Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Persiaran Zaaba, TTDI
WALKER
There is a man who walks up and down the street. In the 6 months since moving into the neighbourhood I have observed him engaged in this activity everyday. It appears he does nothing else, for I see him at all hours. Sometimes he is smoking a cigarette, sometimes he is looking at a piece of paper, but mostly his arms hang limply at his sides.
He moves with a very steady, plodding stride at a speed that is constant. He seems to have purpose. He does not act at all like an aimless vagabond, not like the one who strides up and down the LDP barefoot and wild-eyed. I don't think he is mad. Yet he does not look as if he has spoken in a long time, or has need for words. His language is all in the movement of his lower limbs, and direction of his walk. I have questions, but I am loathe to break his rhythm just to satisfy my own curiosity.
He seems quite well-kept for each day he wears a new set of clothes. And he is not gaunt, in fact I have noticed that he has grown rather fat of late. Instead of shoes he wears a shabby-looking pair of brown slippers. The slippers have not changed since the first day of my observation.
What is quite strange is that lately he appears to have aged! He was not very old to begin with. Today I was driving quite close to him and noticed that is hair was shot through with grey, where it had been throughly black not 6 months before. What if, I thought, time only moves for this man if he walks! If he were to stop walking, I have the most uncomfortable feeling that he would drop down dead, and that is why I can't bring myself to interrupt his little pilgrimage to nowhere.
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OPERA
There is a child who lives next to us who possesses the shrillest, most annoying voice in the world. It seems to speak only in one frequency, piercingly pitched and heartlessly constant. All day long it rips through the neighborhood, setting one's teeth on edge and one's bile on fire. It seems to be communicating something, but really it is difficult to make out any sort of speech.
Then there is a baby who lives across the road who communicates in long, shocking, shrieking bawls. I have observed that it particularly comes alive during the most peaceful part of the day, which is evening. At this time, when both child and baby cast their shrieks across the road, the noise level reaches a crescendo and becomes detached from any sort of bodily source.
I call this moment in my day 'The Madness of Suburbia'. It is opera music for the middle-class and I sit out front smoking, listening to it against a backdrop cast of Honda Civics, Indonesian maids, and the daily life of linked terrace houses.
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BIRDCALLS
The vege-man comes at 10am, and his horn goes doot-doot, doot-doot in fairly long intervals.
The garbage truck comes at 11am, and its engine hums and growls like Cerberus at the gates of Hades.
The paper-man generally comes around noon and plays a recording of a child's voice shouting paper-lama/old newspaper/sau tau bo chi/siew chi po zhi in an endless loop of repetition.
The gas-man comes later than the paper-man and his horn is four doot-doot-doot-doot's in quick succession.
The putu mayam man is fairly regular at around 3 or 4pm. His horn is noticeably smaller sounding, more like a poot than a doot. It sounds a single note at long intervals.
The ice-cream man comes at his own vagary, announcing himself with a constant ringing bell.
The roti-man comes in the evenings, and his horn is like the cry of a bird. Two notes - one long poot, followed by a short sharp pit. Poot-pit, poot-pit, just like that. ¶ 6:17 PM
WALKER
There is a man who walks up and down the street. In the 6 months since moving into the neighbourhood I have observed him engaged in this activity everyday. It appears he does nothing else, for I see him at all hours. Sometimes he is smoking a cigarette, sometimes he is looking at a piece of paper, but mostly his arms hang limply at his sides.
He moves with a very steady, plodding stride at a speed that is constant. He seems to have purpose. He does not act at all like an aimless vagabond, not like the one who strides up and down the LDP barefoot and wild-eyed. I don't think he is mad. Yet he does not look as if he has spoken in a long time, or has need for words. His language is all in the movement of his lower limbs, and direction of his walk. I have questions, but I am loathe to break his rhythm just to satisfy my own curiosity.
He seems quite well-kept for each day he wears a new set of clothes. And he is not gaunt, in fact I have noticed that he has grown rather fat of late. Instead of shoes he wears a shabby-looking pair of brown slippers. The slippers have not changed since the first day of my observation.
What is quite strange is that lately he appears to have aged! He was not very old to begin with. Today I was driving quite close to him and noticed that is hair was shot through with grey, where it had been throughly black not 6 months before. What if, I thought, time only moves for this man if he walks! If he were to stop walking, I have the most uncomfortable feeling that he would drop down dead, and that is why I can't bring myself to interrupt his little pilgrimage to nowhere.
----------
OPERA
There is a child who lives next to us who possesses the shrillest, most annoying voice in the world. It seems to speak only in one frequency, piercingly pitched and heartlessly constant. All day long it rips through the neighborhood, setting one's teeth on edge and one's bile on fire. It seems to be communicating something, but really it is difficult to make out any sort of speech.
Then there is a baby who lives across the road who communicates in long, shocking, shrieking bawls. I have observed that it particularly comes alive during the most peaceful part of the day, which is evening. At this time, when both child and baby cast their shrieks across the road, the noise level reaches a crescendo and becomes detached from any sort of bodily source.
I call this moment in my day 'The Madness of Suburbia'. It is opera music for the middle-class and I sit out front smoking, listening to it against a backdrop cast of Honda Civics, Indonesian maids, and the daily life of linked terrace houses.
----------
BIRDCALLS
The vege-man comes at 10am, and his horn goes doot-doot, doot-doot in fairly long intervals.
The garbage truck comes at 11am, and its engine hums and growls like Cerberus at the gates of Hades.
The paper-man generally comes around noon and plays a recording of a child's voice shouting paper-lama/old newspaper/sau tau bo chi/siew chi po zhi in an endless loop of repetition.
The gas-man comes later than the paper-man and his horn is four doot-doot-doot-doot's in quick succession.
The putu mayam man is fairly regular at around 3 or 4pm. His horn is noticeably smaller sounding, more like a poot than a doot. It sounds a single note at long intervals.
The ice-cream man comes at his own vagary, announcing himself with a constant ringing bell.
The roti-man comes in the evenings, and his horn is like the cry of a bird. Two notes - one long poot, followed by a short sharp pit. Poot-pit, poot-pit, just like that. ¶ 6:17 PM
