Look, the ATCs are passing under the bridge! Leaning over, you can nearly see right down the hatch. As it's noon, they cast no shadow. Heat stills the scene; sun cuts the gaps between the buildings in the distance, which share the lucence of the sky. Though they are far from the parade grounds, the tank commander has his head out and cocked to one side, arm raised, as if listening for a far cue. On his face is an expression of great equanimity.

This sight I witnessed off Nicoll Highway some years ago, along that strip of filled coast marking the no-man's-land of the city fringe and the water's edge. The sense of approachment towards the eve of something quite terrible marked my first comprehending of Ensor's Christ's Entry into Brussels in 1889 (1888), which occurred at a much different time of my life as I lay on my belly in a dorm room. It is no stretch to imagine the same kind of musicless procession stalking our empty overheated streets, the camera-phones in the shade taking the place of the diminutive Belgian painter's gawking masks, or Jesus riding into the glass city in a halo of pandan leaves, surrounded by full armoured escort.

In the painting, notice how the figures in the foreground are presented. Packed shoulder-to-shoulder, there is no doubt whatsoever that they are moving -- cavorting and gossiping, laughing and kissing, shoving and sighing. Masks, because they obscure and deflect, set their wearer in motion (this is easily confirmed in this age by paying attention to the top of an N95 mask or how the rim of an iPhone animates its wielder's eyes). Despite all the pomp of resurrection, the impression of the grand parade is one of gentle milling-around or room-temperature bemusement. Under the effect of certain substances, the viewer may perceive Christ in the painting to be as still and true as the midday sun.

Our parades -- for we try very hard to be a nation of parades -- crank out a great show of steel and thunder, which are always, on the television, experienced similarly as a distant and noiseless affair. The boy in the column must view us all with the same kind of disappointment. May he fare better, our quisling Christ, before he is borne into the city on a bronco to be killed a second time.