Tante Sophie

around the same time i decided to publish The Book, i bought a new vespa too. and by ‘bought a new vespa’ i meant buying a vespa that is new. 2007 issue. but the newness is not the point. what is the point. off all this shit. the shit is the relationship i had with this city, capital city of oompapa. i’ve always caught taxis, and other forms of public transport all my life. taxi is not public transport you stupid ass. i’ve never got my feet on the ground. my heels are shiny and spotless, like my new azzurro sky lx150 with red italian leather seats (treated with natural wax) and red aluminium handgrips (in my dreams). but now i’m ready. as never. a wife-in-training for a pillion. a zen still space between a waste disposal truck and a mayasari bakti. P06. get into it. and out as quick. The Book is a sort of Honda Astrea ‘86 in a gallery of New Mios. a couple of Royal Thai Finos thrown in. it’s a 2-stroke wonder aberration in a world dominated by 4-stroke killing machines. head-check! left. right. crash into yr afterlife. death. that’s what im prepared for. preparing for. death by slow whirring of National Library of Australia-approved air-conditioner-cooled air, leaning at 35 degrees on Maïakovskii’s magnum opus (whichever one that is), untouched by human hand since its mechanical appropriation by a nit-picking buyer from the Australia Indonesia Institute.

quit whinging.


you’ve had quite a nice life. unlived that’s true. but on Tante Sophie* anything, even the examination of an unexamined life is possible. so said not socrates.

drifters are not cool. easy, vespinoy.

*Tante Sophie Hortense Cecile Doblijn, née De Pauly, the full unexpurgated name of my standard azzurro sky LX150 with factory-issue leatherette blue seat, also the name of the sullen matriarch in Breton de Nijs’s Vergeelde portretter: Uit een Indisch familie album.

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