bike tales

she keeps silent
(alone) on her
tandem bike

as he passes
opposite with the
Baby in his

wheelbarrow bike
with the young
curious head

bells ringing
a crescendo
into the sunset

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My Guardian Angel

55… 56… 57… 58… 59… 60… Change.

 

I was staring at the time displayed in my train from Amsterdam to the Hague, trying to prove that what I was experiencing was not just sense-perceptions fed to me by my own brain, and that I wasn’t slumped in a coffeehouse somewhere. As you might have guessed, I was high as a cloud.

 

It started with an impulse trip to Amsterdam on the last day of a conference. Having wandered around the Hague with some friends, I decided on a whim to buy a return ticket to Amsterdam, thinking, I’d regret it if I came to the Netherlands without visiting Amsterdam.

 

As it were, Amsterdam was a buzz of strange smells and people with even stranger outfits. A man dressed up as a cannabis plant with a loosely rolled joint waltzed down the street reminiscent of the somber scene in Waltz with Bashir, as though there was a loop of Chopin’s Waltz playing inside him. But instead of dodging bullets, this gentleman was dodging a combination of people, inanimate objects and mostly his own feet. As he lumbered past a police vehicle he gave the people inside a deft wave. They waved back.

 

One thing led to another, and after bumping into another group of friends who happened to be there as well, we ended up a coffeehouse. This was not before a short walk through the cobbled streets, each of us stealing quick glances at the various sex toys displayed in all their multi-coloured glory, thinking ‘What on earth can that be used for?’. It was as if a porn director took over a Lego store and insisted on doing the window dressing.

 

At the coffeehouse, pleasantries were traded with the staff and one of them started to prepare our vaporizer. For a person who’s never had more than the occasional puffs from a friend’s joint, this was probably not a wise choice. Before long we were all staring wistfully into the distance.

I’m not sure why but I still had enough sense to check the time. 10 pm.

 

Shit. If I don’t go now I’ll miss the last tram to the hostel back at the Hague.

 

So I said my goodbyes and made my way to the train station. The moment I stood up I realized how much trouble I was in.

I need to catch a train like this. This means getting on the right platform.

 

I started walking towards the train station.

 

Am I really walking though? That sign seems to never get closer. It feels like I’m walking. Focus on that sign. OK, it’s getting closer. Kind of. Oh God I’m in the station.

 

Thankfully there was another group of friends at the station and one of them guided me to my platform. But the worst was yet to come. Once I was on the train, the THC really hit, and the Cartesian demon came in the form of Lord Baelish a la Game of Thrones dressed as Postman Pat.

 

In soothing tones he asked whether or not I was really just slumped in the coffeehouse unconscious. Every single philosophical skeptical argument floated into the horizon at once.

 

Imagine a powerful demon. He can conjure up sense-perceptions in your brain, make you think that you’re experiencing things, while in reality you’re just a thinking thing, floating around in god-knows-what.

 

As it turns out, the full force of the Cartesian skeptical argument can only be appreciated when high. They should put that into the philosophy program.

 

Panic set in. Desperate for proof that I was indeed on a train, I started to look for signs that we take as evidence for reality.

 

Like time. 60 seconds. You can do this. 1… 2…

 

And so I began counting, starting when the numbers changed on the screen. To the others in the train I must have looked possessed. Muttering the seconds under my breath and eyes fixed on the screen.

 

…60

 

The numbers changed. Relief.

 

But the demon would have wanted you to sense that.

 

Fuck you Demon. Your moustache looks ridiculous.

 

Doesn’t mean I’m wrong. And that was uncalled for.

 Apologies.

The gravity of the situation dawned on me. Every single thing that anchored me to reality had been turned against me, in virtue of its familiarity. They were exactly what the postman-demon would want me to perceive.

 

We’ve got it all wrong. Reality isn’t grounded in the familiar. It’s the unfamiliar that makes existence real. I should write that down later. I need something that is so outrageous, so ridiculous that I can’t have possibly come up with it myself.

                                                                                                

Unfortunately I’ve just been to Amsterdam, and saw a lifetime’s worth of things that were ‘outrageous and ridiculous’. The waltzing cannabis plant flashed into vision.

 

 

The train stopped suddenly. A group of rowdy teenagers boarded. Scuffles. Shouts. Sounded like someone was starting a fight. I sank deep into my chair.

 

If only I could be a chameleon. I’d have bigger eyes. How cool would that be.

 

A jerk snapped me back to my predicament.

 

I need proof.                                                

 

With trembling hands I fished out my pen and started scribbling furiously onto my palm.

 

  1. GOD.
  2. COGITO.
  3. ???????

 

What about God? I think Descartes said something about him guaranteeing our… Oh no that argument doesn’t work. At least I know I exist right? The cogito. Oh no Kant rejected that. Hume said something about our mode of being forces us to trust our sense perceptions. But right now my mode of being makes me doubt them. WHY DIDN”T I PAY ATTENTION DURING LECTURES

 

The train stopped again. More scuffling. Stern voices. The lights dimmed.

 

DEMENTORS. THIS CAN’T BE REAL.

 

As it were, it was couple of policemen who came to break up the fight.

 

This is too dramatic. I must be making this up. Too many coincidences. How could I have bumped into a friend randomly in the station?

 

I need proof. Something that cannot be conjured up by my brain.

 

This continued for a good ten minutes, until a group of men boarded the train. One of them was topless, wore pink tights and a pair of blood-red angel wings. I stared at his reflection in my window, transfixed at his bulging beer belly.

Hope.

 

As if to answer my prayers, he projectile vomited.

 

Thankfully one of his friends had to good sense to catch it in a plastic bag. But that didn’t stop the stench that wafted over to my seat. It smelled like cheap beer and regret.

No way I could have imagined that. Thank you my guardian angel.

 

I fought the urge to embrace him, to thank him for bringing me back to reality. The train stopped. My stop. I stumbled out onto the platform and made my way to the tram station.

As I stood there, the world zoomed in and out of focus. Ears ringing, I leaned against a lamppost. Descartes and every skeptic before and after him flashed across my mind. It was further away than it’s ever been, but I’ve never felt more secure. I smiled, the smell of fresh vomit lingering like a first love’s perfume.

 

On a more serious note, thanks to everyone who helped me get back to my hostel safely. Sincerely. 

Cinese di merda

Cinese di merda!

 

This was hurled at me like a badly thrown javelin. It fell wide from the mark but the intention stung nonetheless.

 

The Puma-hoodie, Nike Air sporting Italian youth more or less just called me a shitty Chinese. My friend, who was sitting next to me as we waited for our bus, stared at me open-mouthed. Probably out of embarrassment, since she was Italian. Strange, how we feel responsible for the actions of our compatriots like they’re an embarrassing significant other meeting our parents for the first time.

 

My first urge was to shout back. Not abuse though. You see, having been abroad for a while, clarifying the difference between ‘Hong Kong’ and ‘China’ has become an instinctive reaction. Ah, you see, I’m Chinese but there’s a difference. The convoluted explanation of colonial history inevitably peters out into a shrug in the face of the I-don’t-see-why-this-matters expression of the person I’m addressing.

 

It’s not the first time I’ve been on the receiving end of racist treatment. Spend enough time in places where you’re obviously a foreigner and some idiot is bound to do something to you. The sniggering Albanian youths throwing tissue pellets at me for the best part of a two-hour long bus ride. The waiter who serves every single table except for mine. While these may be annoying, they don’t really hurt. In the first case I was too pre-occupied with doing a deal with the devil at every mountainous turn to be bothered with the pellets anyway. The point is, these incidents didn’t hurt personally because they weren’t accusing me of being anything.

 

But Cinese di merda. That’s different. To make matters worse he might actually have a point, and an accusation that you know is true is always worse than one that’s false. For a moment I was 14 again, my face stinging as my mom told me that the baggy T-shirt with a dinosaur on the front was, contrary to what I thought, anything but cool.

 

First off, I got offended for the wrong reasons. I was more bothered about the fact that he called me ‘Chinese’ than anything else. And yet, I am. National identity for me is a bit like the fact that I have Justin Bieber on my iPod. It’s something I don’t feel anything in particular about until someone shoves it in my face, in which case I feel obliged to defend it. It came with the charts. It’s good for SOME situations! The anthem-touting adverts want me to be proud, a feeling I just can’t feel about any national identity.

 

Another thing is that, all things considered. I am quite shit at being Chinese. Or any nationality, for that matter. For various reasons, (probably because God was having an off day when he made me) I feel most at home when I’m not at home. If being a good Chinese means being able to recite classical poetry and tell the order of the 12 year Chinese Zodiac, I’m pretty much out. While we’re at it, why would anyone think a poem about being stranded from home is a good first poem to learn? Maybe the gushing homesick nostalgia of those succinct lines instilled in us from an early age an underlying propensity towards all things distant and tragic. Who knows? Also, why isn’t the panda part of the zodiac? Someone should start an online campaign for that.

 

But I digress. I guess I just enjoy pretending to be in a group that I don’t belong to. Sometimes it’s subconscious. Since English isn’t my native language, I don’t have a ‘default’ accent to fall back on, and it changes according to the people around me, or the TV shows I procrastinate with. A couple of days with a friend from Texas is enough for a few ‘y’all’s to slip into my vocabulary; a binge-session of Doctor Who leaves me with a slight Scottish drawl, kudos to David Tennant. Sometimes this gets me into awkward situations, as people think I’m making fun of them when my accent morphs into a bastard child hybrid of their own one and quasi-American. The Mumbai bakery shop owner’s burning stare as I said ‘OK’ in what must have come across as a mocking Indian accent accompanied with the sideways head-bobbing ‘nod’ I picked up after two weeks, is still vivid.

 

But really, am I that different from the rest of you? Don’t we all want to experience being someone we’re not? I don’t know about you, but half of the time I lie, I do it for no apparent reason other than creating an alternative image of myself. The thrill of convincing a taxi driver in Beijing that I was from his city and grew up in an orphanage tells me more about myself than I would like to know.

 

And indeed, isn’t it the same with the host of ‘national’ symbols around us? Minute differences in pronunciations or a few extra letters in the alphabet gets magnified out of proportion; miniscule differences in foods warrant a different name and nationality. It seems that we are intent on creating small differences so that we can celebrate them under the slogan of tolerance, while deriving security from knowing what’s ours and what belongs to the omnipresent them. Nationalities aren’t there for us to be proud of. They’re there so we know when we’re experiencing something new.

 

My friend opened her mouth to shout back, but I mumbled something like whatever. She looked at me, exasperated, as the offending youth ran away with his amici. Our bus came, surprisingly on time. She waved it down, her Thai, Hindi and Chinese wrist charms rattling audibly. We boarded the bus, which happened to sport an advert for cheap vacations with pictures of grinning tourists and locals.

 

We passed the group of teenagers as we drove away, and I smiled as his electric blue Puma hoodie faded into the distance. I guess at the end of the day, I am a Cinese di merda. But so are the rest of you.

duinostalgia

I wish I
could go back
to that forgotten

patch of forest
we remember so
well where we’d

sneak away at
night to spin
threads of naïve

lyrics over broken
guitar strings and
shit wine our

eyes
burning fireflies flittering
with the world

in them like
the cackling fire
made from stolen

grocery store cardboard
and still-wet twigs
small but so bright

 

just a memory of a very special place

Dear Santa

Click

 

The dull sound echoed for the umpteenth time that night. He was a slim, lean figure in a dark suit. Crouched over the lock, you could almost mistake him for a rebellious shadow. A trick of the eye.

 

The magnetic device he held in his hand looked futuristic. Indeed, it was futuristic. Handed down from generations it was far beyond any contemporary human technology. Such primitive creatures.

He slowly opened the door without making a sound, and slid into the apartment.

 

It was like the rest of the apartments in the building. Your standard living room, two bedroom flat. Similar to all the other ones he’s visited tonight, this one was decked with festive decorations. The plastic tree stood in the corner, conscious of its own fraud under the eerie lighting of Christmas lights. Laid out on the table was a single stocking.

 

Strange, how some things never change. That said, humans’ stereotypical image of his species were laughable. The fat belly, the red and white costume, the hat. Simpletons. And to naively assume that there was only one of his kind around. How on earth could one Santa do all of that work in one night? But that’s humans for you— even reality had to conform to their arrogance. It’s a pity his species were bound by their own ancient laws to perform this ritual every year, as an act of charity to their gods.

 

He froze. There were sounds coming from one of the bedrooms. Muffled voices. Whispers. Not the in-your-ear-secret whispers of lovers though— this was vicious, like two snakes strangling each other.

 

I don’t have to worry. They can’t hear me. This suit takes care of everything. Traceless.

 

He glanced at the single stocking lying on the dinner table. They haven’t even bothered hanging it up. But it won’t be of much use tonight. He wished it was otherwise.

 

He made his way slowly past the room with the hissing snakes, the voice of his Tutor echoing in his mind.

 

We have no choice. Our rules say that if the kid’s been good, and what he asks for is neither something to be done to someone else (to prevent ill-wishing), or over the annual per-capita budget, we have to deliver. That’s what the gods say.

 

Well, that’s just because they never had to deal with something like this.

 

He opened the door slowly, hoping that it would make a sound. But he knew it wouldn’t. The suit took care of that. He wished the parents next door could hear his footsteps and come to investigate. But the suit took care of that. Even if it didn’t, they would be too busy in their silent jousting.

 

In the room was child 7564. He remembered this number, and the asterisk next to it when he first got sent his List. James. 9 years old. Blonde.

 

The silence emanating from his suit was suffocating. I’m sorry. And he thought of the gods as he plunged a needle filled with heart-stopping fluid into James’ arm. He didn’t even check whether the child was dead. The technology of his species was light years ahead of that of humans.

 

As he left the room, he unfolded a piece of paper, torn from a school scrapbook, and left it in front of the door. Maybe the parents will find time to notice it. He exited the flat, heavy with the silence around him. The door closed.

Click

 

Dear Santa,

 

I’ve been a good boy this year. Mommy and Daddy have been fighting every day and it’s really horrible. Mommy sometimes comes to breakfast with bruises on her face. They never talk and their smiles are weird. I heard them saying nothing will fix this. For this Christmas, can you fix this? If not, can I just die?

 

Love,

James

 

Quite a personal piece based on an unhappy childhood memory. Hope this makes up for the lack of content for the last few days. Like, follow and share to support.

god hotline

 

if I had
a hotline to
god I’d

probably bother
him so much
with petty

complaints like
the oh-so-tragic-
stressful-empty-

in-constant
existential-flux
life

that’d he’d put
me on
answer phone

but I don’t
so I guess
I can moan

Day 19 of National Poetry Month. a piece a day is hard! like, follow and share to support.

The Cave Part I

He could remember his mother locking his thin limbs in chains. He must have been barely a year old— when he took his first teetering steps. Actually, he doesn’t remember anything, but his mother, who must be his mother because she was chained next to him, told him this every night as a bedside story.

 

Hush. Once upon a time there was a little boy. His mother loved him very much and every day she would ask the Gods of the Wall to bless him. She hoped he would be different. She prayed that one day, he would stand but not turn away from the Wall. But he was no different from all the others before him. One day, he stood, and turned his back on the Wall. His mother had to chain him. It was for his own good. Those who turn away from the Wall never come back. Only their heads do. Hush. Sleep and pray to the Gods.  

 

The Gods were tangible. Concrete. They were alive as well. You could see them moving on the walls, their dull grey outlines shifting perpetually from one end to another on a flickering orange canvas. How could you not believe something so real?

 

The man on the far left of his mother was an Elder. He had owl like eyes that glowed like rubies in the reflected light. He claimed to be descended from a king. But that was so long ago that everybody remembered to forget what kind of king this was. The Elder himself can’t remember. The ferrous memory was made rusty in the river of time, and nobody had the courage to chip away at the flaking surface to reveal the dull truth. All they knew was that whatever king he was, he must have been a good king, as he dedicated his life, and the lives of his family, to the worship of the Gods.

 

Every day, the Elder would recite the names of the Gods of the Wall as they passed by. He was one of the few people who knew all of their names.

 

Pot. Jar. Bust. Figure. Vase.

 

These names were passed from Elder to Elder, taken from the lips of the first king himself. It was during one of these chants that he decided to turn away from the Gods.

 *   *   *

Soldiers I and II walk in tandem. Long line of soldiers slowly walking across stage. Soldier II bumps into Soldier I. Line stops. Commotion.

Soldier I: ‘Hey watch where you’re going!’

Soldier II: ‘Sorry! Any idea where we’re going?’

Soldier I: ‘No idea! I’m just following the guy in front of me!’

Soldier II: ‘Does he know where we’re going?’

Soldier I: ‘Well there must be someone at the front!’

Soldier II: ‘That’s true. These vases and statues are really heavy do you know who they’re for?’

Soldier I: ‘For the Great King! He is the most powerful king in these lands. Our king gives him these things as tribute so we’ll have peace’

Soldier II: ‘I see. What’s with the fire down there? And why are those people chained to the wall?’

Soldier I: ‘Oh those are the descendants of the last king who was defeated by the Great King. That’s their punishment. According to the guy in front of me our orders are to keep the fire burning and throw them our food scraps. If one of them manages to climb up to this walkway we’ll kill them.’

Soldier II: ‘I see. We’ve been walking for days— why haven’t we seen any returning soldiers?’

Soldier I: ‘They’re probably going back on a different route. You ask too many questions!’

 *  *  *

 Outside

The pastures had a lovely scent
The birds sang and the rabbits ran
The seasons all four came and went
oblivious to the acts of Man

 

Day 16 of National Poetry Month. Part I of my attempt at re-writing Plato’s cave allegory. Never tried writing like this before, so I have mixed feelings about the results. Hopefully it’ll work out! Part II will follow very soon. Please like, follow and share to support

 

sketch II

 

Tiredness is when
finally your schedule
is empty all you

can do is sit
and stare at the
invisible tick tock

of the clock echoing
in the space of your
solitude and your

heartbeat (out of
sync with the world)
is not concerned

 

Day 15 of National Poetry Month’s a poem a day challenge. Please follow, share and like to support.