What happened to us? One day I look up and there are four of them dressed in black - long overcoats to their ankles, and I wonder what happened - or if it was always like this?
They hassle us for tickets, or how long we parked our car. They take notes when we walk through a red light, or drive the wrong way down the street. They demand. They want results. They want rectification and what's right.
Why is this right?
One day I would like to look up and see people get on the tram dressed in white - smiling, and laughing, offering us all a ticket to ride for free. Congratulating us as we park our car successfully in a difficult parking zone, or when we walk across the road, unharmed. Telling us how great we are - giving each other love.
And we won't need to defend what is right, and feel frightened of when we get it wrong.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Why am I angry?
Why am I angry?
The man at in the Thai cafe was the only Caucasian behind the counter. He stood a head taller than the rest, a head balder and brasher than the rest. He was the ringleader - the choreographer without grace or finesse. A tall mess, and he took orders and ordered the rest.
It was my first pick - because it was close and it looked quiet and I wanted to read a book and eat a noodle soup. I wish I had picked better. I picked the clear combination soup, paid 9.90 and took a seat near the door, where it was quiet and cold, and I wished I picked better.
So I moved further into the buzz of the restaurant. I could hear the bald man barking orders and taking orders, brusquely.
He dumped my soup on the table. It looked over-cooked, and I thought about Pho down the road and how deliciously simple and fresh Pho down the road was, and I wished I chosen better. There was no cutlery. Cutlery at the front, he said as he moved on to take the next order or dump the next clear soup in front of a customer without cutlery.
I moved on. I got up and left my soup uneaten. I am sorry to all the people who could have filled their bellies with clear soup. Because I was too angry at this stupid tall bald man, I wasted a whole bowl of soup. And went down the road and ordered Pho.
The man at in the Thai cafe was the only Caucasian behind the counter. He stood a head taller than the rest, a head balder and brasher than the rest. He was the ringleader - the choreographer without grace or finesse. A tall mess, and he took orders and ordered the rest.
It was my first pick - because it was close and it looked quiet and I wanted to read a book and eat a noodle soup. I wish I had picked better. I picked the clear combination soup, paid 9.90 and took a seat near the door, where it was quiet and cold, and I wished I picked better.
So I moved further into the buzz of the restaurant. I could hear the bald man barking orders and taking orders, brusquely.
He dumped my soup on the table. It looked over-cooked, and I thought about Pho down the road and how deliciously simple and fresh Pho down the road was, and I wished I chosen better. There was no cutlery. Cutlery at the front, he said as he moved on to take the next order or dump the next clear soup in front of a customer without cutlery.
I moved on. I got up and left my soup uneaten. I am sorry to all the people who could have filled their bellies with clear soup. Because I was too angry at this stupid tall bald man, I wasted a whole bowl of soup. And went down the road and ordered Pho.
Beautiful Boy
Saturday 15th August.
He was a beautiful boy. Wide green eyes, milky skin. His raincoat was too large, and his jeans too long. He watched the people as they came and went. He was a beautiful boy.
He dropped his Coke and it rolled under the feet of the man in the turban who sat opposite. Sorry, he said - a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth in his open face. A smile that suggested embarrassment, perhaps. The man nodded in acknowledgement. And then the tram stopped suddenly, and the boy lurched forward and into the man's lap. Sorry, he said again to the man in the turban. Coy, apologetic. On the fringes of adolescence - adult emotions were copied and registered but not fully executed. Apologetic without guilt. The man's face was gentle and unreproaching.
I watched with fascination and admiration at this beautiful, open faced, wide-eyed boy on the fringes of adolescence and felt the strong desire to write down one beautiful thing a day.
He was a beautiful boy. Wide green eyes, milky skin. His raincoat was too large, and his jeans too long. He watched the people as they came and went. He was a beautiful boy.
He dropped his Coke and it rolled under the feet of the man in the turban who sat opposite. Sorry, he said - a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth in his open face. A smile that suggested embarrassment, perhaps. The man nodded in acknowledgement. And then the tram stopped suddenly, and the boy lurched forward and into the man's lap. Sorry, he said again to the man in the turban. Coy, apologetic. On the fringes of adolescence - adult emotions were copied and registered but not fully executed. Apologetic without guilt. The man's face was gentle and unreproaching.
I watched with fascination and admiration at this beautiful, open faced, wide-eyed boy on the fringes of adolescence and felt the strong desire to write down one beautiful thing a day.
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