometimes wives stood off a way, patiently allowing the enthusiasm of their greybeard husbands. This older cohort were not golfing enthusiasts; that group practised tee shots around in the field behind the fishing village, fathers and older sons sometimes together concentrated over the balls at their feet. One chap brought a vacuum device of some kind in order to avoid unnecessary bending to pick up the wayward balls strewn about. (The golfers, if not every single droner and all the photographers, fitted the local equivalent of the MAGA crowd. You could bet your bottom dollar.) On the dock at the village the mystery was eventually solved of the industrial-like churning from the horizon. The light southerlies that arrived on shore carried nothing like the force apparent further out on the water. It took a landlubber three and more weeks for the penny to eventually drop. That was not wind in question out there, laddie. That there was the waves, dude. Wave power. Duh! Yesterday a squadron of pelicans were sunning themselves on a sandbank opposite the fishing hut at the end, more than a dozen bunched close in a place where they had never been found previously. For some reason the break of tractor tyres fifty meters out did not agree with the birdies just then. Willing them to take flight in formation over the half hour sit on the old wooden bench on the dock proved fruitless. That would have been something. Would have made the trigger happy lense guys cry missing their chance. In recent time the naked human eye had gotten lazy or blind. In the cities shiny new sports cars captured attention, architectural novelty & advertising billboards. Pretty women in the flesh were nothing compared to the sites. Porno afflicted walkin the streets impervious to the meatworld. There was every indication a return to normality—even Covid normality—would proceed as if nothing had really happened. The Premier was planning a re-start of the various events that gave the city it’s identity—concerts on the grass at the Myer Music Bowl,10,000 lucky punters allowed attendance for the running of the Melbourne Cup, early in the NY the Australian Open at the tennis centre, with chefs flown in for the upscale dining. Photographers had been plentiful on the equator; not drones so much, not even in techno-crazed Singapore, where security was always a concern. In the broiling heat sports were a hard sell there and the Muslims at least less captivated by the spectaculars. Odd how the various religious observances—Buddhist & Hindu too—could be sorely missed by a kaffir.
Melbourne Oct 2021
Not every guy would react like that, but there was no doubt about it, give this one particular chap of the former acquaintance a bakery, one raising crisp, fresh loaf on site, a good variety and some pride in the product, add pastries, cakes, pies, tidbits &etc all of the same high standard, what you automatically found was all the girls there—for that one particular kinda guy—all the girls serving suddenly, as if by magic, appeared the sweetest, most scrumptious and completely delectable sorts imaginable. In short, virtually all in the shop transformed into lovey-dovey, heart-piercing desirables. As if a spell had been cast. Put same out on the street, in a bus, at a bar, passing by beneath an umbrella, nothing whatever like effect, according to this man. It was something of the gingerbread house effect that had been evoked in the schoolroom books of a couple of generations past, that vividness and compulsion. Similar had been found in the experience at markets, fruit stalls, delicatessens, occasionally behind chemist counters, for this particular fellow. (Nurses commonly of course, but that was a special case and for a much wider cohort.) Not so much cafe baristas, waitresses, checkout chicks &etc. Not an effect evident in kitchens and less so again offices and even dance halls & concerts. Much less so. For this certain kinda guy wired in his own curious kinda way. Neither did suchlike occur at the gym, as one might have thought, nor classes of any kind—yoga, study, lecture, whatever. Broccoli, carrot, even turnips, potato & onion on display could set the scene and serve the purpose equally well. Clothing stores too were a no-no for example; neither carefully lit bookshops or galleries propitious (even in the case where compelling portraits & still lives were displayed on the walls). The circumstance made this connoisseur wonder on the other hand about porn & fashion victims. What if those unfortunates were placed in the right, healthy environment, could perhaps they be decently rehabilitated? A mutually known painter friend, our man once recalled, excellent and committed female artist, took offence at the chap’s account of a gallery visit one afternoon, where a patron within the room had been described as a far greater and more captivating work of art than anything whatever on the walls. Sizeable nuisance thereby reported; understandable umbrage taken in that instance. And yet how to tip-toe around the fact? asked this admittedly odd fellow. Were his own reactions so very rare? Surely there would be many similarly constituted, he always continued like a dog at a bone in the same vein.
Three or four years now it has been regular listening & watching of Callas' Casta Diva performance, where she just stands centre stage on the checkerboard floor and belts it out before the chorus. Completely transfixing.
https://youtu.be/s-TwMfgaDC8
Maria Callas sings "Casta Diva" (Bellini: Norma, Act 1)
The great Maria Callas performs an aria from her signature role, Bellini's druid priestess Norma, with the Orchestre de l'Opera National de Paris and Georges...
youtu.be
Following which there was a progression to the more familiar O mio babbino caro, in an early recital where the face and figure of the young Callas were completely unrecognisable. It came as a great surprise at first. After some further thought on the matter it was understood as perfectly common—the semblance of youthful bloom was impossible to recognise in old age, and vice versa.
What to say about that delivery of the young Maria in Paris in what must have been the early 60s? How does the young woman work herself up in that way? The player king in Hamlet had nothing whatever on her, this strikingly young and beautiful Maria.
Some of the WikiP entry touching on relations with her mother and father gave hints.
Lately the iPad was raised up on the stand in the bathroom evenings for the teeth-brushing, standing close and often having to come to a complete stop. It was a short piece, only two minutes and usually needed repeating.
In lockdown with borders closed, 1.5 metre distancing and the past with its many departed rapidly retreating, one recalled what was commonly remarked in the case of this or that masterly artwork—music, literature, film and sometimes painting too: under the sway it was the memory of emotion that deeply stirred.
In the last year of high school a jock who was school and neighbourhood football captain, for whom schoolwork had become very much a sidelight, heard something surprising from the English teacher in one of the classes talking about a book on the syllabus one was supposed to have read. The title comes back, though without the author: Talking To A Stranger. In that drama it must have been, a theatre script, at some point a character reached up to touch a lighted bulb, burning his fingers in the process. The character had reached for the hot bulb intentionally, for the same reason as that stated above, suggested Mr Mullane in the middle of the roundtable seating arrangement: in his particular straightened circumstances, whatever they were, the character needed to feel something.
Odd hearing for the late-teen jock in the mid-70s. Even now recalling it the matter seems a trifle far-fetched; a little over-dramatic. However, something rather less easy now to discount.
In both cases the black & white archival films of the young and older Maria Call leave something to be desired. They do however capture a good deal, especially in the case of the latter, the young performer only just beginning to make her mark.
https://youtu.be/l1C8NFDdFYg
