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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.
