RuKsaK

I’m tired. I’ve got red wine circles under my eyes, arms which don’t move like a monkey’s anymore, and I’ve got to go to work. I’m typing this thinking I should get it done quick - Microsoft’s little clock sitting gently and precisely, but so fucking cruel, in the bottom-right corner. Bill Gate’s tiny, passive-seeming clock is the psycho-killer of the world’s clocks.
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A storm kept me awake last night – throwing rocks of noise on Seoul. Lightening bright-whited everything in our flat every three minutes. I don’t mind lightening, it’s smart – laughs at the night, building up all this polished energy and then kills the night for a split second. Lightening is one of God’s ninjas.

It’s lightening’s retarded brother that gets me. This clambering fucking idiot that doesn’t realise how slow he is. He just hops spastically after lightening, rocks all the clouds, screams out a deafening dumb growl, and tries to jump through the window. He can’t get through, but rattles the glass not caring that the RuKsaK family is sleeping.
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‘Lightening’s gone already you stupid, slow cunt!’ I shout at it.
‘Honey – what are you doing?’
‘I’m having a word with the thunder – it’s doing my head in. I have to be up at six-thirty.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘It’s not me – it’s the fucking thunder. The windows are almost breaking.’
‘Calm down and go and check on the little one.’
‘Alright – she’s quiet though – I’m sure she’s asleep.’
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I walked craply to my daughters room, rubbing my eyes and knocking the sofa as a result. The thunder got blamed for that too.

She was clamped to the wall on the far edge of her bed, clawing into a random teddy-bear. She spoke her usual mix of Russian and English to me, her voice jittering and soft:
‘It’s really ужас. It’s really ужас.’
‘It’s not horrible – it’s stupid thunder. It’s really alright – don’t worry.’
‘No Papa – it’s really ужас.’
‘We need Mohammed Ali sweetie – he can handcuff lightening and throw thunder in jail.’
‘Do we need Superman Papa?’
‘No – Superman fell off a horse gorgeous – we need Mohammed Ali. Ali - boom ay yea! Ali – boom ay yea!’
She joined in with my whisper and we laid there together at 3am, with the sky exploding, quietly chanting:
‘Ali - boom ay yea!’
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After she fell asleep I went back to bed.
‘Is she okay?’
‘Yeah honey – Mohammed Ali threw thunder in jail. You should’ve seen him. It was fucking great.’
But my wife was already in her sleep.
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Hope you enjoyed this aside and I'll try to the next Stink and the suicides to you on Sunday.

Thursday, April 21, 2005

Boom Ay Yea