A dada poem

What is dada? �Hobbyhorse� in French, baby talk. A European artistic and literary movement (1916-1923) that flouted conventional aesthetic and cultural values by producing works marked by nonsense, travesty, and incongruity.

~Poem~

Olives seed semen
depersonalisation
rapscalion rash red
Blood Sever Dismember
Goatskin hotwater,
Woman hair fire
calm cold transudation
gin cherry liquor
orgasm cheek cinamon
moi joue gendarme
je'taime
twenty three million
one hundred fixty six thousand
one hundred and twenty three
wine

~2006~

Have a dada day

8 March 2005 :: A short novel

5.15pm She packs up to go home..

Her heart was a tonne of bricks, her back puppeted by clients, her heart heaving. As she went through the blurring tunnel of noise and sight of the train terminal, she contemplated on unborn children, having discussed the subject with a colleague she'd met today after four years.

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The train arrives, her heavy mass plonked on the train bench as the cushion gave way to her gravity. Her shoulder stiffer than the back of the seat, she remembered her God softly speaking through a song "Come to me all who labour and are heavy burdened, and I shall give you rest. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light". But it was her angel Eye that finally broke the scaffolding to her lungs, when
she thought of him sitting next to her, speaking to her, asking how her day was.

She pondered on that, why it is not her God that comforts her, but the Eye. The Eye, she thinks, is someone she relates to. Who wears suits like her, who takes care of clients like her, who works to deadlines like her, who is a pillar to the family like her. Who gently and kindly leads her back if she goes off in a tangent, despite being rough in the edges.

The thought released her from the chain of Labouring. She went into deep meditation, until the train arrives at her destination.

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While she ate dinner, the news blared on Television of deaths, of an Italian intelligence shielding a reporter from bullet, of possible force by China should Taiwan insist on independance, and of the ailing Pope hopefully on road to full recovery. But it was not till later, that the death of an unborn shook her being and she wept and wept.. for someone she has not met.

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Chelsea, the daughter to be for her surrogate brother and his wife, stillborn at seven months, declared dead yesterday. She could not believe the soul that was ripped from her Self, as though her own Child had been robbed of her Womb. The child she never wants to have herself, but sees in each mound of the many pregnant stomachs passing by, the girl she imagines skipping in her pink dress and giggling with ecstasy in the sun.

```
Suffering, the by product of free will given by Above. Due to the free choices we make. But what can be made of this - is it a choice we subconsciously make to kill an unborn. In the stress of the world absorbed, of anticipation and fulfillment of expectations by family, friends, parents themselves. Chelsea does not want to come out yet into this world. She doesn't blame her.

`````
Now she confronts her God, of that space between life and afterlife. She asks reflectively, was the Eye right? Life is what we have now, it is neuter-post mortem. For she certainly feels there is no further life, post the death of a Life that has not even penetrated earth. The vaccumous test tube she feels sucked and trapped in makes it hard to see beyond Blue..

Of pickles and war

I was helping out as a keeper of a convenience store of a friend and found myself in a sticky situation.

A particular customer, a garcon at the next door restaurant, came in occasionally to buy two lira packs of cigarettes. But mostly he came in to pass time by picking at staffs at the store. Still, all good and well except that he always refused to pay for his cigarettes, acting as if he would be paying for a million dollar mansion and he deserved to buy on credit.

We took it on our stride with good humour, as a case of handling a challenging customer. After all he was the staff of our next door neighbour, we should keep some peace. Yet the more we accommodated him the more disruptive he became, incessantly talking while we serve other customers, throwing 'smart' remarks when we work (are we poor that's why we work so hard) and making life difficult in general. Not to mention times wasted due to payments that needed to be collected.

One evening, I found myself accepting the invite of two staffs of the store wanting have lamb head soup next door (I chose one of the other 'harmless' soups available). What a hassle it turned out to be.

This waiter purposely wrote a bill of what we ordered and placed it on our table. It was unusual practice for known customers, at the very least not until we had finished. We left the bill untouched for we knew this was only another of his antics.

When we had finished, one of us settled the tab and we got up to leave. Just as we did so, the waiter swooped in on us waving the bill at our faces and the other hand pointing at it. The fact that he saw us paying did not deter him from arresting our attention.

Then, invoking my wrath, he touched me here - on my right arm. We decided to continue to ignore him and walked away calmly. Who does he think he is? That night I thought that this stupidity has to end, the uncalled for assault a sign that enough is enough.

I mentioned it in passing to my sister who thought I could accidentally spill water on him. I had satisfied myself that we could refuse to sell cigarettes or serve him in the future, just as other businesses would to curb undesirable customers. Or we could complain to his manager but even then we did not want to get him into trouble. Keeping him out of the store was the aim.

As I was thinking this, one book which I have not touched for two years came suddenly into my perspective. I had put it on my makeshift bedside table, among my other partially read books. I picked it up and words previously escaping my grasp became crystal clear.

The next day, as usual I marched to the shop. I had weighted various ways to ward off this blood sucking mosquito of a customer after reading the book. Soon the underside of the checkout desk sheltered a bucket of vinegar and a container of eggs. Ammunition for when the waiter comes in and refuses to leave. I did tell the brother of the shop owner of what I proposed to do and he did not object. In fact he helped me arrange the containers under the till. He asked if he needed to warn the waiter, I said there is no need to.

Strategically though, word had gotten out to the other waiters next door. They were amused at the idea for they too have been subjects of their colleague's childish acts. For the rest of the afternoon and still counting, this problem waiter cum customer was nowhere in sight. He either had to quit smoking or walk further to the next available cigarette seller. I suspect the latter.

"Sun Tzu's Art of War", a good book for when I find myself in a pickle and need to get out of it.

Thirteen Turkish virgins converted in a single afternoon.

By me.

It took an hour of preparation and four hours in focused execution. Despite the initial hesitation of these courageous ladies and gents re their first time on something so raw, they all joined in (two men had broken the ice).

Blown rapturously away in the end and door opened to a new sensation in their life, it made my sweat worth while. Now it is up to them to enjoy the pleasures of more s, or abstain completely.

However, in the future I would delegate an intelligent robot to do the hard yards. Primarily due to the objection of my conservative other half and sheer energy needed for such an expedition. All I would be doing is witnessing the conversion of other virgins.

I discovered by chance that such clever robots are available. The link to its website included uncut videos of these machines, appearances cavemenlike, performing all sorts of difficult tasks.. .

S Robot. What say you?

Fear

I hope for nothing

I fear nothing

I am free

~~Kazantzakis~~

The unbearable shortness of time

My girlfriend nearly got hit by a church van running along the wrong way of the street towards her. The van jacked over the road divider and crashed instead into the car in front of her. No one got hurt although it could have been a deadly one had the van smashed into the drivers’ side of either vehicle.

I was apoplectic. What was the van doing? Escaping from the Angel of Death or into it? She said to me in her own words “the meaning of life is short�. If you looked up short in a dictionary you would see life next to it. I agreed.

Barely twelve months back, I found myself in a tram which rammed the driver’s side of a Toyota (aka Yoda). The Yoda driver did not stop at the red light of a junction and chose to follow a motto of “see yellow light go faster�. Hit from a forty five degree angle, the car had swerved violently to the padestrian sidewalk and faced back at us. The heavy iron post-world-war-two tram felt merely a thump.

I was behind the tram driver, standing in the stairwell with full view of what happened from the windowed folding doors. I saw the split second jerk of the car driver away from his steering wheel as if it would prevent him from being hit. Just as how one tends to shelter one’s head with one’s hands in absence of umbrellas in a torrential rain. It is futile save for the psychological comfort offered. No one was hurt. Everyone got delayed and the car driver, lucky to know what an interval time between two event was after that near horrific crash.

An acquaintance, died a month after I was told he had nose cancer. Leaving nothing but a wake of vaccum in the hearts of families and friends due to the speed of the disease destroying him. This was just last week.

Currently I am feeling somewhat unsettled as there is so much to do and so little time... so much so I dreamt of being chased by a ghost, twice in the same night broken only by a startling wake between ghost number one and ghost number two. I think these ghosts were representative of my anxiety... in both dreams I escaped the wrath of these ugly things by surrendering to the Maker.

As I awoke from Nightmare Number Two, I found Dad’s text messages awaiting. The same message sent twice. And it happened twice overnight. I asked why and he said his second messages were meant to be for ‘Anak2’ (Child number 2) instead of ‘Anak1’ (Child number 1 being me). I said there is an invention called Names for identifying people, in place of numbers, unless he had thirty five kids like some Turkish families do and some kids have the same name.

He replied that in Africa, there is an Emir of Kano who has thirty five children from seventy seven wives and concubines. When the Emir calls “Ado�, there would be thirty five replies. I said at least he calls them by their name even though it is generic. In Dad's case, is the numerical system like a license plate or some sort, as when we are issued tax numbers from the taxman? That we come from an official pool under our grandfather’s brand and unlicensed ones do not get numbers?


He simply said no. It is because when he presses the phone book in his cellphone, the first four contacts would be Anak1, Anak2 Anak3 Anak4. No matter how trivial, to save time. I have not done anything to cause this and it is nothing new. Time is precious and life is not long. It is the limit of one’s lifespan that makes both appear to be unbearably short. But it certainly makes life interesting.

666

These numbers are sex, sex, sex. Ask a New Zealander. Better yet ask an Australian to pronounce the numbers as how a New Zealander would, it is one of their favourite pastimes. If there aren't any Australians or New Zealanders around, the rules are as complicated as this language algebra: change the 'i' and vocalise as 'e' and the 'e' vocalise as 'i'. Do not start me on Dr M's quip on how Australians say "go to the hospital today" and the language maths there.

666 to Christians represents Lucifer's Lotto. The date 06.06.06 caused hundreds of millions of faithfuls to join their hands together in prayer. It saw out of the blue, a waiter in a restaurant opposite a shop where I was mindlessly rearranging muffins, suddenly thrash dishes and tables and chairs and scream like a banshee. Hands up in the air alike a Hindu Goddess (only, the waiter has one pair) and eyes in terror as though he had seen his own death. A minute of panic in the heart that he may harm himself and others was quickly dispelled when two other waiters arrested the wailing waiter in order to pacify him.

My solicitors also went off on a tangent that day by recommending me to fire them for acting ignorantly in accepting a 'conflict of interest' case. In addition, the other half in a rare mad moment took the view that he is really better than me rather too far which nearly led to a fight but I chose to walk out and shop instead. I passed by an acquaintance's carpet gallery and found myself spending an hour learning about carpets. A gallery visited by Bette Midler, Pam Anderson and Kid Rock whose faces grace a part of the gallery thanks to Ahmet Ertegün (producer and founder of Atlantic Records) who has a neat pad along the Bodrum Marina. I was humbled among these stars but more engaged in talks about silk carpets and kilims.

Final event of that day witnessed a shop giving forty six lira to a customer, a box of cigarette and a lighter plus not take his fifty dollar bill for payment. A trick played by him in a manner of the mavericks of the cowboy days. It happened so fast that three people did not realise what happened till the deed had been done and it was too late.

Yours truly seldom gave thoughts to these holistic, or rather, satanist numbers. The key numbers that matter to a banker, myself included in the mass of these considered public enemies in Australia and New Zealand, are black ones on the bank statement. Not even numbers representing age matters. For many a time I was told I think and speak as if I were a fifty year old, though I do not look it. I duly replied that I did my thirties in my twenties and now I might as well do my fifties to save time. It is how one feels inside and not the actual age.

Yes I can take things far too seriously, a Robespierre-esque fault of mine. Yet I do not know how to be otherwise. In spite of this I was willing for a change to place some of the blame on Lucifer's Clans roaming out on earth particularly for the trouble fertilised grounds of that day. Down under somewhere, 'under-er' than Australia and much more southern than New Zealand, I suspect Luci's Clans took bets and the one to cause the most trouble would win plus get a good performance review by Luci. Perhaps rewarded by more days off the pit to holiday in the land of the living rather than wait a thousand years for the next 666.

Where Little Bird escapes

Escape 1

Escape 2

If only by imagination...