[a thought from the 2 December incident]
Strangest thing happened...
Who would have thought
that chalk
would awaken such fury -
3 cameras began clicking,
moustaches fumed authority,
and men with the same tailor
who talked with a swagger
came marching in to call for Order;
"Order!"
"Do you know whose property this is?"
"Ko tau tak tempat siapa ni?"
The arrogant curl from
a clean lipped Mister
He lectures, like to a child
It's evident, isn't it?
"Kalau berani buat, kenalah macam ni..."
Our identities were ripped from us from
little thieves hiding behind a layer cake of obscurity;
"It's gone to the very top", he says,
and patiently tries to engage my empathy.
"They'll lose their jobs if I don't report you to the police."
For a moment, I imagined them as human
with mouths to feed, addictions to sustain,
and frustrations with giggly youths who dared
to carve their presence through a Word on Wood
in a Park for Tourists.
It didn't last, this moment.
It didn't go away either.
So we asserted our Peace,
asserted our assertions,
asserted and asserted
our tired exasperation.
We could either wait,
Or we could each have our private moustache
implanted on our bodies.
So we waited (I despise facial hair).
and we waited,
and we waited,
As the Evidence of The Deed faded
with the careless scuffle of mall creatures
checking their SMSes,
from the squatting scrutiny of stares
in curious walker by-ers
checking our wanton messages -
"I don't want to live in a world where the stupidity of violence against women exists."
Finally two turned up
Plain as clothes can be,
one good, one bad,
makes a couple of bored beauracrats.
"Apa ni? Tulis apa ni?"
"Niat kamu baik, tapi tempatnya salah"
Same old, same old.
We pay to have this retold
a million times over,
"Capitalism rules over Chalk you see,
and freedoms needs some ink
over the dotted line. Humour me.
You see?"
I see.
The sign of disruption
to genitalia-ic prescription
is misread
as Bad Music instead.
They scrabble in packs,
Sniffling rats,
Looking for the prawn behind our pastels.
Even SBs find it hard to imagine
a woman raped every 10 seconds
a matter of Public Politics.
So into metal blue cans we went
Sardine VIPs
Flashing lights and whizzing by the circus.
"Nak gari ke tidak?"
Cocainne junkie, stuttering his repetitive
God-making questions
"Nak gari ke tidak?"
Escourts to the toilets,
More hours in a room,
Sharing silences and ashtrays with
the boy scouts.
"Adakah saya ditahan?"
"Dibawah seksyen apa saya ditahan?"
"Adakah saya ditahan?"
"Adakah saya ditahan?"
His habits are infectious, and I think
perhaps it is the stale air that
imbues the black of bones
with surrendering despair,
and burden my tongue
with foamy replication.
I can get no answers here.
The surge of witnesses enlarged,
and our spirits hardened for a second -
unwavering -
Their presence stilled the wind from choking.
"No worries. If any ketuk ketampi happens,
call me."
Even Mawi had to stifle a laugh.
The show must go on.
Twin SBs, with "Nothing to hide.
This is not my business,"
Came around for a friendly chat -
"What really happened?"
Still searching for the prawns,
I see.
Barbed wires over fence, two rifles
and some iron hands, a prayer book
to cleanse from trickery;
Playing with time,
miming with rhymes,
112, 113,
It's an elegant dance of
slipping tongues.
I'm getting tired.
Who did we piss off?
In trying to reclaim some space
just for a moment, maybe an hour,
maybe till the next monsoon shower,
Must all sidewalks be athritic veins of shoppers?
Was it the taking of words and
splashing it in colours
as gifts, without an advertiser?
Or perhaps we snubbed the uniforms,
finding them childish games
by playground bullies,
where even rifles failed to crack
our plastered, friendly smiles?
Could it be the communal cynicism
that contaminated to catatonic complacency,
and crystalised possibilies
to imagine catalystic contingencies?
Who would have thought that chalk
Would awaken such energy.
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