Fifteen Minutes in the Life of Johannes H. Jean Ivanovich
It’s noon, already. My back and shoulders are bare, and i can feel
the Sun nibbling me there
– concentrated and thorough.
I’m pegging my clothes up on the line and thinking about
overs I could give away
to my neighbour’s dog, or heat up for
my own lunch. My clothes
don’t look as if they’d been washed.
It’s time I changed my
brand of washing-powder. Coyly, I turn
the holey side of my
underpants away from my neighbour’s window
doubling and pegging it
up with a smooth, I-don’t-give-a-shit-flourish.
I turn around to face the Sun puffing my chest out, my
belly in. My
shorts drop down past my
pito exposing some fringe-hair growing on
my very own Mount of Eden
where the original Battle of the Bulge
really took place.
I toss the leftover pegs in the empty basin, walking back
with it to
the Crib at the front of
the section. I own one sixth of an acre.
I can’t get used to it.
Earth Mum can’t be owned by selfish individuals.
Secretly, I feel like a
land-owning middle-class Kulak.
If I owned One Sixth of the World, I should be a high-up
capitalist (living in the
Kremlin) with lotsa classy woolly underwear
flying triumphantly on
the flagstaff in Moskva, and spelling
out the message:
UP THE INTERNATIONAL WORKING CLASS! The Navy
flagstaff at Waitangi has
set a great historical precedence – for
the whole World – in
enhancing the technique – brilliantly – of
Right now, the only Land Rights I can claim for sure – are
my toes. I recognise my
real mates, Maori AND Pakeha.
Heaps of them. They own
NO real property to speak of. You’ll
find me – in them. It’s
Classy, neo-Classical. My true identity.
The Sun seems friendlier now, licking my chest, my belly.
I can still
feel the skin of my
shoulder and back tightening – wincing creepily
without any control I
might have to stop it. I wonder if the
Sun has remembered to
extract its teeth from my back.
I go inside clicking the hot-water jug on, dumping the
basin in the
shower/wash/toilet space, which I call: a Complex.
I hitch up my shorts,
wrapping a belt around me. The elastic
around the waist-band of
my shorts has perished. I think I shall
live, though. A positive
feeling I get in my water.