Welcome to Andyville.

Moving from Blogger to WordPress

2011-08-11T09:10:00.000+10:00

I'm moving.

And so will be shutting down the blog here on blogger.

Let's make the date Saturday Sydney time!

Instead of here, find me at:

http://andyquan.com/

Review: The Last Five Years, a musical at the Seymour Centre, Sydney

2011-07-23T15:11:00.022+10:00

If you're a musical theatre queen (hands up!) living in Sydney, why not drop by the Seymour Centre's downstairs theatre, the newly named Reginald Theatre to catch a really good work put on by a new production company called Stories Like These. You've got until 30 July - and from last night's house (a Friday night), tickets are selling well.

I hope so, because I think it's a good idea to support good theatre. Years ago, on a trip to New York City, I'd heard a CD in that shop in the theatre district that sells scores and CDs from all of the Broadway shows (name... anyone?). I liked the sound and grabbed it. It was Jason Robert Brown, and a set of songs called "Songs for a New World" - not a show, but instead of collection of songs written for shows, and put together into a review. A few of the songs I adored. Tuneful and soaring and... well, sad. A number of the characters in Brown's songs are those who have given up their dreams, compromised themselves. There's a sad sense of loss and betrayal (and occasional bursts of huge take-the-world-by-its-throat confidence). There's a romance about romance itself.

The themes of the musical The Last Five Years (written in 2001, a show that premiered in Chicago, had a short-run off-Broadway, and has since been performed around the world) fit right into what I associate with Brown. Jamie, a writer, is confident with a career that's taking off. Cathy is an actress who struggles, and seems stuck in compromise, settling for a not-so-great gig in Ohio, and not wanting to be a hanger-on to Jamie's rising star. Over five years, Jamie's story starts at the beginning, but Cathy's starts at the end and travels, like backwards in time, like Stephen Sondheim's Merrily We Roll Along. It's an interesting conceit, and mostly works though if you haven't read the program notes before, you might find it a bit confusing. I found it more like watching how puzzle pieces fall into place though than having much emotional punch, unlike Merrily, where I found it unsettling and sad to see the characters getting happier and happier, but only through travelling backwards in time.

Generally, though, I liked the songs. I thought they were clever, tuneful and varied, and allowed actors to display an emotional range. The story came together well enough - new love, trouble in love, break-up - a believable enough story (apparently based on Brown's own life, and he had to change the original script after his ex threatened to sue him). My only quibble is that his songs constantly have the characters calling out to each other, Jamie, Jamie, Jamie, Cathy, Cathy, Cathy... There are only two characters in the play so we know who they are! The repetitions of the name-calling sometimes seems a substitute for a more nuanced way of expressing emotion.

But why quibble? Let's talk about the performances. I've seen Marika Aubrey in a number of cabaret shows and showcases. As soon as she sang her first song, I was impressed with her quiet and sweet intonations. She's got a gorgeous voice, and I think she interpreted the songs marvelously and showed great acting chops. Rob Mills I've seen in Wicked, and still feel sorry for him for having to wear a really unflattering pair of tights. Here, I thought he had real star quality. My partner and I couldn't keep our eyes off of him. A versatile voice, great performance. I thought both performances were generally flawless. It helped to be backed up by a great set of musicians (loved the cello) and the intimacy of the small theatre leant the air that the actors were really singing emotions and songs, rather than 'performing'.

Sydney's not necessarily bursting with musicals, so I try to encourage people to go when they're on - support local artists, directors, and theatre. And I do recommend this show. It's a great night out.

Sydney Food Adventures: PorkStar dinner at Assiette, July 2011

2011-07-23T14:41:00.001+10:00

So, I got an e-mail notice of the offer of:

Porkstar 6 dish degustation menu with matching wines from Yarraloch wines at Assiette restaurant.

Well, that's a no-brainer.

1. I love pork

2. Assiette restaurant is wonderful and only a few blocks away

3. The Entertainment deal said that it would be $110 instead of $160, which for a tasting menu with wine, I think, is a mighty fine price. I love a bargain.

So, come dine with me!

We headed down on 6 July 2011, a Monday night, and sat down to this menu...

Yum, what fun! Here's a little tour.

I missed taking a photo of the cabbage soup... but the next course was the salad of boudin noir, guanciale, crispy quail egg and peas. How pretty is that.

And then we have the Indian Spiced Pork Belly with seared scallop, onion bhaji and mango chutney puree.

I liked how the Indian flavours were married to something so upscale - I think of onion bhaji as a cheap, greasy snack.

Love the "leaves" of... I think it was cauliflower.

The next course, the crispy skin mulloway and szechuan pork cheek... well, I think it must have looked so delicious that I lost my concentration and didn't take a photo. The pork cheek was so tender and melt-in-your-mouth. The mulloway was a nice match for it.

And next, is the roasted pork fillet with Jerusalem artichoke, croustillant and dates and fennel salt. And again a leaf of cauliflower, or was it fennel. Hmm, can't remember. It was different than the first leaf, so I'd say fennel. Tasty.

And finally, a citrus terrine with passionfruit ice cream and poached rhubard. No pork. But still beautiful.

All in all, a wonderful meal. Great textures, flavours, matching wines and... pork. I was surprised that there was a table or two empty but the waitress said that the next night was fully booked (it ran over two nights).

As my friend Davy said this week: Pork Belly is a Human Right.

Thanks for dining with me!

Book Review: My Stroke of Insight

2011-07-13T12:43:00.001+10:00

Many people are familiar with the TED (Technology Entertainment Design) talk given my Jill Bolte Taylor - a brain scientist who experienced a massive stroke in 1996. What made her experience unique was not only that she was experiencing what she had studied, and later came to be able to describe it from personal experience in a way that no one has done. It was that her findings were completely unexpected. She was a scientist and academic, much of her life located in the left brain of rationality. With damage to her left brain, she suddenly found herself in the peaceful world of her right brain.

If you haven't checked out the talk, it is amazing. Find it here. It's an incredible story which she makes entertaining and educational, and parts of it are just so beautiful - when she's describing her experience of her right brain, I almost felt like I was watching great theatre like "Angels in America."

If that peaks your interest, the book is a terrific way to go from the bite-size twenty minute talk to a much fuller story. What I'd never seen done before is to combine the worlds of rationality and spirituality so well. We can read anywhere about how we need to live in the present, how we need to consider human kind as one, and as one consciousness. More complex messages are about stopping viewing the world in dualities and about moving beyond the personalities and patterns that we've developed.

What Bolte-Taylor offers is a synthesis. The left brain is responsible for rational thought, for setting boundaries, for individuation, for time. It is a marvelous instrument, a miracle. But the right brain, much suppressed, is able to see the world and humanity as one, borders disappear. The sides of the brains are not opposed but are part of a whole. What she encourages is that we step to the right to make a more loving and peaceful world. That sounds trite, written alone there, without the book behind it, "loving and peaceful world" - but when placed in the context of how she describes how the human brain works, it is indeed a stroke of insight.

What also comes clear in her writing is her sense of purpose: before the stroke, to help humanity by understanding the brain better; and after, with the personal experience of a stroke, to provide better care and treatment for those who have had strokes, to better understand mental illness, and to accept the elasticity of the brain. I also found it fascinating to read her account of her recovery from her stroke, and how she found she had the choice about which parts of her personality to recover. She chose not to take back anger and anxiety. She provides a really clear description of the way that our personalities and identities are built, and that it is not necessarily a given. Our brains can be rewired, our identity is fixed as a story through our left brain, but we could choose to be without identity, to be consciousness. How often have you heard someone say, "well, I'm like that. I can't help it." Or people who tell so many stories about their stories and histories that they somehow miss participating in the world around them?

It's one of those books that I wish everyone would read - and I was musing that it would be a useful book for skeptics of spirituality. But reading other book reviews on amazon.com and the like, I see that some readers are unconvinced by her arguments - they accept her 'scientific' descriptions, but travel no further into accepting how the right brain works and what it can offer humankind. Ah well. I suppose I was being too hopeful.

Anyways, my recommendation is that if you find a copy somewhere, grab it! She also has a website.

Book Review: The Slap

2011-07-07T10:50:00.002+10:00

I heard the buzz about this book. It was making the rounds of all my friends and the reviews were positive. So, it was a good push for me to give Tsiolkas another try, I'd read "Jesus Man" and found it a hard go, the writing voice itself didn't resonate with me, and the exploration of the darkness of the narrator also repelled. I don't need fiction to be sweetness and light, but I'm more drawn to hope than despair.
With that in mind, I'm bowled over by "The Slap". The darkness is there, characters that hate and have violent thoughts and want to annihilate themselves and others, but they're balanced by other wavelengths, sometimes in the same people. I found the eight main characters who tell this story believable and interesting, and a compelling look on the whole at the society they make up. I've met these folks in Australia, read about them and see them on TV but I'm not sure I've read about them, deeply imagined, conflicted, human, Tsiolkas inhabits his characters so that readers have the opportunity to move beyond judgement - though it sounds like that is one of the things that is making this novel so exciting is how readers are taking sides, of the characters and on the book.
I wanted to get back to the story as soon as it put down, a page-turner in the best sense, not driven by a formula for suspense but a real interest in where the story will go, who gets to tell it to us, and what happens next. Tsiolkas is not a writer whose prose I particularly notice, I don't get caught noticing a particular turn of phrase, but the way that he describes his characters, their lives, and drives the story along: I thought it was magnificent. And as hinted above, I like a happy ending - and the novel's end, with both its resolution and happy possibility, made me smile, top to toe.
I'm looking forward to the TV series adaptation!
[Thanks to Chris for my copy!]

Book Review: Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Volume Two

2011-07-07T10:39:00.001+10:00

For someone who has written two books of poetry, I am, perhaps, not as regular a reader of poetry as I should be. I do not keep track of the many vibrant internet publications, nor read literary journals regularly. Because I want to support my fellow poets, I end up buying (or sometimes trading) books at readings and events, and reading local poets and new books by friends and acquaintances. Sometimes this is less than rewarding, wanting to like the work, but discovering that even though I find the writers amiable and engaging in person, I don't quite click with their writing. Though sometimes I do, which is a joy.

I have found that when I read good poetry, and poetry that I connect with, that it often sparks a poetic impulse in me, much more so than the connection between reading prose and writing my own. So, I've made it a habit to occasionally buy favourite poets, as well as new ones. This I tend to do whenever I am visiting my family in Hawaii, or on occasional trips to another part of the USA. The American book market is so huge that even in bookstores with vastly reduced poetry sections, there are still interesting books and they are not expensive (unlike in Australia).

By now, I think I've bought all of Sharon Olds' collections, as well as Mark Doty's (two of my clear favourites), and have a few volumes of James Merrill and Gerald Stern. If in Canada, I make sure I've got whatever John Barton has published lately, perhaps Lorna Crozier or Patrick Lane, or as afore-mentioned, poets I've met. I usually buy the Best American Poetry series, which I love for allowing the poets to talk about the poems that were selected; and feel neglectful that I have not read one of the two Best Australian Poem anthologies that are published yearly (it surprises me that the Australian market can support two competing anthologies, but I'll have to explore that further).

On a trip to Hawaii in December 2010, I decided to get to know Mary Oliver. A number of months beforehand, at a '5 rhythms'-inspired dance meditation session at the university, the facilitator had closed our two hours with an Oliver poem. It was beautiful: simple and lyrical, evoking the natural world and asking of our place in it. I made a mental note to look her up. And here, at Borders, at an extremely disappointingly reduced poetry section (not even a few shelves) were a few of her books, included two of selected poems. I like 'Selected Poems' for the range of work that they offer, and the way they provide introduction and overview. I chose the second Volume, as it includes 42 new poems, as well as 69 older poems chosen from 6 of her 8 last books. I was intrigued by the cover notes announcing that she has won a Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award and is according to the New York Times, "Far and Away, the country's best-selling poet".

Right away, I recognised the voice that I'd been introduced to earlier this year. In 'Mysteries, Four of the Simple Ones', she addresses the seed-grain, the catbird, the turtle and blue heron in turn, then ties the natural world, her preferred subject, to the act of observing and writing poetry ('to pluck from the basket the brisk words/ that will applaud them'). I find the form of the poem perfect. The seed-grain gets a short question, and longer questions go to the three animals, she steps into the poem to make a simple summation and celebration, addresses the animals once more by name, and gives the final word to the seed-grain, as if the initial question asked ('How does the seed-grain feel/ when it is just beginning to be wheat?') had been suspended in the reader's unconscious to be completed by the final image of the seed-grain 'kneeling in the dark earth, its body/ opening into the golden world?'

I was also struck by her openness, her simplicity, and the declarative quality of her words. 'Today again I am hardly myself./ It happens over and over.' she explains in "Reckless Poem". Describing a period of teaching in Indiana, she asks 'You tell me if it was worth it.' It reminded me of the collection of Rumi's work that I read last last year. Simplicity, emotion, and a direct address to the reader. Completely unfamiliar with Rumi, I felt it important to be open to his voice (or the translation of his voice), from a different time and place, in such a different style than other poets I know. I wanted to take him on his own terms and I was charmed (as well as finally understanding why so many people have referenced Rumi over the years.)

In the same way, I wanted to be open to Oliver's unique voice. But I feel self-conscious to discover that I didn't love this collection over all. How could I not enjoy such a popular, well-read and celebrated poet? I tired of poem after poem, personifying nature and animals. I found the sentiment veered towards mawkishness (usually avoiding it but teetering on the edge). And while I welcome her celebration of life, I have the feeling that I'd enjoy the poems read individually and occasionally, to remind me of the beauty of silence and nature–instead of, for example, seven poems in a row in the book where she make odes to silence while freshening flowers, then speaks of the virtue of beans, encounters with animals in Indiana, snow crickets and lilies, the natural world, and snow geese with words like delicious, wonderful, good, fancy, happy, lovely and joyfully - I found a sameness in tone and theme, broken sometimes with a tougher vision that appealed to me more: 'sing of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.'

Book Review: Kyung Ran Jo's Tongue

2011-07-07T10:32:00.001+10:00

"Tongue" is Kyung Ran Jo's first novel to be translated into English, but she's the author of four short story collections, another novel and a collection of essays. The scuttlebutt on the book is that the author was a judge of a writing contest. A novella with similar writing and the same story was submitted by a woman, Ju Yi-ran, who claims that it was stolen from her for the writing of Tongue. She's now published the novella, in its own right, with a cover that says something like "the book that Jo stole from".

For me, the novel would have been much better as a novella: a barer plot, the interesting descriptions of food and cooking and eating to move it along, and the more dramatic incidents not dwelled upon. More of a modern folktale than a novel, and where individual chapters don't feel as weak.

I can see the book's appeal. It's a book for foodies, and the descriptions of a young woman chef, the restaurant she works in, and the dishes she creates and cooks, are fantastic. It's interwoven with folkloric anecdotes - Mitterand's taste for the endangered ortolan, Roman women who baked cakes in the shapes of their intimate parts, how to smuggle foie gras. And yet, it's a fine line between poetry and nonsense: "Love shatters with the rumbling of thunder, but thunder causes truffles to grow"; "the taste of love encompasses the wilted, the overly ripened, the rotten, and the bitter." I think it will really depend on the reader how much they love the style and language of these food-related passages.

I had problems with both the narrator and the plot. The book is basically a gothic horror story, so I shouldn't demand realism from it. But it was hard for me to become emotionally involved. At the same time, I DO find some fairy tales emotional, even though they are fantastical. At some deep level, they make sense to me.

But this story doesn't make sense to me at all. Is it cultural? Gender-related? I'm not sure. The narrator, told over and again, that her relationship is over by her ex-partner, still wants to be with him. He sounds like an arse. There's no compelling reason for her to love him. At this stage in my life, I don't find unrequitted love romantic. I understand the pain of break-up, and the pull of inappropriate relationships, but a whole book with no emotional progress or growth? Nope.

Meanwhile, when she first catches him in bed with his new lover, instead of confronting them, she stays silently by the door, watching and then describing to us the scene in full detail. This seemed ridiculous to me. The woman who he leaves her for forces the narrator to be their personal chef at the restaurant (and yet we only read of this about to happen, but none of the action or outcome). Then the same woman kills her partner's dog with a frying pan. The narrator's supposed best friend does a special feature on the ex and his partner in her magazine. Every possible betrayal, every possible cruelty is crammed into this story. Earlier in the book, it is recounted that the narrator's uncle wife commits suicide by hanging herself, but not before covering her naked body with oil. Does that image impress or appeal to anyone?

I guess that not being a fan of the horror genre, this book wasn't for me, but I picked it up because of my love of food. But chapter after chapter of cruelty, misery and pain... the "shocking" ending just felt distasteful to me... and gave me the feeling that the whole book had been constructed to lead up to it. A disappointing read... and literary feed.

A book about me.

2011-04-28T09:28:00.003+10:00

I admit to being an ego-surfer, which started somewhere around the time of my first books being published. So, at least I could have an excuse for entering "Andy Quan" into google to see how many hits came up, and where my name appears on the Internet. But it's not really an excuse, more of a silly exercise in self-regard.

Still, old habits die hard, and I've kept a "google alert" for my name, which occasionally sends me something interesting - if someone has mentioned one of my books in a blog, etc.

The other day, I got the strangest alert yet. A company called "Alphascript Publishing" has copied information from my wikipedia page and made it into 84 page book which they are charging 34 Euros for. Wow, a book about me.

Now, as an aside, wikipedia is an interesting enough phenomenon on its own. When I tried to put up an entry for myself many years ago to help publicize those first books, I was immediately identified, through my e-mail address, as the author of my own entry, and was rejected! A friend put up a basic one for me later... but then someone, I'm not sure (a fan?), used information from my website to expand the entry. So, for the last many years (because I was perplexed at how to change it), my entry talked about my interest in amateur wrestling... which was a short phase in my early years in Sydney and not the pastime that I wanted to be globally recognised for.

While I finally changed the wikipedia entry (sigh, by creating a false e-mail address with which to edit it), information in cyberspace doesn't go away. So, my new biography includes the wrestling information on the publicity for the book.

Doing a little websearch, however, I find it's a very bizarre scam. The company creates tens of thousands of fake books, at no cost. It's a computer program that compiles it, and then sends the information out to booksellers. I imagine it's print on demand, so that if someone actually orders a copy, it is printed on the spot and sent out. While it's 100% unlikely that someone is going to order my unauthorized biography, it does seem to trap people with specialized interests who are so excited to find an actual book on Ancient Egypt and "The Battle of Verrieres Ridge" that they order the books, and receive computer-generated gobbledy-gook. It doesn't seem to be illegal though - as wikipedia information is in the public domain - and it does say on the book cover "this information is primarily from wikipedia sources".

A great blog entry by Chris Rand about the whole Scam Phenomenon here who also points out that there's a wikipedia page about the scam as well, which "might be ironic if they make that into a book." Heh.

Book Review: Best American Poetry 2010

2011-04-23T15:03:00.002+10:00

I've always enjoyed the Best American Poetry series - I'm pretty sure my friend, journalist John Reed, turned me onto them when I lived in Brussels in the mid-90s. Since then, I've inconsistently picked them up, but when I have, I appreciate the job that the guest editor does (this year was Amy Gerstler) of sifting through thousands of poems, in journals, books and online, and choosing a 'best selection'. Some years, I am more excited, others more challenged; I'm not sure what kind of objectivity I bring to the process since I'm probably also affected by the particular mood that I'm in the season I read it. What I've consistently enjoyed is reading the biographies of the poets, and their statements about the poems that have been chosen. Some poets choose not to comment, some give a face value response, others are more poetically allusive.

I liked this year's collection. A few perhaps I was less engaged with, or didn't understand, but nothing to make me notice. More near the end of the collection did a few poems make me stop completely, and make note of how much I liked them, for example, Carl Philips' "Heaven and Earth" and G.C. Waldrep's "Their Faces Shall Be as Flames". But there were certainly others that I enjoyed. I enjoyed the contrast between the economy of a poem like Todd Boss' "My Dog Has No Nose" and a prose poem such as by Thomas Sayers Ellis - I'm often not so engaged by prose poetry, but this treatise, "Presidential Blackness", is fantastic, for some reason I was reminded by this of some of the passages from Angels in America.

I like trying to make some sense out of the whole. Nearly everyone in the anthology is a university or college professor, though there is a musician, a caterer, and a fine arts consultant and researcher. Most poets I'd say are in their early forties, a few in their thirties, and many older, established writers. It was good to read poets I'm familiar with - Sharon Olds, Charles Simic, Louise Glück, Gerald Stern - and be introduced to others. There seemed to be a lot of sonnets, but also many poets working with traditional forms and metres. I think Corinne Lee's selection might have been the only poem I'd consider experimental. Most poems were very accessible. I find it quite exciting to read criticism like that of Anis Shivani who in his dissection of the 2009 anthology has enough knowledge of contemporary poetry and a clear viewpoint on what good poetry should be to offer meaty commentary on what he reads. Me, I'm a much more casual reader, and lesser informed. In that way, I don't necessarily read the BAP series to be able to offer critique, but just to catch up on what's happening. For someone who writes poetry, even if it's not the style of poetry he or she writes, I think it's a good thing to do.

Restaurant Review: Orto, Sydney

2011-04-22T09:32:00.001+10:00

Run, don't walk, to Surry Hills' latest new restaurant, Orto, but make a reservation first. We were there on the 3rd night it opened, a Thursday, and sat at the bar, since the tables were booked up. The women who brought the stylish, upmarket café Baffi and Mo to Redfern Street (which, I've heard reported, has sadly declined in their absence) went travelling in Europe and came back to open this new modern Australian restaurant, at the corner of Waterloo and Adelaide Street, on the ground floor of the deNode, next to the Reader's Digest Building.

'Orto' (the full name of the restaurant is Orto Trading Co.) means 'garden' in Italian, and that's the decorative theme here, a cart of fresh, potted herbs out front, flowers and leaves suspended from bottles above the bar. There are beautiful wood tables and quite a few large ones for big groups - or is this a mini-version of the table-sharing at other restaurants. Our spot at the bar had a comfortable view of a skilled bartender, whipping up inviting cocktails, and a popcorn machine, talking to itself while providing the basis for the complimentary tiny metal bucket of truffled popcorn.

The menu is uniformly interesting - I could have ordered any one of the dishes. What we decided on was "Toad in the Hole", a perfectly baked Yorkshire Pudding (I'm not sure I've ever had a Yorkshire Pudding here in Sydney) with a homemade sausage in the middle; and a Scotch Egg. I came to know (and love) these treats in London, but the ones in delis and groceries have a hard-boiled egg - to have a gourmet version with homemade sausage surrounding a soft-boiled egg was fun. They were both beautifully done and inventive.

For the mains, pork shoulder for S., huge pieces of pork with the fat left on (which he gave to me!), the meat was delicious with more of a ham texture than what I'd expected. It was super tasty, served on a wooden cutting board, with roasted brussels sprouts, toasted hazelnuts, and I think a butternut pumpkin mash. I ordered the cabbage roll - which had the same rustic, homemade feel which I hoped for - but was elevated to gourmet status with wild mushrooms, barley and goat's cheese, and a homemade tomato sauce/stew on the side.

I wish I'd brought my camera, but I'll be back, and will document the next meal... it was too dark for my iphone.

What really thrilled me was the vibe. It's clear to me that the owners were in charge of every detail of the restaurant, and hired all of the young, good-looking staff, and have filled it, already, with love and personality. The owners were greeting friends who were stopping by; it felt like their friends were excited about being able to eat with them again. Our neighbours at the bar leaned over to rave about their dishes and enquire after ours. The owner knew exactly when to take our order and bring our bill; it was busy but she provided us with top service. Compare that to Cotton Duck, a block away, always packed and with great reviews. But on the 2nd night we went, there was an air of confusion, and even with a full complement of staff (and not too many tables), our food took so long to get to us, that I don't remember whether it was any good. I've been trying to convince myself to give it a second chance, but with Orto and its enticing menu, I'll be heading back there first.

Orto Trading Co.

38 Waterloo Street

Reservations: dine@ortotradingco.com.au

Phone: 0431 212 453

Paris Resale Shops - Men's Clothes

2011-04-09T10:52:00.002+10:00

As a teenager, I always loved thrift shops because of the hidden surprises within, the bargains, and the bargain surprises. So, after developing a taste for nice clothes in Europe (with much coaching from friends who were appalled by my Canadian fleece and gortex style), the natural progression from thrift shops was to consignment stores or designer resale shops.

I'm not sure which were the first shops I stumbled across, but I loved looking through second-hand clothes of a higher quality, and seeing if there was something I wanted. Scornful of labels in my youth, after living in the amazing fashion city of London, I learned that there's a reason that clothes cost more, and it's not just the name of the brand. I found out that fashion is fun, that I enjoyed wearing nice clothes, and that finding something special that suited me was exciting.

It's become a part of my travel itinerary, if I'm in the right city. The right city for designer resale shops or consignment shops is somewhere where people wear nice clothes, and want to get rid of them on a regular basis. Women's shops are common enough, but men's not so much. Here in Sydney, as far as I know, there's only Blue Spinach, which has wonderful charity sales twice a year, but their prices are still out of my range at their shop. Designer clothes are very expensive here, and not worn by many - so even in a consignment prices, prices don't come down that much.

On my March 2011 trip to Paris, I thought I'd make it a little mission to check out some of Paris' resale shops, known as depots-vente. I did a bit of research online, jotted down some addresses, and headed out. But for whatever reason, Paris is not the place for second-hand gear for men. There are a handful of shops for women (maybe lots according to this NYT article), though maybe not as many as you'd might think, considering how beautifully everyone was dressed.

I read that Misentroc (63 rue Notre-Dame des Champs, Paris 75006. Tel. 01-46-33-03-67. Metro Stop: Notre-Dame des Champs) had two branches, this one and one on rue Vavin (not far from the first shop) that catered to a younger crowd. But finding it, I was told that the branch on Rue Vavin had closed down, and the one on Notre-Dame des Champs only has clothes for women.

Free 'P' Star (8, rue Sainte Croix de la Bretonnerie) is another shop in the Marais mentioned on fashion sites. In fact, it had rave reviews, claiming 'one-of-a-kind pieces that appeal to the Parisian trendsetters' and that it was frequented by celebrities like Kirsten Dunst and Sofia Coppola. Sometimes, I think these blog writers just need to have something to say. Maybe they were fooled by the website, which is a fetching shade of hot pink and makes the place look really groovy. The shop has an air of cool, but is just a regular crappy second-hand clothes stores, not designer seconds, more like used army-gear, and plaid shirts, jeans and crazy dresses. You find these shops all over Amsterdam. All over the world in fact.

Réciproque (88-101 rue de la Pompe, Paris 75016. Tel. 01-47-04-30-28. Metro Stop: Rue de la Pompe), in the 16th arrondissement, is the resale shop most often mentioned on the internet. There is a whole complex of stores each specializing in something - accessories, shoes, boots. I actually visited the men's store in 2009, not this trip, and didn't find the men's selection particularly good. I bought an 'Eden Park' dress shirt that reminded me of my Paul Smith stripy shirt, and a 'Sergio Tacchini' zip-up athletic jacket in a shade between purple and pink that I can't name. Nice enough but neither of them are favourites.

Now, if I had the money, Alternatives (18 rue du Roi de Sicile, Paris 75004. Tel. 01-42-78-31-50. Metro Stop: St Paul) would be getting my business. A small, charming shop in the Marais, I found it locked when I got there. They only want a few people in at a time so they can provide good service. I lusted after various shirts by designers such as Alexander McQueen and Dries Van Noten. The prices seemed reasonable (considering what the astronomical original prices would have been) but I didn't find anything just right.

So, who knows? Maybe well-dressed Parisian men hang onto their clothes, or can't be bothered bringing them to a depots-vente. If you've got a taste for designer resale for men, better to stop in at the amazing Dress for Less on St. John Street in Islington, London or the best ever: the Ragtag chain in Tokyo. I'm still wearing the Issey Miyake and Paul Smith Shirts, and Takeo Kikuchi Jacket that I bought from there.

Paris Food Adventures, Day 3: Le Chateaubriand

2011-04-07T10:49:00.001+10:00

3 days, 6 memorable meals later (not to mention some good pastries and coffee for breakfast). I finished with a bang on Thursday night, 17 March 2011.

The original inspiration for my culinary adventure was an article in the New York Times about hot, new young chefs serving prix-fixe menus, mainly in bistros. Apparently, modern haute cuisine that is affordable is sometimes referred to as bistronomy, sophisticated food, that unlike some of Paris' top restaurants, won't cost the equivalent of a week's rent in Sydney! Even on my return from Paris, the NYT was still talking about the Chateaubriand in "A Paris Farewell".

Located on Parmentier Avenue in the 11ème arrondissement, it was cold but quick Vélib ride, where there were two young American couples already waiting outside the door at 9:45pm. Getting in was half the fun. My previous award for avoiding eye contact at restaurants would go to any Chinese restaurant during a busy yum cha/dim sum service. But these waiters scooped the prize. They were busy, but there was no way they were going to give us any attention. There was a bar counter, but no offer to have a drink while we waited. We simply needed to figure out that we would wait outside until there was space inside and then wait there. I found it amusing, while the Americans found it vexing.

I think I was finally seated about 10:15pm in the back in front of what looks here like a chalkboard, but I think was a piece of art. It's a buzzy place, charming in not being over-designed. I find it amusing that the name of the restaurant calls up an idea of traditional gastronomy, but the menu is anything but. At the last minute I decided to go for the matching wines (an additional 40 Euros to the 50 Euros menu, perhaps not quite as good a deal as the food). I won't be able to discuss them here, as I have no idea what they were! The waiter (who as soon as I was seated was personable and attentive) would serve the wine, say "it is made by" and then mention a name I'd never heard of.

There was not one but many amuse-bouches. A piece of fish in anisette liqueur, some small delicate pastries...

And a very delicious cauliflower soup with sesame seeds, and a small piece of pork - speck? I somehow missed taking a photo of the small piece of ris de veau (calf sweetbread) with equally sized pieces of cumquat and carrot, and the sea urchin with a mysterious green sauce on a watercress leaf.

The first proper course was "Fish & Chips" but what an interesting interpretation! Crisp, battered fish, so light it was almost not even there - matched with three thin potato chips covered in tamarind powder (which made me cough) and 2 small hard potatoes.

The next dish was also fish, but a complete contrast. A beautiful, slightly under-done piece of sole ('LImande sole'), with one thin raw slice of Asparagus ('asperges du Vaucluse') matched with a cooked stalk that tasted watery and crisp at the same time, the essence of the vegetable, with a sauce of beurre noisette sauce and a sprinkling of some yummy unidentiable green things.

I was seated side by side with a Japanese woman, Noriko, who spoke to me while her friend, a tall handsome bearded Frenchman, was in the lavatory. During this time of the typhoon and earthquakes, she wanted to know whether I was Japanese, as she felt like reaching out to fellow countrymen. We chatted after that, occasionally, during the meal, and I enjoyed hearing their praise for the food, and sounds of enjoyment. We both agreed that the next course tasted Japanese, "Boeuf, Hareng, Pickles", was the softest beef with radish, pickles and a mushroom in a herring broth that was both savoury and sour. I think it was the most unFrench flavours that I ate in my three days!

The dessert was Endive, orange, olive... It was served with a liqueur of white quince, which was lovely. An intense orange sherbet, olive 'soil', and a piece of orange, and endives with a surprisingly sweet watery crunch. Interesting and engaging.

The second dessert was a choice of the daily cheese, which I would have loved to try, and what I did try: chocolate and celery.

Chocolate powder, which made me cough like the tamarind stuff, cream, broken flaky cookies, and something chocolatey with a brownie-like texture. Is that where the celery was hidden, because I couldn't find any? It looked like a mess, but I was so intrigued by all the textures and trying to guess the celery that I quite enjoyed it.

It was well past midnight when I finished the meal (and in a food coma). I was amused that the Frenchman next to me struck a conversation up with the chef as he was headed out the door (they were actually going out to karaoke. I wonder what he sang). I'm just in the neighbourhood, he told him, though I haven't eaten here before. It was wonderful. And then they exchanged mobile phone numbers, either to help the Frenchman get reservations when he wanted, or because they were going to become best friends. I'm not sure. I thanked the chef as well (here in the stylish coat with unusual collar), Iñaki Aizpitarte, of French-Basque origins, and said, you're famous, the review in the New York Times was how I found out about the restaurant.

"But that is not the point, I don't care about that," he said nonchalantly. The way he spoke indicated an artistic temperament and somehow summarized a particular feeling I get from Parisians: pride, a commitment to beauty and art, a dismissal of those who don't share the same viewpoint. "What is important," he told me "is what you thought of the meal."

I didn't need to say it. Fantastique.

[And finally, a little web-surfing and I found out that Le Chateaubriand ranked 11th of the 2011 San Pelligrino's World's 50 Best Restaurants, replacing last year's 11th ranked restaurant which has now dropped to 16, L'Astrance, where I went for a special meal in 2009. Hmm, perhaps this should be my bucket list. But anyways, Le Chateaubriand was a lucky choice, and definitely the right one.]

Paris Food Adventures, Day 2: Le Bistrot Des Comperes

2011-04-05T08:26:00.001+10:00

Ah, Day 2 of my Paris Food Adventures, and dear reader, I was failing. After three amazing, rich meals in a row, it didn't have the strength to search for another bistro mentioned in the New York Times and try to get into a second sitting. And it was really, really cold outside. So, I thought I'd do a little research.

The evolution of travel has been fascinating. In my university days, fellow travellers would debate the merits of Let's Go vs. Lonely Planet. We would pour through pages written by expert travellers to find the right hotels and restaurants, and show up to see if there was space. But nowadays everything is available through e-mail. Trips are researched beforehand, reservations made online, and that privileged position of reviewer has broken down into the wisdom of the masses. An internet connection is an essential feature of a hotel room.

Did you know that on googlemaps you can simply enter the name of the neighbourhood where you wish to dine and the word "restaurants". So, from my hotel on the lovely street Rue Malher, I connected to wireless, and didn't even have to fill in the full search name - the autofill function turned 'Restaurants 4eme' into 'Restaurants in 4ème Arrondissement, Paris, France'. Zooming in on my area showed me a dozen restaurants less than 5 minutes away, and a sidebar shows gives details with links to reviews. The reviews with Google are a bit of a muddle though, they're grabbed from all over the net (and in different languages too)

So, to tripadvisor we go, which with some sort of complicated algorithm rates all of the restaurants in a city that it has listings for. I'm not sure I'm completely trustworthy of it. The current number restaurant in Paris only has 13 reviews. Certainly, the 3rd rated "Le Relais d'Isle" with 206 ratings should get some bonus points for that? There's also no distinction between kinds of eateries, so Pierre Herme, with its fabulous macarons comes in at #16. Still, if you've made it in the top 100 of 6,593 restaurants, you must be doing something right.

The Sydney listings give me a better idea of how the list works. A restaurant that only has a handful of reviews, but all good, is going to be advantaged (though I suppose one bad rating could bring that score down quickly). But more importantly, the lists are skewed to tourists and travellers (which makes sense, it being tripadvisor) rather than locals. I assume that the number one rated Medusa Greek Tavern (which I've never heard of) is surrounded by hotels in its downtown location, with possibly a good reputation with hotel concierges! Meanwhile, Captain Cook Cruises rates as the 12th best restaurant in Sydney over 14th placed Tetsuya's, which is probably the best restaurant in Sydney, though most reviews seem to talk about the views of the Harbour rather than the food.

But I digress. Le Bistrot Des Comperes, at #22 in Paris (formerly called Le Framboisy), received rave reviews, as well as sounding like a cozy neighbourhood restaurant. I was surprised I got in, but there was an empty table waiting for me, after walking down rue Charlemagne, a quiet street just south of St. Paul's metro station, to find a warmly lit set of windows, a classic French bistro. I should perhaps have taken other reviewers advice and had the entree of Chevre onion confit creme brulee but was instead tempted by the home made foie-gras on a salad with smoked duck. The cranberry-like sauce on the foie gras reminded me of Thanksgiving turkey and the dressing was a little wet and sweet. But it was tasty.

For the main, a special of the day. A beef bourguignon of sorts. I looked a little too excited when the waiter mentioned it, imagining the dish I remembered from the movie 'Julie and Julia'. He explained that it wasn't exactly traditional, more like a beef stew.

With the perfectly cooked green beans, and the mashed potatoes, it was a hearty, savoury meal that went well with my glass of red wine.

I was too full for dessert though tempted by the homemade profiteroles.

It was a pleasant evening and what I was looking for. Not too much food, and not too fancy. It was still rich though - being French food. To tell the truth, I think the high ratings come as much from the charm of the place and location than the food - it offers tourists an authentic French experience in a charming bistro and on a chilly Paris night, not quite Spring, what more could one want?

Paris Food Adventures, Day 3: La Maison de Truffe

2011-03-21T20:14:00.001+11:00

There are two branches of this restaurant in Paris that specializes in truffles, as recommended heartily by Eva and Fiona. I have good memories of a dish that S. and I had in the South of France last year, a creamy polenta with truffles, and so thought why not? I'm not connoisseur of truffles, I think I've only tried to cheaper varieties, but what I've tried I love - a nutty, earthy, mushroomy flavour. Or is it that I've always tried it in dishes filled with butter, cream or both?

The branch that I went to is not from the Champs-Elysées on rue Marbeuf. A lovely arcade was in the next block.

What a mission allows, while travelling, is to get lost while doing it, to wander, and to explore, and every restaurant that I found in my gastronomic tour allowed me to see new areas and streets in Paris. I think on one of my first trips to Europe, I would find the English-language book store in each city and trade in whatever book I had just finished!

The restaurant, as you can see, is all in white, the tables set up already for lunch, wine glasses aglow. I think I was also amazed by the number of waiters in each restaurant that I went to, even ones not quite as busy, had a lot of staff, all attentive and efficient. Adam Golpnik's book describes a fundamental part of the French character as a pride in their professions, it seemed not just according to particular professions but in doing a good job, providing an important service. This I found.

The website speaks of a quick, set menu, a businessman's lunch, but there wasn't one when I was there. The menu is online! And voilá, what can I say?

The soup, which I noticed was the choice of all the rest of the tables around me, was not even called a soup, but instead a Chestnut Cream with truffles of the season and smoked bacon. I found it a cloudful of heaven (a heaven where everyone is carrying a little extra weight...) with perfectly balanced flavours.

The ravioli with summer truffles and truffled cream was pretty much as expected. Two creamy dishes, I should have perhaps chosen two that varied from each other, but it wasn't a setback, and that cream, soaked up with bread, what I couldn't get with my fork.

Readers, I did not let those efficient waiters take away either plate until they were wiped clean!

Paris to the Moon: A Book Review of Sorts

2011-03-21T08:56:00.001+11:00

Three of my great pleasures in life: Travel. Eating. Reading.

These coalesced in the most fantastic of ways in Paris, on this last trip in March 2011. I'd finished the wonderful Australian classic novel, "Cloudstreet" by Tim Winton and was considering on starting one of the other books I'd brought on the trip (Alice Munro's latest short story collection or Carol Shields' "The Stone Diaries", a Pulitzer winner, and one I haven't read - and as a side note, I wonder if this is the last trip I'll bring a book on... as I'm succumbing to the idea of travelling with an ipad as a book reader).

But instead I picked up a book in the apartment I was renting. I love the little libraries that you encounter travelling, left at hotels and youth hostels, at some restaurants - a mix of high literature and fun literature, travel guides and books, in English and the language of the country in which you're travelling and perhaps something in German or Spanish or Italian. I guess that's a reason to still travel with books, to exchange them along the way. In this apartment: a French-English dictionary, a a stack of magazines including Grazia, OK!, Wallpaper, and the mysteriously named Scottish Field, a Spanish travel guide entitled París Insólita y Secreta, which I translate immediately as "insolent and secret" knowing that's not quite right.

The book on the top of the magazines, however, was "Paris to the Moon" by Adam Gopnik, a journalist who wrote for the New Yorker, and moved to Paris for the last 5 years of the 90s with his wife and infant son. It was a long-held dream to do so, and it is one of the questions that he tackles early on, how the dream matches with reality. Reading this book, in a variety of fine restaurants around Paris, while exploring Paris was an amusing and startling pleasure, passing by the carousel at the Jardins of Luxembourg, by chance, after he'd explained the history of it, reading about the restaurant Le Soufflé after I'd already eaten lunch there. I'd point to kismet, but that's not the case. Paris is so easy to get around and explore, with so many unavoidable landmarks that the pathways of a tourist or an ex-pat cross easily. He writes about Boulevard St-Germain, how could anyone avoid knowing the street?

It shouldn't be a surprise to read such political, cultural and philosophical expertise woven into the writing, that's one of my pleasures of reading articles in the New Yorker - but I have read many a travelogue, and this really is superior. I guess that's it - it's NOT a travelogue, there are insights gleaned from a journalist engaged in the life and society of where he is living, and sharing what he has learned. Through chapters on the World Cup, haut couture, french cooking, and hanging out with his kid, he aims to find the nature, the kernel of French life, helped out by amusing comparisons to his life in New York City. But I appreciated especially that it included serious episodes in French life, for example, the prosecution of the French politician Papon for war crimes.

I won't try to do his argument justice, of how the French habit of abstraction is at the core of the French mentality, for good and bad, but I loved the way that he circled back to it, how he introduced the concept early, but near the end of the book examines it again, with some years of experience under his belt, with a deeper understanding. I loved how his observations rang true to me, and yet have been things I could only sense, rather than know, as a visitor to Paris rather than a resident: his observation of how the French are "subjects" not "objects", woven into a long social history, rather than an isolated invented individualism. I loved his amusing analogies such as how the children's playground (again at the Luxembourg gardens) reenacted French history from the Old Regime to de Gaulle. After three days of eating fine meals, I echoed his sentiment regarding French cuisine: "You can get too much of it, easily. It is, truth be told, often a challenge to eat - a happy challenge, and sometimes a welcome one, but a challenge nonetheless. It is just too rich, and there is just too much."

The book gave me an option from staring into space as I waited for the next course of food, and a pretense for ignoring the neighbours at the next tables, who in many of the restaurants I ate at were startlingly close - this is not a vast country like Canada or Australia - its citizens learn to co-exist side by side, acknowledge each other's company without being involved in it. I did laugh out loud too many times, breaking some pact of quiet politeness, but I couldn't help it: the taxi driver explaining royal laws of succession, a failure to avoid his son becoming addicted to Barney the dinosaur, and especially the tale of a group of loyal customers of the restaurant Balzar trying to save it from lower standards and tourist buses, comic, sad and human, but instructive as well, on French social class, profession, tradition, and economic rationalization. He combines the personal and political seamlessly, but moreso, was willing to open to a vulnerability of the human condition, describing his relationships with his wife and son, yet without sentimentality.

I meant to leave the book for the next visitor at the apartment, and in fact, rushed to make sure I finished it by the time I left, the last chapters read at a pastry shop on Rue Rosier. But when I boarded the metro to Paris Nord, I noticed that it was still in my bag, I had failed to extract it and put ti back in its place. Unconsciously, it had stayed with me.

Paris Food Adventures, Day 2: Le Comptoir Du Relais

2011-03-18T04:07:00.001+11:00

It seems everyone in Paris has advice for a favourite place to eat, or a pastry shop, or whether the Macarons are better at Pierre Hermes or Ladureé. Taking advice from someone who was only in Paris a day, and didn't actually try this restaurant wouldn't make sense normally... except that advice from my friend Greg regarding alcohol or food is not to be ignored.

I decided to try Le Comptoir Du Relais for lunch since I'd heard that evenings can get ridiculously crowded. Apparently a lot of chefs come here - also, they reserve part of the restaurant for guests of Le Relais hotel (hence the name). Getting there for lunch was a good choice, a wait of only 5 minutes, and a table outside in the glorious sun of Paris in the springtime. The wait staff are both charming and rather direct and brisk, which I noticed in some reviews managed to put off some foreign visitors... Me, I was very amused to see an elderly woman harass a waiter over and again until she managed to get the table she wanted, the one that was being cleared for me! There was no stopping her.

I noticed an intriguing item on the special's board, pigeon soup with foie gras, for 10 euros, and asked the waitress about that, but she told me the ravioli was what I wanted. I was amused after to note that the Lobster Ravioli at 25 euros was rather more expensive, but honestly, I don't think she was up-selling, she just had my best interests at heart.

This was not little chopped up pieces of lobster, nor lobster flavoured ravioli. No, these were big, meaty mouthfuls of lobster, with some pasta wrapped around them, in a foamy butter sauce. That substantial texture of lobster, which I automatically associate with the idea of luxury and privilege. Perfect.

Likewise, the waitress informed me that I'd love the fish, and I thought it was cod, but "Lieu Jaune" is haddock.

With tiny wild mushrooms and roasted almonds on top, grilled crisp, with a painting of squid ink below it - a quenelle of a tomato salsa of sorts and one single piece of red onion. The flesh was firm, not particularly with a strong taste of its own, but a useful palate to mix the other flavours on. I was delighted with it. The two women next to me, with their salmon and broccoli (a rather stunning colour combination) looked at it in comparison with theirs and seemed jealous.

Did I need dessert? Not really, but when the first two courses were that good... I asked the new waitress who took my dessert order for a recommendation: the charmingly named "Perle du Japon", which is basicaly tapioca pudding - with orange marmalade. I've been trying to make tapioca pudding for ages now - which while tasty and with an appropriate custard texture (and at least not rubbery like the first time I made it) - was nothing like this rich, perfectly creamy and balanced dessert. I'll have to keep trying.

Ah, with a bit of crunchy profiterole. A perfect combination of textures. Greg, you beauty, thanks for the recommendation. A perfect lunch. 64 Euros including a half-pitcher of white wine, and a coffee.

Paris Food Adventures, Day 1: La Gazzetta

2011-03-17T20:02:00.001+11:00

La Gazzetta is "a jazzy Art Deco spot in the 12th Arrondissement" on rue de Cotte, according to the New York Times, in an article about how the Parisian hot-spots are slightly more casual, bistros where you can get a real bargain for what you pay for (as opposed to a few of those top restaurants where a meal would cost as much as a week's rent). This one has a Swedish chef, Peter Nilsson, (bjork bjork) and a great reputation. I don't think the photo on the frontpage of the website captures how pretty it is. They should use mine!

I e-mailed them the week before and found out they didn't do e-mail reservations, so I skype-called them from Amsterdam and not having a local Parisian phone number, called them on Tuesday afternoon to confirm my reservation for 9:30pm (they eat late here, and it was the second sitting). But it wasn't much of a problem.

While I was perfectly on time to the neighbourhood with my Vélib, all the bicycle stations were completely filled up. I found 4 of them all chock-a-block, circled back the restaurant, explained my predicament, and then found a larger Vélib station at the next metro stop where I could return it. A brisk walk back from there to La Gazette worked up my appetite.

With the choice of a 5 course (39 Euros) or a 7 course meal (52 Euro), I decided to treat myself - and not before starting with a glass of fino as an appetizer. Anyways, come dine with me. You're eating here too. I checked out a few other reviews here and there and it seems like they change their menu often! So, don't expect the same if you eat here again.

Oeuf poché et navets, beurre noisette et bergamote. A few super thin slices of crunchy turnip, hiding a poached egg, with brown butter. I think the bergamot was worked into some bread crumbs, since there was a slightly sandy savoury texture mixed in here.

Maquereau brûlé-fumé et poireaux, rhubarbes et foin. Mackeral has always been a favourite of mine, here smoked and broiled with some perfectly soft and crunchy pieces of leek and.... hay. Well, that's what the french-english dictionary said. I couldn't identify the thin vegetable like wafers (reminding me a bit of a bamboo shoot). The rhubarb was somehow worked into the hay - a sudden lemony-rhubarb tang that hit the mouth after you ate the hay slice.

Céleri cuit au sel et algues, cabillaud basse température et ail des ours - cod cooked at a low temperature, very gentle, celery cooked with salt and algae and wild garlic (ah, that's what the green stuff is - garlic of bears in French). But hidden under the fish here, the chef made a mille-feuille out of the celery and seaweed. A bit weird and earthy but things started to get interesting here...

Couteaux et pousse-pied, carottes. OK. Until this point, I was liking the food in as much an intellectual way as visceral, trying to figure out what it was, being pleasantly surprised with interesting flavours or textures. This is where I could barely stop making pleasurable eating sounds to try and think about what I was eating. A carrot gnocchi with dill, some ridiculously tasty sauce, and two thin slices of carrots cooked into an unfamiliar but pleasing texture. I was pretty sure I'd guessed what the seafood was in this dish, but I only got one of them. The dish here is goose-neck barnacles and razor clams. This dish was heaven.

Cannette demi-sauvage, salsifis et Carmine. A piece of duckling done perfectly. A bit of grilled belgian endive. Some perfectly roasted tiny parsnips. A very rich sauce. I'm not sure if the mushrooms (oyster I think) in the sauce imitated meat, or there were duck bits mixed in, but it tasted like a rich stewed meat. And Carmine, which the dictionary tells me is a red food colouring, and hey, it does look a bit pink. Another incredible dish.

Soupe de cynorrhodon et lait de chèvre, muesli et noix. I associate rose-hips with herbal tea that I don't like... but in this case, it was a lovely sweet berry tasting soup. As an aside, google translator gives the alternative name for rose-hips as butt scratching. Honestly. The soup was poured over a hunk of chèvre cheese, and I'm not sure if half of the cheese was frozen and it tasted like a sorbet, or perhaps there was a cheese sorbet underneath, the two of them melded into each other. As well, a gourmet version of muesli, some candied walnuts and perhaps oats. Oh, and a few savoury leaves as well as garnish. That was weird, but I like to be challenged.

Baba à l'orange sanguine et sorbet amandes - yaourt de brebis. Mille feuille chiboust avocat, agrumes. Oh, I'm getting full, glad dessert is here. But there are two of them! How generous. Instead of a Rum Baba, the Baba was in Blood Orange, an almond sorbet (foamy), and a yogourt of sheep's milk cheese. Also a mille-feuille with avocado pastry cream and cumquats. Oh my. Before I left, they also gave me a tiny piece of cake with apple jam.

I hopped back on my free bike, full, and very happy. High recommendation!

Paris Food Adventures, Day 1: Le Soufflé

2011-03-16T22:57:00.001+11:00

I think it was destined that I eat here. I hadn't planned my first day's lunch, after arriving by train from Brussels around 1pm. The evening before, Tara, sister of Maya, who I suspect has a lot of good travel recommendations, had said that I must try Le Soufflé on rue Mont Tabour, and it stuck in my mind. What's not to like about a good soufflé?

I called up to find out if I could get a table of one - the gentlemen said I better get there right away. I wasn't sure how long it would from the Marais neighbourhood to get there on a Vélib (free bicycle) but it turned out to be not long at all..

There's a special for lunch with a salad (nothing special), a savoury soufflé and then a sweet one. Oh, with a glass of wine. For 25 Euros.

So, I started with a foie gras and prune soufflé. Honestly, it was kind of weird, the sweet stewed prunes, and bits of foie gras, but it was kind of tasty too. And the soufflé of course was amazing. Light and airy and eggy.

The whole atmosphere of the place is pretty charming too, a high waiter-customer ratio, bottles of liqueur on display, a bottle of champagne on ice. I couldn't tell how many people were locals, and how many tourists.

I did find this couple fantastic, and although worrying about invading their privacy, they really are gorgeous, n'est-ce pas? Carefully and colourfully dressed, a bottle of scotch next to them (I'm assuming that they're regular customers and that the scotch is a bottle assigned to them, like they do at bars in Japan).

It sort of captures the spirit of the place too. For dessert, I opted for pear and chocolate which turned out to be pieces of baked pear, with a rather lot of chocolate sauce. It was good.

I don't think I'd come here regularly, but it was a great taste of Paris to start off with. When I got back to the little apartment I've rented (through feel paris - terrific!), I picked up a book in the selection left for visitors, 'Paris to the Moon' by Adam Gopnik, a New Yorker's experience of living in Paris for 5 years with his wife and kid. I read through the intro chapter, and lo, it finishes with him listing restaurants that he ate in while his kid slept, and not only does he mention Le Soufflé but it's the only one he describes in depth, 'the old couple across the neighbouring banquette, who had been coming here for forty years, there with their blind dog. The waiters in white coast, the owner in a blue sports jacket, and the smell (aroma is too fancy a word) of mingled cigarettes and orange liqueurs.' Spooky!

Book Review: Automaton Biographies

2011-01-26T09:18:00.001+11:00

I've just finished reading Larissa Lai's first full-length poetry collection, Automaton Biographies. I've worked with Larissa before, some of her wonderful poems were included in "Swallowing Clouds: An Anthology of Chinese-Canadian Poetry", and I've read her amazing novel, "When Fox Is A Thousand". Haven't grabbed "Salt Fish Girl" yet!

I found the book so interesting and engaging that I wanted to write a bit about it, but on the other hand, I didn't like all of it, and feel slightly reticent to put that in a public space - but then, I recall an essay on Australian poetry that commented that because everyone knows each other, it's hard to create a critical dialogue. Everyone is being nice. So, I hope that contrasting what I liked and I didn't like offers something that is more truthful and useful.

Wanting to see what others said about the book, I had a quick surf online. Jacqueline Turner was complimentary in the Georgia Straight in a review that included 3 other books: "Her playful pulling of pop lyrics and manipulation of movie scenarios are filtered through the depth and importance of documenting possible shifts in what it means to be human in an era of increasing technologization". rob mclennan mostly lets the work speak for itself, including a long poem in his review, and commenting, "What appeals about this collection of four sequences is in how they all seems wrapped up in a similar question, on existence, stripping down the boundaries of soul, social expectation and language." In fact, that helps my own conceptualization of the book. Mark Callanan is quite cutting: "Lai’s meditations on a post-human world proceed with an unsettling machine-like efficiency stripped of human vitality."

Lai's book is in four sections. The first speaks in the voice of Rachel, the cyborg, from Blade Runner. The second section, nascent fashion, addresses war, the third speaks in the voice of Ham, a chimpanzee sent up in space, and the last is an autobiography of sorts. The poems in general are challenging, they bring in references from dozens of sources, break down syntax and narrative, and are often fragmented [proviso: my tastes lean towards more traditional lyric and free-verse poetry and away from language poetry and more contemporary, experimental forms]. I expected to connect the most with the last autobiographical section, but while I could make my own allusions to a Cantonese heritage, and project my own stories into different lines or images, I found it too impressionistic. I was more engaged by the playful humour in the section on Ham but also found it difficult.

I liked the opening section more. My friends are always saying in incredulous voices, "you've NEVER seen [fill in the blank, popular or well-known movie]". Get thee to the video store, Andy. But I didn't mind not knowing the character from Blade Runner but being introduced through this poem sequence which lays down key themes of the book: machines, technology, duality.

The second section, on war, is what I really want to talk about though. I think that poetry is often not suited towards more political statements - an ideological viewpoint standing in opposition to open-ended allusion, so I admired the passion of this section, its bravery to be political and its success. The poems in this section often make verbs out of nouns ("I joy our small", "I language my body") and while I had to expel the fridge magnet poetry set from my mind (which encourages similar playfulness), I thought that the new language that Lai created here was energetic and engaging. There is also a wonderful variation in tone - moving from rap-like slam poetry rhythms ("mask delusion's massive protrusion / misunformed in tight uniform") to quiet and straightforward lines like "we entered the desert/ we thought it was empty" (this is from my favourite poem in the section, which tells me I could challenge my bias towards accessibility...).

Here is where I'll correct what I wrote above. The poems here are not "challenging", they just require a different way of reading. What I loved was in fact how readable and accessible they were, the lines flow beautifully and the images and references felt to me as if on a large canvas, placed in different parts that at the end of a poem, displayed the full painting. Images are disturbing and original, intimate images of the body "miraculous / pulse and warm" are next to language of business and technology, women appear as both subjects of violence and goddess-amazon-fox tricksters. In fact, it's a way of explaining our own lives, that our references and stories and histories are disparate and can't be reduced to simple narratives. This, and the coherence in vision and themes of all four sections make me appreciate the book as a whole. And besides, it's staying with me, it got under my skin.

Meet the Piperoids

2011-01-18T15:00:00.001+11:00

Not this but last Christmas, the mom of my boyf's best friend's husband, who was staying with them at the time, gave us a little Christmas gift.

A simple set of rolled paper, marked carefully where you cut them, and with holes already in place, with detailed instructions on how to assemble them (and not as hard as IKEA furniture), and voilá:

Meet Jet Jonathan

and Cannon Bull.

How cool are these?

More info on the official Piperoid Website.

And rather good images of them for sale in the USA here.

The Books I Read in 2010

2011-01-02T14:25:00.002+11:00

The books I read in 2010 (it seems to have been a good year for reading) - the two bolds are my top recommendations for the year:

Jee Leong Koh's Equal to the Earth (Poetry)
Eli Jaxon-Bear's The Enneagram of Liberation (Spirituality)
John Miller's A Sharp Intake of Breath (Fiction)
Dr Arthur Agaston's South Beach Diet (Diet/Health)
Tracy Quan's Diary of a Jet-Setting Call Girl (Chick-Lit) - The adventures of Nancy Chan. Should I admit that I was looking to see if Borders carried my own book (er... no) and found instead another author named Quan? I've read all of her books (three so far) and found them very enjoyable. Taking the Sex-and-the-City genre and making the protagonist a sexy, Asian-American call girl living in the Big Apple - how could I resist?
Christos Tsiolkas' The Slap (Fiction) - I'm elevating this to a recommendation. I'm not in love with the actual writing but Tsiolkas' characters are wonderfully-drawn, the story contemporary and the momentum of the prose unstoppable - and it's a great portrait of modern Australia.
Tom Cardamone's The Lost Library, Gay Fiction Rediscovered (Essays/Gay History)
Eve Escher-Hogan's Way of the Winding Path: A Map for the Labyrinth of Life (Spirituality)
Gabrielle Roth's Sweat Your Prayers (Spirituality)
Blaine Marchand's The Craving of Knives (Poetry)
On The Line: the Creation of the Chorus Line (Non-Fiction)
John Barton's Hymn (Poetry)
J.A.G. Roberts' China to Chinatown: Chinese Food in the West (Non-Fiction)
Paul Kane's Work Life (Poetry) - Holy Cow, I liked this book of poems. Am going to search out more of his work now.
Junot Diaz's The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (Fiction) - The writing in this book is so energetic, I read it in a few days, very impressed. Wonder what the experience is for readers who have no Spanish language background at all as he drops Spanish words and slang into the text regularly.
Kevin Killian's Argento Series (Poetry)
Jerome Parisse's The Wings of Leo Spencer (Young Adult) - A friend published his first novel, a story about angels and families. I don't know if I've ever read a "young adult" book but it was engaging.
Roberta Lowing's Notorious (Fiction) - A friend gave me a pre-publication copy of this to read, by someone I know who organised a poetry reading series. It's an ambitious thriller, or sorts, that moves between Italy and Poland and Morocco.
Kate Story's Blasted (Fiction) - I went to college (and university) with Kate and was excited to order her first novel - it's engaging and surprising with some really lovely writing.
Chris Adrian's A Better Angel (Short Fiction) - Loved a story by this guy in the New Yorker. This is a beautiful collection.
Steig Larsson's Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Girl Who Played With Fire, Girl who Kicked the Hornets Nest (Thrillers) - Completely addictive and enjoyable..
Jonathan Franzen's Freedom (Fiction) - As with the Corrections, I loved it. It's my 2010 must-read recommendation.
David Caleb Acevedo's Bestiario en nomenclatura binomial (Poetry in Spanish)
Sara Gruen's Ape House (Fiction) - What a disappointment. Water for Elephants really grabbed me, but this had poor writing and, one-dimensional characters. The pain of it increased because of my expectations for it.
Jeannette Winterston's Lighthousekeeping (Fiction)
Ken Wilber's the Integral Vision (Philosophy) - I think this guy is a really interesting thinker and this made me think about a lot of things...
Andrew O Hagan's The Life and Opinions of Maf the Dog, and of his friend Marilyn Monroe - completely surprising. From the cover and title and marketing, I just wasn't sure, but my pal Chris said it was good, and by the first page, I could see what a beautiful writer Hagan is. I really liked it.
Kimberley Mann's Awake During Anaesthetic (Poetry Chapbook)
Bonny Cassidy's Said to be Standing (Poetry Chapbook) - Vagabond Press produces these absolutely beautiful chapbooks called "Rare Objects" and they're publishing usually emerging poets. Great stuff, good to read Bonny's work as I've heard her read before.
Stuart Cooke's Corrosions (Poetry Chapbook) - Ditto above, and *great* to read Stuart's work as I haven't really heard him read before. Interesting range of poems here.
Benjamin Law's the Family Law (Humour/Family) - Very enjoyable, great voice, great writing from a young, gay Asian writer from Brisbane
Graeme Aitken's The Indignities (Fiction) - A fun, gay romp through Sydney, circa 2004.

Adelaide Feast Festival 2010

2010-12-16T12:42:00.002+11:00

I was honoured to be invited to the Adelaide Feast Festival as one of the only out of state authors. I flew in for the weekend of 27-28 November to take part in their WordFeast Day as a panel of Poets speaking on "Poets and Place". The amazing Sue Webb, who has been literary coordinator, for a number of years picked me up in a Feast car provided by one of their sponsors and with a snappy logo painted in pink on it. You couldn't miss it.
Windy and cold weather conspired with a transport strike and I think the crowd was a bit smaller than it otherwise would have been - but I enjoyed sharing the state with Miriel Lenore, Kimberley Mann, Ray Tyndale and Jill Jones, and meeting writer Ben Chandler. The Sunday picnic was fun - basically like any of the Lesbian and Gay Festival picnics that I've attended in Melbourne or Sydney (Fair Day) or elsewhere - kids, dogs, drag queens, and the full spectrum of queer life - though this one had a Show with a produce and crafts competition too!
Adelaide was fun to explore - I hadn't been in many years. City of statues and festivals. The succulent garden in the Botanic Gardens was fantastic. I had a terrific meal (see blog posting below) and had a great time catching up with an old school friend, Corey and his family. I was also reminded of all these weird signs attached to buildings all over, "Polites", a property magnate with an ego issue, but at least his name is amusing, evoking both "Polite" and "Police" (or as the quick wit at the Sydney Morning Herald says: Pilates)
I also really enjoyed catching a production of Jonathan Harvey's "Out in the Open", a comedy about grief and starting again, complicated friends and in-laws, and hidden identities. First performed in 2001 in London, with James McAvoy in one of the roles, before he got famous, it was snappy and enjoyable. I think amateur theatre can be a real joy - you get to see how the text of the play carries them (quite well) and you get to see actors strut their stuff, sometimes raw but with passion. Something about the play felt slightly dated - though perhaps it's just that I've seen too much else featuring a similar combo of bitchy queens and alcohol and drug use (or is it that I've lived it?). The sassy, crazy best girlfriend is also a trope used much too often.

But really, I found the actors impressive. Great energy and focus, the accents were perfect. They were as a cast very engaging, and it was an unexpected surprise to have such an enjoyable night at the theatre while in Adelaide. Well done to Mixed Salad Productions - and the actors: Lee Cook, Oliver de Rohan, Eleanor Boyd, Alan Crawford, Deanna Ortuso, and Maxine Grubel.

Restaurant Review: Celcius, Adelaide

2010-12-02T08:18:00.007+11:00

So, when I was in Adelaide for the Feast Festival, last weekend of November 2010, I stopped in to Celcius Restaurant on the way to the theatre. It had just received a review in the Adelaide Review which had more praise in it in a restaurant review than I'd possibly ever seen. Gouger Street was a real headtrip, dozens of restaurants side by side of all types. Cool and buzzy, yes, but a little strange to walk through a few blocks in the CBD with nary a soul in sight and then suddenly stumble upon the sanctioned street of social activity. In any case, it was early, I chose a table near the street, and settled down with a glass of 2008 Egon Muller Kanta Riesling, a wine from the local Adelaide Hills. Dear Lord, where do I find more of this? Clean, fresh, and flavourful.

My strategy was how to taste as many things as possible before having to leave. A few small tapas plates seemed wise. I couldn't pass up the Bubbled Pork Crackling in a dust of yoghurt and fennel pollen. Crunchy-tasty-fat with a sweet-salty flavour. Good with the wine. A single scallop with corn and jamon was a perfect bite.

I liked the concept of the 62°c egg and bacon crumble that had an interesting foam and texture...but it amused me rather than impressed my taste buds (though egg = good in my books).

I was surprised to be getting filled up - so only ordered one more dish (meaning that if I'm back in Adelaide, I'm making a beeline to this restaurant. I'd like to try every dish!). The signature dish is the ‘Vegetable patch’ – Snails, Herbs, Soil, Flowers, Raw and Pickled Vegetables. I had to show you two views to show beautiful it was. I would rate this as the most engaging plate of food I've had all year. Everything was edible, all of the gorgeous little flowers and petals, the tiny tomatoes, radishes, and carrots, the curlique sprouts. The rolls of pickled vegetables arranged to appear as the stems of mushrooms. Hidden among the foliage, four tempura battered snails. Ah, and some coffee flavoured "soil". For me, this wasn't just eating, it was an experience - colour, flavour, texture - and an invitation to take time to taste each component of the dish. As far as eating goes, pork belly excites me more than a carrot, no matter how fresh or local or perfectly formed - but as I said, this was more than eating, and I was very impressed.

A Blog Reflection / Getting Unstuck

2010-06-29T08:33:00.004+10:00

Currently, I use two blogs. One is basically like a journal and is private. I find it a useful second diary - and try to do a version of the Artist's Way Morning Pages when I can. Also, my skills at writing by hand have diminished over the years so badly that someone asked me once if I was writing in Chinese.

This is the other blog - and I look back at that first post in January 2005, and see that I didn't have a clear idea of where I was going, but wanted to use it to write in a public way. Since then, I have kept a list of the books that I've read (anal, I know, but that's how I am). I have written some book reviews. I have written about travel and about my family.

But there's no particular focus, nor drive.

At the same time, facebook (goddamnfacebook) has thrown me into confusion - if I really want my words read, then I have a higher chance of it being posted as a "note" to facebook (to be seen by my over a thousand "friends") - if it's a quick thought, then as a "status update" and if it's an even quicker thought, I suppose I should open a twitter account. A blog isn't read unless it's got a specific purpose, and a set of followers, and a blogger who is actively writing.

I remember those days of the first blogs, and I was excited at this new form of communication, this insight into people's daily lives and thoughts. But only a few years later, the world is a different place. There is so much chatter, and so many blogs. I myself follow only a few blogs, mostly entertainment ones, and in a very utilitarian, light manner - checking out a recipe that I've found through google, comparing a review of a short story to my own opinion of it.

So, what is this thing, Oh Blogdammit (I still like the name). I guess it's more of a scrapbook, and an occasional journal, and much like the earlier bloggers, the idle dreaming of being out in the world in a public rather than private way.

I'm curious whether in this next period of my life, which feels like a significant one, whether I'll be continuing at the same pace as previously, or increase, or focus the blog more, or even start a new blog... For now, I look back and my "dashboard" tells me I've made 55 posts since January 2005, basically about 10 a year... Today's change of design/format at least gives me a sense of refreshment... (though it's amusing that I could change it every day if I wanted to since I haven't established an identity and following for the blog).

As a final note, I've started reading the book "Getting Unstuck" by Timothy Butler (a solid and trustworthy name, he's lucky to have it), about career change - and I wonder if I'm brave enough to chronicle that process, as I consider my next steps. For now, it does serve to remind me that

Getting unstuck is: reflecting on what I like to do (writing is included in this); finding my way back into the flow of life where I'm excited about doing things, work and non-work; doing the work that's required to get unstuck.

Getting unstuck is not: playing Bejewelled Blitz on Facebook. Wondering if it's so cold (Sydney's lack of central heating makes it feel far colder than Canada ever did) that I should just sit in front of a heater all day. I like list of threes but I can't think of another for now.

A few words on "Out of the Box"

2010-05-22T09:03:00.005+10:00

I finally finished reading "Out of the Box: Contemporary Australian Gay and Lesbian Poets" edited by Michael Farrell and Jill Jones, having received my contributor's copy a little before the Sydney launch as part of the Queer Thinking event at the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras arts festival. I wasn't in a hurry to finish it, and enjoyed taking my time, putting it down and coming back to it.

The book seems to have appeared at an interesting time, amidst at least three other Australian poetry anthologies, and it's given reviewers good grist to ponder why we anthologize, to what point it serves, and how this anthology stacks up in comparison to others (very well indeed, I read. The reviews have been good and substantial).

I've enjoyed reading the discussion about what could be expected from poems from gay and lesbian writers and how they might conform or destroy expectation; this question seems fundamental to a few of the reviewers (and is explored in the introductions).

But I can be at times (often), intellectually lazy and dreadfully practical. An anthology is a good way to market poetry, it gathers together diverse voices, it provides an organisational structure which will appeal to both a market (i.e. a women's anthology to women, a gay and lesbian anthology to gays and lesbians) and with any luck, university courses. An anthology does what many university courses do - it chooses an area to explore and study in depth; so Out of the Box makes a founding contribution to the possibility of gay and lesbian poetry being studied in Australia. It also provides a historical record, it archives and displays. Unexpectedly useful to me on a personal basis, I didn't know that so many of the poets that I meet on the relatively small Sydney scene are gay and lesbian (what happened to my gaydar anyway?) and more relevant, Out of the Box gives me a handy reference guide to what they write! Rather than ask why (anthologize), I simply ask why not (which is opportunistic since this is the third queer poetry anthology I've appeared in, and I edited an anthology of Chinese-Canadian poetry a number of years ago).

This is not to gloss over the anthology itself! I think what I most enjoyed was how the poems speak to each other. Foregoing other ordering possibilities such as by poet's last name or date of birth, and further breaking with the convention of grouping poems by the same poet together, Out of the Box orders its poems in alphabetical order of the title of the poems! Brilliant and unexpected. It allowed me to move between poets and voices and poems and be constantly engaged, surprised by what would appear, still get a hit of biography but not be drawn into comparing older vs newer poets, whether someone is more 'important' or 'better' than another. That Javant Biarujia's "fucking the quiff of a runty cassock" appears on an opposite page to Margaret Bradstock's "Old responsibilities, seasons/ rise up, numinous as Christmas ghosts" gives rise to many possibilities: that you prefer one style or the other, that you can jump from like to dislike or vice-versa with a mere shift of glance, that the contrast between the poems makes you like each a little more, their attributes and personality sharper.

I believe that including gay and lesbian poetry in the same anthology is the more uncommon choice, particularly for a contemporary rather than historical anthology. I'm pretty sure I've seen more gay-only anthologies that have reflected a stronger differentiation between both politics and cultures of gay men and lesbians. So, for me it was a joy to discover a number of women poets who provided some of my favourite moments (Wendy Jenkins, Dîpti Saravanamuttu, I'm talking to you - though I also liked being introduced to the formidable Peter Rose).

I was about to say that there feels to me a non-specificity about many of the poems, as if the editorial choice was to go with queer sensibility rather than content, but I'm not sure if that's true. I did remember feeling with a number of poems that without the mention of a breast here, a phallus there, and the assumed sexual identity of the poet, that they didn't feel particularly gay - but I think I have to explain that by saying I still don't quite have a feel of the broad range of Australian poets that I've been reading since arriving on these shores in 1999. I often note the embrace of language and experimental poetry and a slight distaste for the confessional and first-person. Compare that to the 50 gay poets in the American "Best Gay Poetry 2008", edited by Lawrence Schimel, were the majority of works featured are first-person confessionals about sex, dating, HIV, and ex-lovers. There is distance inserted in many of the Australian poems here by wordplay, jokes, intellectualism, perhaps reflection, which strikes me at times as colder and less emotional, and at other times, as more sophisticated and polished. I'll continue to ponder.

Last words: the introductions are fantastic and complement each other well. I appreciated Farrell's close reading of a number of poems. They won't appeal to the casual reader of poetry; I found them smart and engaging; Jones' analysis similarly informative but moreso, the lovely and concise history of publishing gay and lesbian poetry.

I was amused at the Sydney launch that the same word kept repeating again and again. 'Handsome.' as in "What a handsome book". It's such a beautifully designed book, the graphic matte cover, the unusual almost square shape. Robert Gray at this year's writer's festival referred to the book as the perfect hardware, you can take it anywhere, you can drop it and it won't break. The poems here are elevated by the form in which they are presented.

Book Review: The Lost Library

2010-04-26T19:49:00.004+10:00

Books are years in the making, and it was a few years ago that Tom Cardamone, asked whether I'd be interested in contributing an essay to a collection about favourite gay books that were out-of-print. Tom and I had connected with each other through a tenuous link or two. He had written a positive review of my collection of sex fiction, but he'd also done a review of a book that I was also about to review for an internet magazine. I asked him whether he'd have a look at it.

This explanation may seem unnecessary, but it is as an example of how people connect with each other, across space and time, and form bonds and sometimes community. To be honest, while I immediately thought of a book I could write about, I wasn't so sure about the concept of the anthology. Was it sellable? Would it be interesting? It seemed somehow obscure to me, gay writers writing about books no longer available. The point being? Was it to capture something lost? Try to get the books republished? Or simply a historical document?

To counter the possibility of the book being too academic, too esoteric, I wrote my essay with a particular intent - I would talk about why the book appealed to me in an accessible way, how it related to my journey as a gay man and a writer, and knowing that others may not possibly ever read it, demonstrate a bit of the book's beauty (My choice was Patrick Roscoe's "Birthmarks". Ironically, when I sent him a fan e-mail telling him I'd be highlighting his book, he responded with anger about how the publisher had ruined it from his original intent.)

I was amused on reading the finally-published book, in a beautiful edition by Haiduk Press - gorgeous cover and a delicious feel to the pages - that this was the approach taken by most contributors, and that the collection is not obscure, but an interesting and unique approach to gay history and gay men's lives featuring engaging and lively prose about something we love and why we loved it. As much as literary merit, the books featured in this anthology, pointed ways for gay men to survive, live and love, gave hope and possibility, and told us that we were not alone.

It was a fascinating social history to discover so many works with gay content written at times with so much gay oppression, whether a 1924 novel by Glenway Westcott, or young adult novels from 1969 and 1972. The breadth of the collection (there are 28 essays in all) spans a long period of gay history. Many of the early books reviewed featured rich, older gay men with much younger lovers, living in high society in New York or in European cities, some involved with hustlers; this was followed by an exploration of the many novels to come out of the early years of the AIDS epidemic. Another major strand is about gay men looking for and finding themselves (or who they hoped to be) whether in more recent novels featuring black gay characters, awkward gay teenagers, or men facing oppression, or in love, or at play.

I found it interesting how often contributors knew the authors of the books they wrote about, as friends and colleagues, or perhaps because they'd tracked them down as fans: a comment both on how small the gay literary world is but also how emotional ties affect how we view art. Rather than making the book feel like a club of insiders though, I think this aspect of the book spoke well to how we make connections and community and friendships.

I was also struck by a common tone of nostalgia and regret. It makes sense. After all, this book is called the "lost library", it is about books that are no longer available, that the contributors long to see in print again, or perhaps that their authors were still alive. At the same time, it is a meeting of writers, who are often in the trade of capturing memories and romanticizing the past, and gay sensibility, which often is about wanting to be someone else or wanting to be a better self, or feeling "special" or "different" and turning that uniqueness to advantage. Bill Brent quotes an unpublished passage by Paul Reed about a man who spends so much time longing for his past that he turned regret into an artform.

Even if this melancholy doesn't appeal to you, I think any gay man interested in gay identity and history will find "The Lost Library" engaging, be swept into conversations about why and how we love men, the moments we knew we were gay, the realizations that life would be just fine, and the signposts, in the form of books, that showed us the way. Not only about books, this anthology has fine writing in it, which makes a good tribute to the gay writers featured.

Christmas in Vancouver: Diaries

2010-01-16T12:28:00.002+11:00

My father types: 09/12/12, Saturday:

Eggs, portuguese sausage, raisain toast
Sun
WiiFit 51 years
Fiddled
Lunch
Cracked filberts
TV lazed.
Supper,

Not much explanation is needed for strangers. Portuguese sausage is spicy and when heated, an orange oil rises up and coats the cut surface. It is a food from Hawaii, where mother is from, meaning that they would have brought it back from there on one of their trips, and frozen it. The Sun is one of Vancouver's two main papers. Dad reads one or the other or both every day. Wiifit gives you an age after a "fitness test", and this one is much younger than Dad's 77 years. Fiddled relates to an undetermined activity and not music.

Even though the above 12th of December took place mostly on the 13th of December in Sydney, Australia, this is what I wrote in the corresponding date of my Filofax.

Yoga
Solange
Finish EECA Budget
Tim S
John G coffee
Pack
Time Traveller's Wife
Darryl Coffee
Davy Drinks
Stevie. Japanese food and Bondi,
Made love + zzz

A simple list. The first name is related to work. The next four names are friends. The last name is my partner. Bondi indicates that we slept at his house rather than mine in the City. Time Traveller's Wife was the movie, not the book. I did some work in the morning.

The thing is, I didn't know my father kept a diary like this, until seeing it this Christmas past: the small ring binder, pages with six holes, in fact, the same number as my filofax pages. I can see that he types up a page every day, or every few days, and puts them in place.

I was shocked to discover I do basically the same thing, except I write my list in my filofax pages. I've done so since university. I remember that first instinct, to record my days, to be able to refer backwards, to give shape to my life. It was never much of an imposition - and at times I have found it useful to be able to pinpoint a particular event or time. Early on, it helped me battle a feeling of malaise, that I was not accomplishing anything, to look at what I'd done over a week. I've never stopped the practise.

Recently, my mother told me, "You're not keeping lists like your Dad, are you? He's been writing things down in that notebook in his front shirt pocket for fifty years."

How do aspects of our parents make it into our own lives without any conscious recollection? Did I know he did this and forgot about it? Nature or nurture? Neither of my brothers do this daily record of activities.

But I do. Thirty-seven years younger than my dad. My lists. My diary. Like his. I am my father's son.

Christmas in Vancouver: Letters

2010-01-16T12:27:00.006+11:00

I didn't save every letter I received but I saved many. I come from generations of people who hoard and save, so it wasn't a surprise to do this. A pattern of intense, deeply felt friendships was set early. Letters told me who these friends were, in written form, and they also told me who I was. Their comments on my letters and life allowed me to see myself from different perspectives. How passionate we were! Naive and honest, witty and bright, bold and confused. Occasionally, I would find a particularly kindred soul, a fellow communicator who loved to write and express him or herself in words.

I wonder how the world has changed now without these letters, replaced by e-mail and facebook and SMS. It was a different process and way of thinking. An opportunity for reflection: how do I compose myself, express myself? What do I want to share? And then: anticipation and patience. When will they respond, if at all? There was beauty in the thoughtful, slow exchange of lives and stories that are not up into short bits and bytes by modern technology.

I couldn't completely escape my core instinct to save and record. I reviewed my envelopes and files of letters - and took notes, in an e-mail message to myself, of the people I was in touch with at different periods of my life, at times copying a phrase or paragraph. A few special letters I think I'll eventually scan and archive.

It was good to revisit my younger self, kind and needy and romantic. I came across turning points in my life and in others. I was surprised at some of my regular correspondents - at times, friendships felt stronger than they were simply because we were good at writing to each other. Also, I was amused and bewildered both by how memory works, people and incidents that I can barely recall or not at all.

It felt good to realize how I've changed. That I no longer need letters to tell me who I am, that I accept how we've changed and that if friendships have lasted, it is not our past selves but our present ones that we engage with, though I marvel too, at how far we've come.

Christmas in Vancouver: Famous

2010-01-16T12:27:00.005+11:00

My latest theory is that it was because I was the youngest child. Being the centre of attention, so cute and precocious, I somehow long had the idea that I would be famous. It's odd to admit that I fantasized at age six both of being a famous singer and a politician who could change the world.

Fantasies of being a writer developed somewhat later. Every few years, a teacher would single me out to praise a story or an essay. Bad poems, started at sixteen, laid down an autobiographical pathway.

When my first short story was published when I was twenty-two - mostly autobiographical - I really got the idea that I had something to say. This started a long spiralling pattern where I saved scraps of my personal life - letters, notes, paper detritus, in case I ever needed to write about myself.

I'd envisioned one book about living in Brussels, London and Australia. I considered structuring it around major events like Diana's death or the 2000 Olympics, or even around past boyfriends. Edmund White, who's written many autobiographical novels as well as two autobiographies, was my model, though I'd read many other similar books to emulate.

However, my books, all of which were based at least partly on autobiography, discouraged me from focusing on a novel. Sales were poor, reviews mixed. Some friends read them, others didn't. My younger writer persona asked, "if I can't get friends to read my books, then who else is going to?" Of course, I'm proud of my books and writing - and count many blessings to come out of them - but when I thought of that autobiographical novel, it was the negativity that won out.

I won't rule it out completely, but these days, I'm not so interested in my life history so don't expect others to be either. Plus much of my life is already out in the public realm, and usually I've negative reaction to writers who retell their life story over and over (Alice Munro would be an exception). I predict that something different will call me, whether it's fiction about other people, or made-up people, or non-fiction.

Meanwhile, I've thrown out most of my letters and notes this Christmas. The idea that I would be famous enough that they would mean something is an old one, eccentric and irrelevant, though I'm amazed how I held onto it for so long. If one day I do one write more autobiography, it will have to be from memory, or failing that, like everyone else, I'll make it up.

Christmas in Vancouver: Tears

2010-01-16T12:26:00.002+11:00

I wept as I said goodbye to my family at the end of my Christmas visit of nine days. As displays of emotion are rare for us, I hid the tears, not particularly well, turning away and wiping my eyes. I wasn't embarrassed particularly, but the tears were out of place and two of my brother's friends were visiting who I don't know particularly well, and were witnessing this scene.

I could blame it on a long day with a bass line of family tension. It started with a dastardly long process to take family photos - my friend, a photographer, had called in sick, so we were forced to manage on our own, a complicated but familiar set of dysfunctions saved only perhaps by my sister-in-law who could break our long-set patterns. I then had technology problems transferring said photos from computer to computer (managing to screw up my brother's portable hard drive in the process, another theme, the incompetent younger brother who breaks older brother's computer devices). My seven-year-old nephew was banned from sweets as punishment. In fact, I had been quite charmed when he whispered to me as I was hoping to settle him down for his afternoon nap, "you know, sometimes, I don't sleep." "That's OK," I told him, "being quiet is OK too." But his parents didn't agree.

A lack of sleep often makes me teary - and the basement, where I'd been relegated to so that my nephew and niece could sleep in my old room, was frosty in Vancouver's winter, and the base of the bed (forty-year old mattress removed for being too soft) was not particularly comfortable. I was also awaken most of my nine mornings by the children, though I stayed up late, so was sleep-deprived.

I could make them happy, sentimental tears. Most times when we're all together, someone is having a bad week, and will be particularly ill-tempered. We all revert to our family roles and patterns, as stated above. But this time, all of us got along. I found the ages of three and a half (Hayley) and seven (Jeremiah) to be charming as I hadn't seen them for a year. Usually, I don't miss my family, but this time, I will.

I could confess more dramatic reasons - that I hadn't absorbed the information earlier this year that Dad's kidneys are failing, that he'll go on dialysis in the coming weeks and that he's unlikely to travel again because of it. I fear that he has not many years left in him.

They could have been tears of nostalgia. I spent much of my time reviewing and discarding old letters and essays and papers, three apple boxes down to less than one. I have finally arrived at an age that finds weight in hanging on, and where I can discard all these possible futures that would have found those archives useful. But it stirred up emotion, reminded of passionate friendships, first lovers, and the interesting young man I was.

The tears were gone soon enough and it doesn't really matter how they arrived at the corners of my eyes, my cheeks, the doorstep. But I think they tell me my days in Vancouver this Christmas were valuable.

Russian Drinking Tips

2009-10-24T16:27:00.004+11:00

Under the category, you learn something new every day, my Russian colleague Gregory gave me a number of drinking tips last night, none of which I've heard of before.

Of course, the main advice was on how to drink vodka the Russian way - as well as not to get too smashed when drinking with experienced Eastern Europeans.

1. Make a toast, or after someone else has made a toast, clink your glasses with everyone.
2. Sniff a piece of pumpernickel bread.
3. Exhale quickly and completely
4. Down the shot all at once (I was mostly doing half-shots... I know. Wimp)
5. Without inhaling, put some food in your mouth - a half a cherry tomato, a pickle, etc.
6. Eventually. Inhale.

This reminded me of advice I've heard from smoking marijuana where you are supposed to hold in your puff as long as you can before blowing out. Which I heard from elsewhere was a myth.

The instructions above seemed pretty effective though - considering that 2 bottles of vodka were shared betwen 4 of us... (with others participating in the toasts but not the vodka) - and that I barely felt drunk (pat on the back for me).

Other advice:

If no food is available, then sniff your shirt sleeve instead of the bread.
Don't mix drinking different types of vodka (=hangover)
Always eat something with a shot (which is modified advice from what I've always heard: don't drink on an empty stomach)
Start from the lightest alcohol during an evening and end with the heaviest. Beer-Wine-Vodka is fine. Vodka followed by Beer is apparently disastrous.
Cheers. На здоровье!

The Blog is Comatose / Facebook Thoughts

2009-09-08T09:20:00.002+10:00

I've felt little need these days to keep up with a public blog. Everyone is making their lives and thoughts so public these days, it seems like overkill.

I haven't succumbed to the Twitter craze, either reading or writing.

I have become addicted to facebook - and I found in many cases that their "notes" function means I reach a far greater number of my friends than my blog would.

I guess the one thing that the blog is useful for is a kind of public meandering thought process, where your words might be stumbled upon by a random stranger... as well as for getting up writing that you want to make public - since facebook notes are still only limited to your friends, unless you want to make your profile completely public. Which would be a bad idea, methinks.

Oddly, I also feel somewhat shy about using the notes function on facebook, knowing that it is SO accesible to so many people that I know. How strange that it seems more anonymous to blog about something since far fewer people will read about it here.

So many levels of privacy in one's lives these days, or in facebook parlance "settings". What parts of my life do I want open to family and friends, what parts would I prefer to share with an anonymous blogosphere, which of my photos do I want everyone to see, and which do I hide away on my Picasa account so I can share them with a specific few?

Having said that, I'm finding it more and more interesting to see how my friends respond to facebook, now that it is no longer a passing phase. I think we've passed the mass acceptance phase and are onto the late adopters, even older folks who are finding that this is the way they're going to see family photos or be kept out of the loop! That means that most people are on it, and the few who aren't fall into a few categories. Those who truly are hopeless at technology. Those who truly are too busy with their lives offline. And the die-hard resisters who become braver and more isolated by the day. They seem to come in three categories, though with intersection. Those who think it would be a waste of time and find communication with friends a chore rather than pleasure, those who don't want to live public lives (and imagine facebook being an invasion of their privacy), and those who prefer to limit their social interactions to a small number of loved ones in an old fashioned manner.

I have some admiration for all of them... though I don't exactly relate to those feelings, and feel frustration when I can't share my photos with them, or invite them to my facebook events.

But stay tuned (my few and anonymous readers). I do have some ideas for some blog postings, which will hopefully go up sooner rather than later.

Christmas Dispatch

2008-12-22T20:04:00.012+11:00

A few days from Christmas. I'm sitting down with a California Sauvignon Blanc in a guesthouse down from my brother and sister-in-law's place in Kaneohe, Hawaii.

If I had gone home to Vancouver, it would have looked like this at my family homestead. Our neighbour sent this photo of our home, and another of our street.

But here in Hawaii, the weather is milder. I tried to post other photos - My grandma's old house (now my brother's family's) and her street. I visited here almost every other summer when I was a kid, until about the age of 12, when the trips became more intermittent.

Last Christmas, at my dear friend's house near Pottsville, I think it was he, Daniel, who told those of us assembled about the "tur-duc-hen". How had I never heard about this?

"A Turducken is a de-boned turkey stuffed with a de-boned duck, which itself is stuffed with a small de-boned chicken. The name is a portmanteau of those ingredients, turkey, duck, and chicken. The cavity of the chicken and the rest of the gaps are filled with, at the very least, a highly seasoned breadcrumb mixture or rice dressing and sausage meat or seafood stuffing."

We looked it up on wikipedia to discover that the largest recorded nested bird roast is 17 birds, attributed to a royal feast in France in the early 19th century. We laughed about it for days, and later that holidays, when I told my partner and his best friend about it, the word Turducken kept ringing in her ears as we drove around the South Island of New Zealand.

So, imagine my surprise to find out this Christmas, as part of our feast, we will be having a turducken roll. I can't wait...

But of course, the real reason I'm here is for my family. My nephew and niece are adorable, energetic, and exhausting. They believe in Santa Claus and when they see him at the malls, or at the Christmas Light Street, they call out, "Santa, santa, santa!" It will be fun to see them on Christmas day opening their gifts.

I suspect I won't be sending out a newsy e-mail update this year, but will simply leave it at this. A dispatch from here, to wherever you may be, with wishes to you for a great holidays and new year.

(And in fact, it worked much more easily to write this dispatch and attach photos using facebook notes. Uh oh, blogger. Are your days numbered?)

Books I've Read

2008-11-15T18:46:00.032+11:00

I first kept this list on my webpage, but then figured that it would be easier to edit (and access) on my blog. Of course, now on facebook, I quite like visual library, in terms of the covers, and seeing mini-reviews by friends and others - though it doesn't seem very orderly. So, I started this list on 7 July 2008, my 39th birthday), and try to keep it up to date when I can, more for me than anyone else!

I’ve kept an informal list of books I’ve read in the last few years though I've missed recording a number. I sometimes get this feeling I don’t read enough – but then realise that I actually read a lot, especially on planes and in hotel rooms, with all the work travel I do.

Miscellaneous books that I read and loved (before I started keeping this list)

Milan Kundera’s Unbearable Lightness of Being (and others)
Alice Munro’s Short Story collections
Lorrie Moore’s Birds of America
Edmund White’s Boy’s Own Story (and others)
Favourite poets (of which I’ve usually read a few of their books): Margaret Atwood (Selected Poems 2 is excellent), Mark Doty, Sharon Olds, Patrick Lane, Pablo Neruda.
Anne-Marie MacDonald’s Fall On Your Knees
Wole Soyinka’s Season of Anomy
Salman Rushdie’s novels (particularly Midnight’s Children, Satanic Verses)
Paul Monette’s Becoming a Man: Half a Life Story
James Merrill’s Changing Light at Sandover

Bolded means that I think your life is less complete without reading this book (or at least that I really really loved the book).

2011

Mary Oliver's New and Selected Poems Volume 2 (Poetry) - some gems, and better in small doses, I was surprised that I wasn't taken by the work of this celebrated poet.
John Rock's Paseando: Out for a walk (Autobiography) - an interesting and engaging book by a friend - travel tales and more
Richard Labonte's Beautiful Boys (Gay Erotica/Anthology) - I thought this was a good, digestable mix of stories - some more traditional erotica, others less so.
Michael Cunningham's By Nightfall (Fiction) - I've read everything that he's written and I'm not stopping now. Many moments of beauty, but I wasn't as engaged as previous books.
Larissa Lai's Automaton Biographies (Poetry)
Tim Winton's Cloudstreet (Fiction)
Carol Shield's The Stone Diaries (Fiction)
Adam Gopnik's Paris to the Moon (Memoir)
Alice Munro's Too Much Happiness (Short Fiction)
Charles Merewether's Ai Weiwei: Under Construction (Art Criticism/Review)
Best American Poetry 2011 (Poetry)
Dave Egger's Short Short Fiction (Fiction)
Tim Miller's Shirts & Skin (Autobiography/Gay)
Joanne Harris' Coastliners (Fiction)
Tina Fey's Bossypants (Autobiography/Comedy)
Patrick Gale's Rough Music (Fiction)
E.B. White's Charlotte's Web (Fiction/Children's)

2010

[I did a separate post with this list in January 2011, have a look there!]

2009

Anne Enright's The Gathering (Fiction) - Booker winner, and she went to my international college, many moons ago. I can see why people had trouble with it - as I see it hasn't gotten universally great reviews. There's something unsentimental and hard about it, but it's also an amazing book.
Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (Fiction) - Now this is the type of book that readers like - engaging, original, accessible. Both gritty and sweet. I can see why it was a best-seller, and enjoyed it myself.
Reading Six Feet Under - TV to Die For (Cultural Studies) - not for everyone, academic analyses of different themes in the TV show, but it allowed me, with pleasure, to revisit the best TV show ever.
Alice Sebold's The Almost Moon (Fiction) - it didn't grab me, or was this just because The Lovely Bones was so unforgettably good.
Dorothy Porter's The Bee Hut (Poetry) - a beautiful short collection, published posthumously and including some of the last poems of this very original voice.
Norman Doidge's The Brain That Changes Itself (Science) - thought about this for weeks, talked about it with friends for weeks. Still affecting the way I view the world.
Lorrie Moore's Collected Stories (Short Fiction)
Tara Moss' Fetish (Crime/Thriller)
Robert Bly's translation of Rumi, The Kabir Book (Poetry).
Haruki Murukami's Dance Dance Dance (Fiction) - Wow, does this man have an interesting mind. Really enjoyed it.
Henry James' The Aspern Papers (Fiction) - since I was passing through Venice, I took a friend's recommendation to read this slim book set in Venice. Now I can say I've read some Henry James...
Tim Winton's Breath (Fiction) - A lot packed into this short novel.
Second Person Queer (Essays) - Finally read this anthology that I was included in. A few great pieces, not sure whether the idea works as a whole book.
James Robert Baker's Adrenalin (Fiction) - Phew. A wild ride, read on the high recommendations of friends who are huge fans of his. A piece of gay history.
David Ebershoff's the 19th wife (Fiction) - Interesting topic. Didn't like it as much as the Danish Girl.
Tim Winton's Dirt Music (Fiction) - God I loved this book. Great introduction for me to a premier Australian writer.
Dashiell Hammett's The Maltese Falcon (Crime) - read for a literary salon which I eventually couldn't make it too. Darn. Could see it was the model for much of what followed - but didn't love it.
Dorothy Porter's Monkey's Mask (Poetry/Crime) - also (re)read this for the salon. Amazing book. Quick read!
Michael Ondaatje's In The Skin of The Lion (Fiction) - I read this aloud to my partner - an interesting experiment. When are they going to make a movie of this?
Kate Atkinson's When Will There Be Good News? (Crime Fiction) - A nice surprise, as I loved her first novel, to see she's turned to crime... and with a great story and characters. sweartogod.
Anne Enright's Yesterday's Weather (Short Fiction) - Enjoyed them. Now curious to read her Booker Prize winning novel.
Edmund White's Hotel de Dream (Fiction)
Tom Cho's Look Who's Morphing (Short Fiction)
Ken Wilber's Grace and Grit (Philosophy/Biography) - I'm loving this book as I read it and it's changing the way I think about spirituality, enlightenment, disease and the new age movement.
Levitt and Dubner's Freakonomics (Culture/Non-Fiction). A great read. Fun and insightful and challenging.
Alice Munro's Lives of Girls and Women (Fiction). I'm a huge fan of Alice Munro - and it was interesting to read one of her early books.
Best American Poetry 2008 (Poetry) - My pal John introduced me to this series years ago. I really like this year's collection. Some stunning work.
Salman Rushdie's The Enchantress of Florence (Fiction) - completely adored this.
Best Gay Poetry 2008 (Poetry) - some amazing work in here
The Kite Runner (Fiction) - Good story but I didn't love the writing itself. Maybe I expected too much because of the hype.

2008

Markus Zusak's The Book Thief (Fiction)
Sara Gruen's Water for Elephants (Fiction)
Sean Horlor's Made Beautiful By Use (Poetry)
Lorna Crozier's Whetstone (Poetry) Stunning.
Sharon Olds' Blood, Tin, Straw (Poetry)
Miranda July's No One Belongs Here More Than You (Short Fiction)
Alex Boyd's Making Bones Walk (Poetry)
Fiona Tinwei Lam's Intimate Distances (Poetry)
Anne-Marie MacDonald’s Fall On Your Knees (Fiction) - Reread it to see if I still liked it as much. I did.
Margaret Atwood's Moral Disorder (Short Fiction)
Jes Battis' Night Child (Fantasy)
Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go (Fiction)
Elizabeth Bishop's Eat Pray Love (Memoir)
Alain de Botton's Essays on Love (Fiction)
Sarah McDonald's Holy Cow (Memoir)
Keirsey's Please Understand Me II (Personality Test)
Nam Le's The Boat (Short Fiction)
Brian Rigg's A False Paradise (Poetry)
Augusten Buroughs' A Wolf at the Table (Memoir)
Sarah McDonald's Holy Cow (Memoir/Travel)
Candace Bushell's Sex and the City (Fiction/Journalism)
Martin Harrison's Wild Bees (Poetry)
Alan Weiss' Getting Started in Consulting (Business)
John Gould's Kilter (Short Short Fiction)
A.M.Homes' Things You Should Know (Short Fiction)
Eduardo Galeano's Memory of Fire (History/Fiction)
Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist (Fiction)
Raimond Gaita's Romulus, My Father (Biography) - Loved this book as a portrayal of immigrant Australia. Great characters, great storytelling.
David Marr's The Henson Case (Non-Fiction) - A clear, lucid account of the Bill Henson controversy
Kevin Hart's Flame Tree: Selected Poems (Poetry)
Colin Carberry's Ceasefire in Purgatory (Poetry)
Michael Ondaatje's Divisadero (Fiction) - Great finish to the year. What a beautiful book.

2007

Alain De Botton’s The Art of Travel (Philosophy)
Henri von Doussa's The Park Bench (Fiction)
Jonathan Lethem's Men and Cartoons (Short Fiction)
David Mitchell's Ghostwritten (Fiction)
Linda Gregg's Flesh and Things (Poetry)
Billy Collin's Sailing Alone Around The Room: New and Selected Poems
Best American Poetry 2006
Jerry and Esther Hicks' Ask and It Is Given (New Age/Philosophy)
Rattawut Lapcharoensap's Sightseeing (Short Fiction)
Steven King's On Writing (Non-Fiction)
Margaret Atwood's Oryx and Crake (Fiction)
Alexander McCall Smith's The No. Ladies' Detective Agency (Fiction)
Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's (Fiction)
Jean-Dominique Bauby's The Diving-Bell & The Butterfly (Memoir)
Anonymous's The Bride Stripped Bare (Fiction)
Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Law Vegas (Nonfiction/Journalism)
David Allen's How to Get Things Done (Career/Self-Help)
Gangaji's Diamond in Your Pocket (Spirituality)
Seminal: The Anthology of Canada's Gay Male Poets (Poetry)
Patrick Lane's What the Stones Remember (Memoir)
Eckhardt Tolle's A New Earth (Philosophy)
Ben Elton's High Society (Fiction)
Suzanne Chick's Searching for Charmiane (Biography)
Tracy Quan's Diary of a Married Call Girl (Fiction)
Alice Munro's The View From Castle Rock (Memoir)
Margaret Atwood's Moral Disorder (Short Fiction/Memoir)
Alice Niffenegger's The Time Traveller's Wife (Fiction)
Pablo Neruda's Isla Negra (Poetry)
Milan Kundera's Farewell Waltz (Fiction)
Salman Rushdie's Grimus (Fiction)

2006

Mark Doty’s The Source (Poetry)
Mark Doty’s School of the Arts (Poetry)
Ken Wilber’s No Borders (Philosophy)
Stephen Greco’s The Sperm Engine (Erotica/Memoir)
Alice Munro’s Runaway (Short Fiction)
Sean Condon’s My ‘Dam Life (memoir/humour)
Daniel Gawthrop’s The Rice Queen Diaries (memoir)
Yann Martel’s The Life of Pi (Fiction)
Joanne Harris’ Chocolat (Fiction)
Edmund White's My Lives (Autobiography)
Gregory Maguire's Wicked (Fiction)
Michael V. Smith's What You Can't Have (Poetry)
George Ilsley's ManBug (Fiction)
Edmund White’s My Lives (Autobiography)
Eckhardt Tolle's The Power Of Now (Philosophy)
Shauna Singh Baldwin’s What the Body Remembers (Fiction)
Shalini Akhil’s The Bollywood Beauty (Fiction)
John Murray’s A Few Short Notes on Tropical Butterflies (Short Fiction)
Lorna Crozier’s What the Living Won’t Let Go (Poetry)

2005

Jonathan Franzen’s The Twenty-Seventh City (Novel)
Gerald Stern’s Last Blue (Poetry)
Alain De Botton’s Status Anxiety (Non-Fiction)
Michel Houellebecq’s Lanzerote (Fiction)
Noel Rowe’s Next to Nothing (Poetry)
Alan Hollinghurst’s The Line Of Beauty (Novel)
Dorothy Porter’s The Monkey’s Mask (Poetry)
Lynne Truss’ Eats, Shoots and Leaves (Non-Fiction)
Gerald Stern’s This Time (Poetry)
Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink (Non-Fiction)
Jill Jones’ Screen Jets Heaven (Poetry)
Marshall Moore’s Black Shapes in a Darkened Room (Short Fiction)
Sandra Alland’s A Shape of a Tongue (Poetry)
Victoria Finlay’s Colour: Travels through the Paintbox (Non-Fiction)
Michael Cunningham’s Land’s End (Non-Fiction)
Gerald Stern’s Lucky Life (Poetry)
Steve Kluger’s Almost Like Being in Love (Novel)
Tony Hoagland’s Donkey Gospel (Poetry)
Greg Wharton’s Johny Was and Other Tall Tales (Erotica)
Kevin Bentley’s Let’s Shut Out the World (Memoir)
Randall Mann’s Complaint in the Garden (Poetry)
Jameson Currier’s Desire, Lust, Passion, Sex (Short Fiction/Erotica)
Ann Hood’s An Orthinologist’s Guide to Life (Short Fiction)
Kevin Bentley’s Wild Animals I Have Known (Memoir)

2004

Best Gay Erotica 2004 (Erotica)
Mark Doty’s Still Life with Oranges and Lemons (Non-Fiction)
Peter Carey’s Oscar and Lucinda (Novel)
Gerald Stern’s American Sonnets (Poetry)
Peter Minter’s Empty Texas (Poetry)
The Complete Guide to Spirits and Liqueurs (Non-Fiction)
Best Gay Asian Erotica (Erotica)
David Sedaris’ Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim (Humour)
Ian Phillips and Greg Whartons’ Law of Desire (Erotica/Anthology)
Meanjin’s Australasian Issue (Review/Anthology)
Gerry Turcotte’s Winterlude (Poetry)
Philip Hammiel’s In the Year of our Lord’s Slaughter (Poetry)
Marshall Moore’s Ideal for Living (Novel)
Wayson Choy’s All That Matters (Novel)
Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex (Novel)
George Ilsley’s Random Acts of Hatred (Short Fiction)
Anne-Marie MacDonald’s The Way the Crow Flies (Novel)

Around 2003

Best Gay Erotica 2003 (Erotica)
Tracey Quan’s Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl (Novel)
Jim Gladwell’s The Tipping Point (Non-Fiction)
Joel Tan’s Monster (Poetry)
Sharon Olds’ The Unswept Room (Poetry)
Laurie Moore’s Self-Help (Short Fiction)
Luke Davies’ Running with Light
Carol Shield’s Unless (Novel)
Kevin Bentley’s Boyfriends from Hell (Anthology)
David Sedaris’ Naked (Humour)
Kate Fagan’s The Long Moment (Poetry)
Michael Farrell’s Ode Ode (Poetry)

Around 2002

Michael Cunningham’s Home at the End of the World (Novel)
David Eberschoff’s Rose City (Short Fiction)
Michael Chabon’s Adventures of Cavalier and Clay (Novel)
Michael Ondaatje’s Anil’s Ghost (Novel)
Martin Foreman’s Butterfly’s Wing (Novel)
Noel Alumnit’s Letters to Montgomery Clift (Novel)
Michael Smith’s Cumberland (Novel)
Michael Cunningham’s Flesh and Blood (Novel)
Louis Bernieres’ Captain Corelli’s Mandolin (Novel)
Jonathan Franzen’s the Corrections (Novel)
Imogen Edward Jones’ My Canape Hell (Novel)
Scott Heim’s Mysterious Skin (Novel)
Colm Toibin’s The Story of the Night (Novel)
Eva Sebold’s The Lovely Bones (Novel)
Ursula Leguin’s The Other Wind (Novel)
Seamus Heaney’ The Open Ground (Poetry – Collected)

Around 2001

Dave Egger’s A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (Novel/Autobiography)
Jhumpa Lamphiri’s Interpreter of Maladies (Short Fiction)
Michael Cunningham’s The Hours (Novel)
Neal Drinnan’s Glove Puppet (Novel)
J.M. Coetzee’s Disgrace (Novel)
Nicholas Jose’s The Red Thread (Novel)
Blaine Marchand’s Bodily Presence (Poetry)
Billeh Nickerson’s Asthmatic Glassblower (Poetry)
Mitch Cullin’s From The Place in the Valley Deep in the Forest (Short Fiction)
Steve Kluger’s Last Days of Summer (Novel)
Neal Drinnan’s Pussy’s Bow (Novel)
Elizabeth Knox’s Vintner’s Luck (Novel)
Edmund White’s Farewell Symphony (Novel)
Francisco Ibanez’s Flesh Wounds and Purple Flowers (Novel)
Bruno Bouchet’s The Girls (Novel)
Dennis Altman’s Global Sex (Non-Fiction)
Micha Ramaker’s Art of Pleasure (Non-Fiction)
Marshall Moore’s the Concrete Sky (Novel)

Rush!

2008-11-08T12:26:00.004+11:00

What a morning to wake up late. My 7th morning in Nepal, and previously, I'd woken up at 5:30 or 6am almost every day. I can't quite adjust to the 5 and 3/4 hour time difference (did you catch that? a quarter hour time change!). Last night, I fell asleep early too - as I don't feel like boozing by myself, Kathmandu is not a night-time place for me. And I put my alarm next to my bed. But must not have set it.

So, a deep dream and waking up with a start. Damn. Just after 6am, and I was aiming to be in a taxi now, half an hour away from the airport, where I was supposed to check in for my short flight around My Everest an hour early at 7:30. So, throwing on whatever clothes I could fine, rushing out the door, grabbing things on the way: the camera being the most important. There are no taxis at the bottom of my hotel's street where they usually are, so I need to run out to the intersection. The taxi driver won't use the meter - but doesn't charge as much as I'd expected. 300 rupees, or $6 Australian. Fine, I say, let's please rush. So, instead he gets out of the car, and another driver gets in. "Are you single?" he says. I'm looking at him in disbelief, and say, "please, to the airport, I need to catch a flight." "Are you single?" he repeats again, and I motion for him to start driving.

Of course, I realize as we start driving, on roads that are thankfully quiet, that he was asking if I was waiting for another passenger. Nope. It's like how I can't get used to the south Asian headbob. Those in the north don't do it, but a woman I work with sometimes from Kerala, jiggles her head clockwise and counterclockwise, yet fixed in place as if at the back of her head, aligned to somewhere just below her nose. They do it here too in Nepal, but it seems even more pronounced, and somewhat unexpected. At a gut level, I'm understanding "no", it's close enough to the negative shake of the head, before I remember that it's more of a "yes", an I understand you, sure, whatever.

It takes only 20 minutes to get the airport, I rush in and try to figure out the melee. I jump the queue to put my bag through the x-ray machine ahead of a mountaineering expedition with a dozen packs. The security guard points at my waist as I go through the scanner. "Open, open," he says, but I don't have anything to open, no waist-bag (I've stopped saying fanny-pack after living in Australia), and my crumpler bag is just now coming out of the x-ray machine. I look at him quizzically. He points at my fly.

An enthusiastic volunteer rushes towards me loudly pointing me this way and that, to the airport tax counter. I'm thinking that I can't possibly have to pay the foreigner's exit fee of $35 just for the mountain flight, so brush him off and try to check-in. And get sent back to the tax counter. It's only $4. They can't find my time on the passenger list, and slowly think about what to do, before writing my name down by hand. I'm short-tempered these last two days. I find the people here lovely in manner, warm, and with beautiful eyes. As I always try to do when I'm travelling, I chat to people in stores, try to be respectful, when people stare at me in the street, I smile and say "namaste". But I'm a little tired after a week here.

Inside the boarding area, I rush to the gate. But I can't figure out what's going on. It's crowded, perhaps a hundred of us or so waiting. The guard at the gate looks at my boarding pass, and tells me: "not 7:30am, 9:30" and then "Japanese, are you Japanese?" Which I get here on a regular basis. I don't mind the assumption, as I've been mistaken for Japanese ever since I grew a beard and moustache, but it's boring having it called after me so often.

I'm tired and flustered. I busted a gut to get here on time, and don't love the idea of a two hour wait here, but I finally check with another guard, who tells me the flight will be at 8:30, and they'll call for boarding 15 minutes before. So, here I am, after the rush, in the internet lounge, hopeful for clarity, good conditions, safe flying.

Some small things about Nepal

2008-11-03T10:36:00.006+11:00

I wake at 5am. My neighbours have woken the last two mornings at 5:30am; I've been roused by a low male voice talking at full strength through the thin walls of the 5 star Hotel de L'Annapurna. I don't know if he's talking to someone else in the room, or on the phone, or? So this morning, I've pre-empted that - I guess I'm staying on Australia time for now, 5 hours later. I switch on the light, get up. When I look back down at my bed, a small brown bug in high contrast to the white sheets scurries along. Cockroach? Bed bug?
Later, there will a blog post about about my overall impressions of a place I've wanted to spend time in, my amazing colleagues, the sites I hope to see. But for now, the small things. As I've been in meetings for 2.5 days and have seen little:
I was lucky enough to remember to request a seat on the right-hand side of the airplane as I flew into Kathmandu from Bangkok. I had no idea what to expect, and how beautiful it would be, to see the mountains floating on top of the clouds.
Thai Airways, one of the two Asian airlines that fly into Nepal from Sydney, provide their own version of the customs declaration form for arrival. I loved it. Among the non-consumable items that you are allowed to bring are: Used Portable Music System One Set and Recorded or Blank Cassettes up to 10 pieces; Tricycle 1 piece; Used Fountain Pen One Set. Ball Pen or Pencil One Set; Used Simple Medical Equipment One Set for Doctor; One Set Playing Item for Player; One Set Musical Instrument For Musician; Fishing Rod; Perambulator 1 Piece. Passengers having more than the given quantity are required to proceed to the Red Channel. Dear Reader, I lied. This artist of deception smuggled through my three ball point pens and headed out through the Green Channel.
Outside the terminal, the taxi touts are omniprescent but wander away when I say that the hotel is sending a pick-up. At the ATM machine, I ask for more than the daily limit. I punch in a reduced request, and a women security guard appears suddenly through a door to the side of the machine. "No, no," she scolds, but I can hear the whir and buzz of a successful transaction. At the hotel room, I see that I received 8,000 instead of 10,000 rupees. You have to admire an ATM machine that gives it what it wants to give you, rather than what you ask for.
The hotel is familiar, the same that I stayed at on my visit in 2005 (painfully short, with little time for sightseeing, I literally had to jog around the famous stupa here to get back to my waiting driver). Traveller's tales often end in the toilet; I won't diverge. I love the bottle water they've left for me there. "Thirst-Pi". Named by an admirer of mathematics, or is Pi an allusion to Pee? It was the winner of the internatonal quality award for commercial prestige, in Italy, in 2002. Which I suppose it reassuring. I've heard many times over the years of how the western position for toilets is unnatural; squatting is better. This one seems to combine the two. The plastic seat slopes back so that I feel like I'm wedged in place. Neither comfortable nor natural. Comical, I'd say.
I'm gifted with a week in Nepal this time, before the next meetings in Delhi. Unusually for me, I haven't planned what I'm doing! This morning, I'm visiting a colleague in the hospital, and will visit three organisations during the day. I'm considering going to Nagarkot tomorrow evening, which will then allow me a famous sunrise view. I might as well take advantage of the time I'm waking up!

Musical Theatre, Cabaret, Dance and Plays - Shows I've Seen

2008-10-26T22:35:00.030+11:00

While I'm at it with concerts, why not list a few shows I've seen too - big shows and little shows, but memorable for some reason or other.

2011

Uncle Vanya, January 1st, Sydney Theatre Company - with a cast that included Cate Blanchett, Hugo Weaving, Jackie Weaver, Richard Roxborough, this was amazing theatre.
My Bicycle Loves You - Legs on the Wall (Sydney Festival, Sydney Theatre Company)
Wayne McGregor's Entity - a dance performance at the Sydney Theatre Company as part of the Sydney Festival
Taylor Mac's The Ziggy Stardust Meets Tiny Tim Songbook or Comparison is Violence, Sydney Opera House
John Bucchino & Friends in Concert, Australian Institute of Music
Rafael Bonachela & Jacopo Godani's Shared Frequencies, Sydney Dance Company
Orange Flower Water, Darlinghurst Theatre Company - Some interesting bits by one of the writers for Six Feet Under, but ultimately unsuccessful in bringing some innovation, some interesting breath to the theme of infidelity and family breakup. Sentimental ending completely at odds with what came before.

2010

Bash'd: A Gay Rap Opera, The Cultch, Vancouver
Robert Lepage's The Blue Dragon, SFU Woodwards, Vancouver
Smoke & Mirrors at the Spiegeltent, Sydney Festival, (Jan)
Ballet de Rua (Brazilian Street Ballet), Sydney Opera House
Hamlet (Schaubühne Berlin), Sydney Theatre Company
Waiting for Godot, with Ian McKellan, Sydney Opera House
A Little Night Music (Opera Australia), Sydney Opera House
Kiss of the Spiderwoman (Darlinghurst Theatre), Sydney

2009 (Mostly Australia)

Wicked, Sydney (December)
Streetcar Named Desire (September), Sydney Theatre Company - with Cate Blanchett... Amazing. Sublime.
Avenue Q, Sydney (August) - The Australian cast made it their own, and I loved it.
Pilobolus Dance Theatre, Sydney (May) - Amazing and beautiful, the vocabulary of dance that I am familiar with was upended and expanded. Very erotic.
Lipsynch - Robert Lepage
The Twink and the Showgirl - Phil Scott & Vincent Hooper - Parramatta Theatre
Gutenberg! The Musical - Seymour Centre (2 different casts)
Alan Cumming: I bought a blue car - Sydney Opera House
Justin Bond is Close to You (Feb 2009, The Studio, Sydney Opera House)
Gatz, Elevator Repair Service Company, Playhouse at the Opera House, (May 09)
Dirty Rotten Scoundrels (Vancouver, Queen Elizabeth Theatre, Dec)

2008 and before

Spiegeltent, at Sydney Festival
My Fair Lady
Priscilla
Mamma Mia
Titanic!
Into the Woods (New Theatre)
Angels in America Part I (New Theatre)
Falsettos (New Theatre)
Merrily we Roll Along (university production)
The Hatpin, Seymour Centre, Sydney
Sweeney Todd (two different productions at the Opera House)
Avenida Q (mexico city)
Pippin, Kookaburra, Sydney Theatre
Cabaret
Homebody/Kabul, The Belvoir (08)
Stringberg's the Dance of Death with Ian McKelland (03)
Chess, Theatre Royal, Sydney
Wicked, Melbourne (08) - fantastic!
Little Show of Horrors (08, New Theatre)
Kaash - Akram Khan Company, August 2002. Great Dance Performance.
Laramie Project, Company B Belvoir.

Europe

After a time in London, I was encouraged as a gay man to get to know Sondheim. At the Edinburgh Festival, I saw an amazing version of "Into the Woods", a mediocre "Company" and a god-awful "Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum".
And then in the following two years saw at least 3 productions of "Side by Side by Sondheim", 2 of "Merrily We Roll Along" (both great), and "Assassins". Also, a concert version of "Sweeney Todd" and the amazing "Sondheim Tonight" tribute show at the Barbican Centre, London from September 1999
Tony Kushner's Slav's (Edinburgh)
Rent (London production)
Fame
Miss Saigon
The Iceman Cometh (with Kevin Spacey)
Naked (with Juliette Binoche)
Pippin
Godspell (a children's version - didn't know until we got there...)
Richard II with Ralph Fiennes at the Gainsborough Film Studios, London, 1998

Canada/U.S.A.

My brother's high school put on "My Fair Lady", "Godspell", "the Wiz" and "South Pacific" (in which he played the Chinese manservant)
And then when I got to high school, there was "Oklahoma" and "Godspell".
I also remember a high school production in Hawaii of "West Side Story"
And a touring version of Annie
Chorus Line (Touring Cast)
The Good Woman of Szechuan (Peterborough)
Marat/Sade (I was in it!) (Peterborough)
Happy Days (Peterborough)
The Caucasian Chalk Circle (Peterborough)
Cabaret (Touring Cast)
Rent (Vancouver, Touring Cast)
Angels in America, parts 1 and 2, new york, summer of 1994 (In Jan 2011, I found the ticket stubs I'd saved. My tickets in the balcony cost $25 each...)
Thoroughly Modern Millie, Broadway
Avenue Q, Broadway
Forbidden Broadway - 20th anniversary celebration - Sept 2003, New York
Gypsy (with Bernadette Peters), Broadway. Sept 2003 (Sigh, I passed up Into the Woods with Vanessa Williams and saw this instead.)

Concerts I Have Been To

2008-10-26T22:16:00.023+11:00

At an Eros Ramazotti concert in Oct 08, I was musing at the amazing artists I've seen from around the world, and while around the world. I thought I'd indulge myself with a list of concerts of famous, obscure, alternative, and mainstream folks that I've seen through the years.

Australia

Eros Ramazotti
Sufjan Stevens
Dixie Chicks
Pink Martini
James Keelaghan
Kylie Minogue (Fever Tour - Aug 2002)
Scissor Sisters
Polyphonic Spree (I think this was my favourite show ever)
Iron and Wine
Aengus Finnan
The Idan Raichel Project
Josh Groban
Robynne Dunn
kd lang (twice)
Rufus Wainwright/Beth Orton (tribute to Leonard Cohen concert)

Europe (+ more)

James Taylor (London)
Nanci Griffith (London)
Ani Difranco (London)
Orchestra de la Luz (Expo 92)
Celia Cruz (Expo 92)
Sarah McLachlan (Expo 92)
Lucie-Blue Tremblay (Expo 92)
Celine Dion (Expo 92)
Ryuichi Sakamoto (London)
Shawn Colvin (London)
Zizi Possi (Rio)

Canada

Men at Work (Vancouver - my first concert ever, I was teased at school because of it, but hey, I loved them)
General Public (Vancouver)
Suzanne Vega (Vancouver)
Bob Dylan (Vancouver)
John Gorka (Peterborough)
James Keelaghan (Peterborough)
Ani Difranco (Peterborough, at least twice, and Toronto, once)
Spirit of the West (Peterborough)
Holly Cole (Ptbo)
Molly Johnson (Ptbo)
Stephen Fearing (Ptbo)
Angelique Kidjo (Vancouver)
kd lang (expo 86)
Michel Lemieux (expo 86)
David Bowie (Vancouver, Let's Dance tour)
Shonen Knife (Toronto)
Bruce Cockburn
Jane Siberry (Vancouver)
The Flirtations (Vancouver)
Lynn Miles (Vancouver)
Leah Delaria (Toronto)

2010 - Australia

Andrew Bird, January, Sydney Opera House
Grizzly Bear, January, State Theatre, Sydney
Carole King and James Taylor, April, Hope Estate Winery, Hunter Valley
Rickie Lee Jones, Opera House (Vivid), May
Jonsi, Enmore Theatre
Kurt Elling, November, Sydney Opera House

2011 - Australia

The National, Enmore Theatre (January)
The Magnets, The Basement (June)

Old Poems

2008-10-26T21:59:00.004+11:00

(26 Oct 08) Today I tackled a folder of old poems on my computer. They were written on old PCs, and are now barely readable by my year-old Mac - being the organised-sort that I am (i.e. so organised that it scares people who are unorganised), I decided to decode them and put them in an archive file.

It was an interesting journey scanning over the first poems that I ever wrote, at university, nearly 20 years ago, and from a few years after. I saw the handful that made it into my first collection of poetry, Slant, others that came close, and more that were never in the running.

As a young writer, I often did not have enough to say in the poems, there was a good idea or image, but not much else. I had the tendency to describe emotions and the world in general and grandiose terms, with an occasional interesting turn of phrase, but often lacking something specific, a detail, which would really bring a phrase to life.

I wrote too often about poetry itself, and language, but being young had nothing wise to say. There were some pieces which are better off as pages of a journal, a few cringe-making earnest political tracts (the one about the anti-fur lobby stood out here).

But I was also drawn to what made good poetry: weight, gravity, grief, joy. There was a lovely youth and liveliness to some and occasionally I could keep an idea uncomplicated but sharp enough to work well. It was interesting to revisit all those seeds and grains and see how they grew into what were published in magazines, and then my books, to see the young poet in formation, in love with words, already on his way.

Peach Stone

This translucent stone
is bright and simple.

I fixed it to my forehead
with apricot jam
and thought of you all night.

Now it reaches you
after having travelled
through spaces
no person could ever fit.

Touch it to the ground once more
and ask from it its secrets.

Weight

2008-10-18T06:33:00.013+11:00

Ayumi warns me by e-mail: Please be patient with my English, it has gotten bad because I don't use it. And: I look older. But she catches herself. I guess we all do. She gives me specific instructions for when and where to meet: the tour is organised so there is a narrow window of time. Friday night. 9pm. Lobby of the Swissotel. Is it a problem to get there?

The CBD is bustling. A few young families, obviously not from here. The Friday night drinks crowd. Girls in heels out for a big night on the town. Seats of cheap Korean restaurants are filled by dozens of young Asian men and women. A gaggle of girls ask me where Kent Street is. I've suddenly forgotten but can point them to a map fixed to a post.

I am exactly on time and find them already there. Andy, they exclaim. Ayumi rushes forward, leans into me, pats my back, and I turn towards her mother who smiles broadly and offers me her hand. I was planning on bowing, as low as I could, but she is not as formal as I expected. She is wearing a bright top of floral design with elegant jewelry. I had expected differently. Ayumi had told me about her mother's problems, how sometimes she would stay on the couch for days at a time, watching TV. I'd predicted crazy, some visible sign.

My mother would not like tea or coffee. She would like something to help her to sleep. So, perhaps we can drink alcohol. Ayumi sounds slightly anxious in her second tongue, as if her mouth isn't fast enough for her, but her English sounds like the last time I'd heard it. There is a famous hotel bar around the corner. It's not far away. Only a block. On the way, she tells me, We'll pay. Let's be extravagant.

You look good. I'd seen Ayumi three years ago when I was at a conference in her hometown as well as a year before that on vacation. The first time I'd seen her after sixteen years, I was shocked. She had changed though I wasn't sure how. Her eyes were excited and dull all at once. She had been eating a powdery candy, its traces covering her lips. I couldn't stop staring at the yellow dust.

Yes, I lost a lot of weight. Ayumi and I have been writing to each other since leaving college. I can remember the square shapes of her handwriting, the delicate paper, and colourful stamps. She wrote her return address in Japanese, and near the end, before we switched to e-mail, I'd copied the Japanese kanji out carefully, though included the English translation just in case. Our routine was that she would tell of her problems: fitting in, failing to get into university, unable to hold down jobs, friendless. I would offer advice: volunteer work, perserverance, counselling, exercise.

The Hilton has door staff, three broad-shouldered imposing men, and a beautiful blonde. A group of people, dressed up, jostle past them and down some stairs. They are holding out cards. Invitations? ID? My nerves jump. Ayumi gestures at her clothes, a light rainjacket over a simple t-shirt. I'd like to show my friends from Japan the bar. Can we get in? I ask. Sure. The doorman gestures towards the stairs without hesitation. The blonde starts to say something, and then shakes her head. Never mind.

But there's a band playing tonight. Blues. Loud. The interior of the bar is ornate. Roman columns shimmer bronze. Light catches stained pictorial frames. Rich red furnishing and cedar. Designed in 1893, it's about as old as Sydney gets but I don't know what else to do but motion at it with my hands. There is nowhere to sit. The customers are beautifully dressed. It's noisy and crowded, and staff members are shifting leather sofas from the bar to the foyer, almost running over Ayumi's mother in the process. She has trouble hearing, Ayumi explains. Even in Japanese.

Two floors up, the wine bar is much quieter. We sit at the end of a high table. I get into a complicated exchange with a server who wants a credit card to create a tab. For one drink? He explains that two groups and eight hundred dollars have walked off already tonight. Ayumi's mother is fidgeting with her purse awkwardly. I tell him, this is awkward, and wait until he leaves.

I can barely find the cocktail list hidden after many pages of Australian wines. Angel's Eyes, says Ayumi, but it takes me a few times to understand the words. It's a cocktail her mother had many years ago. But we don't know what is in it, so I order the house special cocktail for her, an "Australian" (she wants something sweet), a Spanish white from Ribeiro for me, and a mocktail for Ayumi. About three years ago, I got so sick after drinking I decided to never drink again. It's a good thing, obviously, though at the time I couldn't blame her. I think I'm an alcoholic, she wrote but I thought: no job, no friends, nothing to do but cook and clean. I'd drink.

We exchange gifts. A large flat paper bag for me. From my father, for you and your boyfriend. I ask whether I should open it, and Ayumi hesitates, then says yes, but I feel awkward to open them here at the bar. Later, a set of two flat paper fans, two folding fans, perfumed, and two sets of 2008 coins from the Japanese mint, in 2005 I'd received from her (and her father) that year's version. I don't know anyone who collects coins.

I present mine to them. I know Japan well enough to have prepared. But it's the same routine: they'll open their presents at the hotel. So I describe: my latest book signed (even though Ayumi's sister ordered it and it still might be on its way) and "Runaway" by Alice Munro (beautifully wrapped by the bookstore); for her mother, an Australian version of panforte from Haigh's and some hand cream made with emu oil (wrapped not-beautifully by me).

When they show me their souvenir photos from Paradise World, each holding a fat, sleepy koala, my exclamations draw the attention of our neighbours at the same table. They add their delighted sounds. They're confused whether we're one family, or how we fit together, but are a perfect example of Aussie hospitality and warmth, asking about their trip and wishing them well. The tour, run by a Japanese company linked to their national railways, landed them in Brisbane where they saw Surfer's Paradise, caves of glow-worms (which would die if you took flash photos), and Lamington National Park (which I'll look up since I hear both Ramington and Remington). Sheep were sheared for them. They fed small colourful birds, which also perched in their hair and shat on Ayumi's mother's hair.

Today, a tour bus drove them past the strip joints at King's Cross. They had photos taken of themselves in front of the Opera House. Tomorrow, the Blue Mountains; the next day, an early flight with Jetstar. It's not expensive but they're never on time. I point outside to the Queen Victoria Building, glowing through the windows of the hotel bar, its Romanesque structures from the turn of last century. Maybe we passed it on the way to King's Cross? Is it beautiful inside too? But there's no free time on these tours, no place unguided.

Ayumi's mother reminds me of a male Japanese friend, a brisk, solid cheeriness. But she stares off into space, partly because Ayumi doesn't translate our conversations. Ayumi tells me that she was worried about how many sleeping tablets her mother took on the plane trip over, though it was good she slept. Remember I take sleeping pills? Mother has the same problem. The last visit I'd found out her doctor had her on a host of pills. Anti-depressants. Sleeping pills for the last few years, every night. She also had the habit of drinking three litres of diet Coke a day, which she worried cost too much money.

As far as I learned, here is the rest of Ayumi's life: Her sister did not renew her job at the antenna company. They didn't ask why, but it is now very crowded for four adults to be in their small apartment at all times. So it is good Ayumi and her mother are away for a little while. Her father is 72 and plays soccer twice a week. Her brother lives in the Philippines with his wife. His employment is precarious but they can't move back to Japan as his kids speak only Tagalog and English. They have two boys, 12 and 7. The oldest is mentally disabled and counts on his fingers, so learning Japanese would be impossible. Ayumi's mother visits them twice a year.

Ayumi has discovered facebook, and she writes to our classmates from college. But she confesses, I remember so little about that time. I can't remember which dormitories everyone lived in. Sometimes I write to people and pretend I remember them, but I don't. She tells me of those who never wrote back and others who do. I smile at their kindness and wonder what kind of bonds they've made with her over the years, and were they ever really friends? I don't remember either, Ayumi, the rooms people lived in. It doesn't matter.

But here is a victory. After sixteen years of letters and e-mail, and two face-to-face visits, Ayumi agreed to get out of her house, and to exercise. I took your advice. She goes to aqua-cize every week, without fail. She is still too shy to talk with anyone else, but she likes to listen to the other women's chatter. She has lost 15 kilos since I last saw her, and is slim. Her face seems stronger, more focused and alive. The doctor says I still should lose more weight. I tell her, no, she looks just fine. For Australia yes, but not Japan. But it couldn't have only been the exercise. Fifteen kilos. I remember her less healthy but not fat. I got a scale, and I made... and here she points out points on a chart in the air. Yes, a chart and I weighed myself twice a day. I tell her mother to make sure she doesn't lose too much weight, but I don't know what Ayumi translates it to.She has also given up Diet Coke, three months ago, and drinks only sparkling water. Congratulations, I say. I'm really proud of you. She leans forward conspiratorially. I heard it can kill you anyways. Aspartame.

Thank you. For writing to me all these years. I think I complain too much. When I write to college friends and tell them about my problems, my mother's, people don't write back.

You don't complain too much. I'm being truthful. The last years she writes of the weather, whether she's trying to read an English book. Maybe when you write to our classmates, try not to complain. Write of the good things. Tell them about your trip to Australia.

Ayumi's mother pays our bill. I walk them back to their hotel. When Ayumi and I hug good-bye, it is a soft clash of bones and cartilage, not an embrace. I wonder if it's stereotype and condescension to wonder if she has ever been held, whether she is held, ever, these days.

At home, my mac computer informs me that an Angel's Kiss cocktail has white creme de cacao, gin, brandy and cream while Angel's Eyes has cola, tequila and orange juice. Did I get the name right? Was it of fruit or milk? It's these details we miss, what we think is untranslatable or what we could never put into words. What country? What bar? Was it of a certain time and place, or simply made up by one person alone?

My next trip to Beijing

2008-09-03T16:12:00.003+10:00

The inflight magazine on USA airlines had three great suggestions for Beijing, one of which I know already. I want to do these on my next trip there:

Go to "Lan" designed by Philippe Starck, on the 4th floor of the Twin Towers (also known as Le Lan, Lan Bar, and Lan Club).
Go to "Li Jia Cai" (Family Li Cuisine) at 11 Yangfang Hutong, Denei Dajie, Xicheng District (6618 0107) - near the Drum Tower
And revisit the 798 Art Zone / Dashanzi Art District (which I loved on my first visit but wished I'd had a whole afternoon or day to wander around)

Mexico City Restaurant and Drink Recommendations

2008-08-23T13:01:00.004+10:00

What a great city for eating!

I'd researched on the internet and found Aguila Y Sol was one of the hottest restaurants...but closed.

So, our choice was Pujol, in Polanco. It was terrific.

I also had a great meal at the Basque restaurant Tezka in Zona Rosa.

I also ate at both branches of La Tecla.

And though warned that Casa Lamm (on Alvaro Obregon) might not have as good food as surroundings, our meal was lovely - and the building and atmosphere is Beautiful!

John and Aran introduced me to Mezcal at Red Fly on Orizaba. A must! (Though when I went back and tried to order on my own, I wasn't as successful).

And my biggest recommendation is to drink as many "tequila banderas" as possible:

"Order a ‘bandera’ (Spanish for ‘flag’), and your tequila will be served with a lime and another shot glass with ‘sangrita’, a tasty blend of tomato and citrus juice. (The combination is red, white, and green…the colors of the Mexican flag.)"

It's to be sipped (first tequila, then lime, then sangrita) not sculled (Australian for downed quickly) - and all the locals seemed to have it as an aperitif or with their meals. Fantastico!

Living the Pura Vida Loca - Andy and Steve in Costa Rica

2008-08-21T07:37:00.002+10:00

Everywhere we drove there were hawks flying overhead and everywhere we looked, nature was zooming, hopping or slithering over and under us. Costa Rica was a perfect combination, appealing to Steve's love of nature, and Andy's affection for Latin America. While Andy thought that the expression "Pura Vida" was an expression invented for the booming tourist industry (it's everywhere, on t-shirts, in brochures), it turns out to be local lingo which means, well, pretty much anything: a mood, a person, an adjective, but basically pure life = something good. Which is what we experienced for a week.

It's a country with an interesting history - a peaceful government, an educated population - and incredibly varied geography all within a few hours drive of each other. You can see a lot in short time, which we did! Lucky that Steve's a brave driver - it was a great way to get around - though amusingly, there's often few or no signs for turnoffs or even major tourism destinations. Those working in the tourist industry were warm and efficient! I was impressed by the towel art in at least two of the hotels, elaborate flowers and in one case, a pair of swans. On the many backroads we drove on, we'd occasionally receive a bright smile and wave, but generally, people seemed wary of all of these strangers driving around their backyard ("land of the suspicious look", I coined it). It's not a cheap place to travel, in comparison with say, Asia, or other parts on Latin America - but it's cheaper than Europe or North America with a high standard of living. And you can drink the water!

Andy arrived on Sunday morning and was able to catch up with Monica, a Pearson College classmate and meet her wonderful family. They took him for a typical meal up in the mountains and a drive through the centre. Steve was lead into town from the Hertz rental car headquarters near the airport that evening, in a shiny silver 4 wheel drive (later dubbed "Dulcita") with first experiences with some unusual turning lanes, lack of signs, and potholes. After a restful night at the lovely Hotel Alta we headed up Monday morning to the La Paz Waterfall Gardens where we spent the day. This nature park was an unexpected surprise - an aviary with toucans and amazing tropical birds, the world's largest butterfy enclosure, enclosures for monkeys, frogs, lizards and snakes and my favourite, an area with some beautiful native felines - two pumas, a tigrito, two ocelots, and a jaguarito, all which were only an arm's length away, and shown to us by a personal guide. In other zoos, the cats are usually hiding far away, sleeping or otherwise avoiding the humans (wouldn't you?) A walking trail took us past a few beautiful waterfalls (flush and brown with rain - our first day getting to know the rainy season), and we decided to stay the night at the hotel. The completely over-the-top and expensive standard rooms were all booked out, but we got a reasonably priced apartment right across from the aviary for Monday night.

Tuesday we made sure to be near the hummingbirds at 9:15am so we could feed them by hand (amazing and beautiful creatures) which meant by the time we got to the famous view of the Poas Volcano, we saw... nothing. Just a big mass of cloud. The nearby lagoon was not that pretty either. So we headed onto Volcan Arenal next to Lake Arenal - a beautiful area dominated by the view of a live smoking volcano. We stayed at the very reasonably priced Volcano Lodge ($60 USD) and as it started to bucket down with rain, we headed over to one of the area's famed hotsprings. One of the local guides recommended Baldi over Tabacon Hotsprings (which I'm still curious about). Baldi Hotsprings (USD 30 entry) is the Caesar's Palace of Hotsprings with an enormous manmade structure looming in the background that creates a steaming hot waterfall (which Steve loved lying under) which then flows down to the various other sections of the park: waterslides, swimming pool bars, and spa areas, all to a loud soundtrack of 80s music. A good place to spend a rainy night, even though I slipped and broke my favourite pair of Crocs.

We headed up the next morning, Wednesday, to try to get a closer look at the Volcano. The next time, that's where I'd want to stay, at the Ecological reserve on the slopes of the Volcano. The morning was fairly clear - and you could see smoke streaming up from the lava flows, but I wish I could have seen it glowing at night. We had a good breakfast there (including fried plantains, yum, and the local breakfast specialty, Gallo Pinto (rice mixed with black beans) and went for a walk on the grounds. As Volcano Lodge was booked up that night, we headed for a drive around the lake - a man-made one, the scene could have been from may countries: Canada, Scandinavia, England... but particularly Switzerland, as the further we got around the lake, there were these crazy hotels and lodges with Swiss themes and decor (the guidebook mentioned a revolving restaurant but we couldn't see it). We took a little detour to stay at the Mystica Lodge past Nuevo Arenal - a gorgeous little place where we were the only guests. There was a yoga and meditation room a short walk away from the restaurant, beyond that a path to an enormous Ceiba tree. On Steve's hike there, he met a family of howler monkeys in the wild. Back near the room were iguanas, hummingbirds and more butterflies.

Thursday was adventurous driving on really rough roads to get us to Volcan Tenorio. We decided to seek adventure and followed a sign which promised hotsprings and pools (but basically got us to a pretty river and a dead end) - and afterwards spent rather a lot of time trying to decipher instructions from the Lonely Planet guide (incomplete) to get us to the entrance of the National Park. The road was the roughest we experienced, rocks and potholes galore, but it was perhaps the biggest reward: swimming in perhaps the most beautiful waterfall I've ever seen, then hiking along a crazy blue river, and to an area with a natural hotspring. Fantastico. Then we headed to the famous Monteverde/St Elena region of the Cloud Forests and while I was worried about reaching it by nightfall, over bumpy roads and with striking views, we made it to the Hotel Sapo Dorado (USD 125 a night), named for a poor golden toad that no one has seen for years. Monteverde is a really strange area, the roads around it purposely kept unpaved to keep tourism low, two major parks protecting the rainforests, and a significant Quaker population. It was dark and quiet and tiny yet had some of the best and most reasonably priced food (Sophia's and Chimera - Nuevo Latino Cuisine. Rico. Rico. Rico) and has an extensive adventure tourism infrastructure (and a yummy cheese factory).

Friday morning, we had a nice walk in the St Elena Nature Reserve - lush and green and tropical, bromeliads everywhere, yellow breasted birds darting here and there. We saw a sloth (which looked, high above, like a pile of moss) and in the parking lot a local pig, a pecarry, and an anteater-like creature called a coati. In the afternoon, without either of us really planning it, we ended up on one of Costa Rica's famous Canopy Tours, which was basically an hour and a half of zipping through and over the top of the rainforest harnessed to a zipline. Unlike rollercoasters (which we love), the adrenaline rush is not limited to one hill or loop, but is sustained for rather a long time as you speed down a length of 40 to 770 metres (the longest), and as high up as 130 metres. That night we took a chance on a night walk through the Monteverde nature reserve. It was pouring for most of the two hours, and while it started well - seeing a tarantula, and crazy stick insects in the wet night, it ended up not a full success. Though we shined our flashlights in earnest in every direction, we saw little else, a few sleeping birds, one frog, some spiders. We knew the guide was desperate when he started pointing out the local cockroaches, and Andy eventually started pointing out more Ocelots. "...'At's a lot of stick insects..."

As an aside, I'd looked up the weather for the week on Accuweather.com and it basically said "rainy" every day with the same range of temperatures. But internet weather doesn't quite describe the rainy season in Costa Rica. Yes, it rained every day (mostly in the late afternoon), but it was also sunny and beautiful for parts of most days. They should create a new symbol to describe it!

Saturday, before heading back to the big smoke, we drove down to the coast and got a taste of the humidity there - we drove through an awful tourist beach town called Jaco (like Kuta in Bali, or Pattaya in Thailand), past a huge muddy river which had a busload of tourists walking over it and pointing into it inexplicably (we dubbed it El Rio Feo, the Ugly River), ah, and we saw a last waterfall, supposedly one of Costa Rica's tallest, Bijagual, but from the tourist trap lookout at "Pura Vida Garden" (USD 20 entrance, big ugly concrete paths around a sculpted tropical garden, though we did get photos with a toucan and blue macaw), the view of the waterfall was only mediocre. We spent most of the afternoon on crazy, winding backroads, with more dramatic views of hills and valleys, to get back to San Jose and finished our last night recounting our adventures to Monica and Roger over delicious pizza. Pura Vida!

Pigeon Poetry Project

2008-07-23T09:07:00.003+10:00

The latest literary project that I'm participating in:

The Red Room Company in Sydney has commissioned eight poets from across the country to each write a poem that will be raced by thoroughbred pigeons on August 3, 2008.

Visit the website online to read my poem "A Word From the Feral Pigeon" and back my pigeon Smokey to win in the online, virtual sweep!

If you're so inclined, come along to the pigeon race in Stanwell Tops on Sunday August 3 to hear poetry read live. I'm sadly overseas at the time so can't make it myself... But check it out.

http://pigeonpoetry.com/poems/smokey/

From the website: "And they’re off! Mark down Sunday August 3 on your sporting calendar, as the Pigeon Poetry race takes Bald Hill, Stanwell Tops by a sweeping flurry of wings and words. From 12 noon, hear the eight poems commissioned for Pigeon Poetry read live. Eye off the form of the bards and birds, and place your free bet in the sweep to win poetry prizes and glory. The race will begin at 1.00 sharp, swooping from NSW‘s premier hang-gliding launch area, to the breeders’ headquarters in Mt Ousley. Bring your twitcher’s binoculars to follow the race call, as a pigeon-cam feeds the action live to the launch site. Then it’s time to throw off the fascinators, pop those corks and celebrate the grand presentation of the Pigeon Poetry Cup."

***

It's been a fun project to participate in. I'm only sorry that I can't be there for the event. I love the concept. It's creative and fun. I've never been commissioned to do a single poem before. This Saturday I'm going into the studio to do an interview with Johanna Featherstone, the director of Red Room, and read the poem - and I'm also heading to Central Station on Thursday afternoon to have a photo taken with poet Kate Fagan and some pigeons.

Here's a taste of the poem itself (just the start of it, you have to visit the website for the rest...)

prologue: feather

The quill and shaft, the side branches
attached by barbules and hamuli
the barbs together: the vane.
Evolved as insulation structure
or mating markers, considered
only a secondary purpose: flight.

L.A. Times says eat here in Tokyo

2008-07-06T08:46:00.002+10:00

From an article in 2007 that I was just about to throw out, but why not put it up here so I can use it the next time I'm in Tokyo.

Chef Lee Hefter's fave restaurants in Tokyo, from the LA Times:

Kasowaki 2-7-2 Azabu-Juban, Minato-ku - tiny restaurant with dinner Omakase for Bt5,000
Kondo, Sakaguchi Building 5-5-13 Ginza, Cho-ku. wonderful tempura, Omakase dinners betw Bt2,300-Bt,4,300
Shotai-En, 5-9-5 Ginza, Chuo-ku, Japanese-Korean style BBQ, with great Kobe beef. Bt1,000 per person for dinner
Sushidokoro Shimizu, 2-15-13 Shinbashi, Minato-ku. 8 seat sushi bar in a residential alley in Shinbashi. Omakase lunch Bt 3,300.
Uchiyama 2-12-3 Ginza, Chuo-ku, an elegant kaiseki restaurant, great value. Omakase lunch Bt 2,800.

Yum! Oishi!

(Photo from Travel and Leisure Asia, "The True Tastes of Tokyo", stuff ready to be tempura-ized at Kondo)

Launches on the West Coast of Canada

2008-06-08T21:10:00.003+10:00

So, I'm back in Australia after nearly 3 weeks away in Hawaii and Vancouver. I managed to do three readings. Not sure when I'll be able to post up photos from the events but we'll see!

Sechelt (on the sunshine coast, a ferry ride north of Vancouver) was a good opportunity to visit my dear friend Keith and his family, and Frances at the Sunshine Coast Arts Centre helped me host an intimate gathering. It was a beautiful setting, and a relaxed sunny Sunday afternoon - so a good space and audience to read many poems from Bowling Pin Fire - it was probably the most poems I've ever read at one reading!

I took part in a World Poetry event at the Vancouver Public Library as part of Asian Heritage Month. It was a good to meet Todd Wong in person, who'd graciously arranged for me to take part, and catch up (and trade poetry books) with Fiona Tinwei Lam. The event was very strange indeed. An interesting and eclectic range of poets but the announcements for future events, and introductions and thank yous for each writer took more time than the poems themselves...

Finally, my Vancouver launch was at Little Sisters Bookstore, and it was an honour to read at a place that has been such a positive force, a connective glue, a meeting place and cultural centre for the lesbian and gay community in Vancouver - they and manager Janine Fuller have been great supporters of my writing over the years, and I'm truly grateful. My mom and brother came out for it, and various friends from all parts of my life including high school, university and Australia. It was very different than reading in front of Australian audiences - as not only did Canadian friends and family relate to the specific landscape and culture of the poems set in Canada, but they often recognised the stories on which the poems were based!

Reflecting on my readings, they were much smaller than the events for my first books. This reflects a number of factors - further distance between me and Canada, bonds of friendship and acquaintanceship weakening, and that I didn't have the same sort of energy to encourage everyone to come. Perhaps also that it was a poetry book, which doesn't draw as many as fiction (or gay erotica)...And at the same time, it feels that both friends and strangers are cocooning. It's harder for people to come out to events with children and family commitments. Friends don't bring along their friends (as we might have in younger days) because they're not sure themselves of whether they can come. Couples often send one part of the couple as their representative.

I had a prominent listing in the local gay newspaper - and thought that previous buyers of my books might have come along - but a friend tells me that less and less people are reading (or closely reading) the gay newspaper (as is happening in Sydney as well) - and perhaps they are cocooning as well!

It's good to back in Sydney. I have one more small reading in a few months coming up, but I think my active promotion of Bowling Pin Fire has come to a close now - I've announced and reannounced to friends, posted reviews on my website and facebook, sent off review copies in Australia, and organised all of these events. It is time, I feel, to turn my attention to a new project. Whatever that may be.

Kunming: Not as Pretty

2008-03-24T10:05:00.004+11:00

I've been lucky not to travel all year. The flurry of work trips at the end of 2007 were too much for me - I was sick many times, exhausted, and unsettled. So, being in one place has been great - an energy of normality, of consolidation. It allowed me to forget about travel all together for a while, which was good.

So, it's nice, on my first overseas trip of 2008 to remember what I enjoy about it. The different routine and weirdness of time zones allows me to think about life in a different way, my escape from routine reminds me to do things I might not have done lately, it allows me, in that change of schedule, extra minutes in an hour.

So, I'm catching up on personal e-mails here on this trip to Kunming (with brief stopovers in Bangkok to and from), I'm writing my first entry here in a few weeks, I'm waking up early, unusual for me in Sydney - though of course, it's not early at all for Sydney. Waking up at 6:30 here, the city still dark (they don't seem to leave on many lights in the buildings), feels like a fun change - though it's 9:30am in Sydney.

Friends asked me what Kunming was like, and from my two previous trips, I'd said "pretty." A friend who'd been here looked at me, eyebrow raised and said, "are you kidding? perhaps I was in another place." So arriving at the airport and driving to the hotel, my faulty memory becomes clear. My overnight escape to Lijiang on the last trip made the whole trip seem prettier - such a gorgeous little place. And the hotel is luxurious, my room has a big comfortable bed with a gorgeous comforter and good quality sheets, lovely Chinese furniture, and tasteful decor - and free highspeed internet access. The New Era Hotel is right in the centre of the city surrounded by shops, close to a large mall, and some reconstructed buildings made to look old. So, it's urban and bustling and I'm fascinated by its commerce, what are people buying these days, how is it different from other parts of the world. My boyfriend, who prefers a quieter life and doesn't like shopping all that much, would hate it.

So, it's not pretty at all, really. It's just that I associate pretty in my mind with things that I like, and what I like during my work trips are comfortable hotels, interesting shops, and easy access to good things to eat.

Choices - BPF News or Apartment renovations?

2008-02-27T16:19:00.003+11:00

Ah, so many choices. I have a slight urge to post more photos of my ongoing apartment problems/renovations - but I think that can hold off. With some luck, the place is going to look amazing in a few weeks.

So I can report on the latest Bowling Pin Fire news. I've had two great profiles in two great magazines, Xtra West, my Vancouver hometown gay and lesbian newspaper, and in SX, Sydney's gay and lesbian weekly magazine. They're both great write-ups.

My launch was last week, at Gallery 4A, the Asian-Australian Arts centre. It was terrific and I hope to have photos up on my website in the near future - which, by the way, has been updated and has a terrific new front door.

About 50 folks came out for the launch, old friends, new friends. I was rather stressed about the catering but it was fine. I overcatered on the drink - but that doesn't matter since I can use the wine myself later (note to self: 6pm on a Thursday night, folks don't drink a lot... if anyone wants catering advice, e-mail me). The yum cha snacks were a success (particularly the prawn toast and tasty char siu triangles).

We sold a good number of books.

There were a few folks there who I had no idea who they were - through a poetry list invitation or through the gallery. I always think's a bit weird, just hanging around, not buying a book... And I did say hello, and they said hello back, but I should have said, "how is it that you find yourself here?"

A friend, Paul, took some great, great photos, a million times better than I could have taken with my camera (or by giving it to someone else to take) - and friend and famous photographer William Yang came and took some photos which I hope to see someday too!

And the books are out in 3 stores in Sydney and 2 in Melbourne and 1 in Canberra, and a few copies are selling already.

It's a strange phase at the moment though - I feel far away from Canada and the books, and have no idea whether any reviews will come in, whether my favourite Canadian shops are selling them (there have been a number of frustrating distribution problems), and whether the books that my friends report buying will add up to some sort of momentum. I really shouldn't worry about it, though it's hard not to do at this stage.

Bowling Pin Fire - More Progress...

2008-01-27T22:31:00.001+11:00

It's late January, Sydney summer, what a hot day. Tomorrow, Monday, is a holiday, since Australia Day was yesterday, and I'm winding down with a beautiful glass of white wine, Georgiana 2007, and am at my mac in front of a rather crazy new succulent that I bought from the Glebe Markets ages ago and only got to my apartment today.

As an amusing side, walking along Glebe Point Road, with this succulent (and I really need to take a photo of it), I got attention from people as if I was walking a small, adorable puppy. At least 3 people smiled and laughed and turned heads to look at it, the girl in the chocolate store (do not order the 3 liquid chocolate sampler, it's too rich!) said "nice cactus". Steve and I both noticed. It was strange. Perhaps I should take it for walks in Surry Hills too. With a collar and a leash.

I am also listening to a Smiths album which my pal Tim put on a CD probably months and months ago, and I never uploaded to my mac until tonight. 3 day weekends can be great for doing little things that you never got around to doing any other time.

So, enough context. I simply wanted to ramble about my new poetry book, Bowling Pin Fire, being out. I've now got it into 4 stores in Australia (in 2 cities) and will have an extra store and city this week hopefully. Friends are being awfully kind and two have already bought or said they want to buy copies for friends. I've found facebook an interesting way to promote it - somehow sending a message on facebook still has a personal feel to it, people don't seem to feel like they've been spammed.

I cannot figure distribution at all. My friend in London who pre-ordered from Chapters hasn't gotten her copy yet. A friend in Northern Ontario who hoped his bookshop would get it in before Christmas is also empty-handed. An acquaintance in the USA got his copy pretty much immediately, also ordering from Chapters, since Amazon, bizarrely, only lists one "used copy" for the bargain price of $80. American. So, I find it amusing that friends have managed to buy it in Australia before friends in Canada since to get it to Australia required 1/ shipping and 2/ Andy getting the books into bookstores.

I've only sent out 3 review copies here so have another dozen places to send them to. I wonder how our luck will be in Canada, where hard-working Ailise at Signature sent out, wow, it surprised (and pleased me) how many review copies went out. I've heard from a lovely woman who reviewed my book for Northern Poetry Review. So, that will be great to see in print - and I hope it's up on the Internet as well. She engaged with the book and the poems in a way which reviewers have rarely done with my books. I'm grateful.

I've got an idea for where to have the book launch in Sydney, but don't want to jinx it by mentioning it yet. Suffice to say, it won't be at a nearby bar who wanted a minimum spend of $1200 in order to use their function room...

I am happy though, even though I have been getting caught up in the administration of it lately rather than the pride of having it published. It's been a long journey - and to have the poems out into the world: a gift.

Bowling Pin Fire and other progress

2007-11-16T13:55:00.001+11:00

So, Bowling Pin Fire is out in Canada. I can't wait to see it. I'm hoping it's winging its way through the air to me now.

http://www.signature-editions.com/xdbpf.htm

http://www.andyquan.com/books.htm

Trying to get moving on plans to help promote the book from afar, and get copies here to sell in Australia.

In the meantime, I had a review published lately in the Australian Book Review, which seems an august publication, and the progress on guest editing Corpus: Desire Between Men, Voces Mundiale is going well.

Just this update for now.

Eternal Flame

2007-10-30T22:34:00.003+11:00

Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling
Do you feel my heart beating, do you understand?
Do you feel the same, am I only dreaming?
Is this burning an eternal flame?

Rumi is a short man, with a bit of a stomach and a lively expressive face, broad eyes and full lips.

Our meeting in Delhi, with about 15 others from South Asia, is going well: constructive conversation and positive outcomes. But he's the one having the most fun.

Flamboyant behaviour is somewhat out of fashion in Sydney. Many gay men strive to be hypermasculine. A number of straight men are going for the stylish but strong metrosexual. Drag is on the wane. I have friends who play at being camp, and have much less contact with those who are camp all the time.

But Rumi is pretty much the real thing. Pluma, they say in Spanish. Feather. What a brightly coloured bird.

He dashed out at coffee break and came back ten minutes late. Another friend at the meeting tells me he suspects he's gone up to his room for a quickie. I've learned to not act surprised.

He's already had two so far at the hotel, you should have seen the last one. Thin, but strong. Siddarth curves his hand over the bicep of his other arm to indicate the shape.

And we've only been here two nights, I note.

Rumi rushes back into the room, and takes his seat. Siddharth calls out, Rumi, why do you look so energetic? Rumi scowls, and Rajan, who's facilitating, picks up the queue.

Why do you look so energetic?

The meeting continues but Rumi can't resist sidling up to Siddarth, whispering in Hindi, before returning to his seat.

Twenty minutes, two different men, Siddahrth relays to me, impressed.

How does he do it? I try to keep judgement and jealousy out of my voice, but I'm not sure I succeed.

Oh, you should have seen him at lunch. He tried to pick up one of the waiters there, but he didn't seem interested. He just turns it on. As flamboyant as possible, the boys go wild.

The cultural context is beyond me. I don't know if the men that he's having sex with are gay or straight or unlabeled, whether women are unavailable to them so an easy gay offering is appealing, whether gay sex is difficult to access, whether the hotel trade is mostly made of gay staff, or whether Rumi is appealing in this culture, flaming or not, in a way that I can't recognize from mine.

Whatever the case: good for him. Flame on, Rumi. Flame on.

Being Kind to Delhi

2007-10-29T20:11:00.001+11:00

Our impressions of a place are circumstantial. Even if one visits a site many times or ends up living there, it is a unique perspective based on opportunity and chance, and how one sees the world. After almost 9 years in Sydney, I know my vision of Sydney is particular based on the neighbourhoods I’ve lived in, the life I’ve lead.

So, my snapshot of Delhi will be even more subjective as it’s only my second trip here. But already, I’m delighted. The first trip was at short notice. If I recall correctly, I flew the morning of Sydney’s Mardi Gras party, leaving the showgrounds at about 4am, was it? I arrived, after a long flight (probably going through Thailand, it would have been about 8 hours, a layover, and another 5 hours to here), and rather than being swept into the throng and madness which friends had described, it was strangely quiet at the airport. I found a taxi easily enough. We drove through areas that seemed little inhabited, I couldn’t see the signs of a city. And was left at the YWCA, not without effort, on a wide road with little sign of life. I checked in, my first time in India, knowing nothing about the city, having no idea where I was and no one who’d met me or offered any advice or welcome. The meeting that followed went well enough. A kind Australian colleague showed me around the old city on my last day, and I also saw the amazing Taj Mahal. But I certainly wasn’t charmed.

I’ve only been here now on my second trip for less than 12 hours, but I’m charmed and relieved. The hotel picked me up and dropped me off, a quiet night at the airport and a quiet drive, similar to my first trip. The hotel is located is an area called PVC Sakhet, and its lobby backs onto a bustling piazza (if I can call it that) with shops and restaurants, a 24 grocery store where I bought juice and samosa at midnight, a cinema, and even a MacDonalds (serving some very interesting looking local specialties) and a Sbarro. My hotel room is modern and beautiful, the fake flowers are rather nice, the TV has a few dozen stations, and everything is relatively functional. I’ll need to borrow a convertor plug (I’m sure I bought one on a previous Indian trip but didn’t find it when packing). There’s no safe. And I had to tilt the refrigerator on to its back legs to open the door in the too tight cupboard in which its been placed.

But life is good. And I hope that my 3 days of meeting (and 1 day of rest and shopping) will go well, and that Delhi will be kind to me, as I will try to be kinder to Delhi.

Blood Red Eclipse?

2007-09-07T15:51:00.001+10:00

So, the blood red eclipse was on the front page of all the papers here... It was visible from early in the evening for a few hours, and it was apparently spectacular.

It was a great view of it with clear skies on a bright warm summery night, and it only comes around every 10 years or so.

Sadly, I missed it. I was preparing dinner for my friend Penny and there wasn't an easy place from my apartment to go and see it, so I was lazy and stayed in, and then regretted it after, since those who saw it said it was really really beautiful.

So, perhaps you've gathered that these are not, in fact, photos of the eclipse. What is it, for god's sake? Here's a clue...

(Really, the truth is whenever I get an idea for a blog or an e-mail, I've always forgotten the first step. If I want to show the difference between before and after, I have to remember to take the "before" shot.

Sigh.)

So, when I was sixteen, my college friend Trish told me, "that wart on your thumb, you should get it looked at. They could be contagious." I'd never really thought about what this bump on my thumb was. It had been around for a while, I remembered that, but I never thought of trying to figure out what it was or get rid of it. A wart? Bleh. At the time, in the late 80s, the only thing they sold in pharmacies was a wart remover solution. I bought some and tried it, and it didn't seem to do anything. Perhaps it wore away a layer of skin or two.

After that, I gave up for a while. If it grew, I would gnaw or peel it down, but otherwise, let it rest. After coming to Australia in 1999, I do remember asking my doctor about it. He brought out liquid nitrogen from the freezer which made a satisfying sizzle on my skin as the applicator pressed against my wart. It seemed to have more effect but not a lot, and I thought that paying $50 per visit and uncertain success was not so appealing.

Last year, I turned my thoughts to it again. Technology must have changed. And indeed it had. Pharmacies now sell a home-kit, similar to liquid nitrogen. I tried it out, and my wart noticeably reduced, layer by layer. But not completely. After a few months of this, my friend Tim recommended the bright blue podophylotoxin liquid, which also seemed to work, somewhat, but not completely.

After trying for 3 or 4 months, my doctor boyfriend said: why don't I just cut it off for you? My regular doctor was rather against this solution when I casually mentioned it to him during a check-up.

Time flies. We never found time to do it. Until today. It came out in a perfect little intact form, a round blood moon, which by the time I got home to take these photos was rather flattened out. I think it's kind of pretty, don't you?

I find it kind of amazing that I don't have it anymore, after about 20 years.

I'm quite interested to see the little divot in my thumb after I get to take off my bandage tomorrow. In the meantime, I wrote a p oem earlier this year. About my wart. Which is a good way to link this slightly offbeat blog entry to what this blog is supposed to be about. Writing.

Wart

Rubbed a frog the wrong way, I reckon

only noticed when Trish beckoned,

right-side, top of my thumb joint,

where she pointed,

told me they’re contagious.

I watched salicylic acid wear off its thin pages,

asked various doctors to get from their dens

supplies of liquid nitrogen

it burnt into my skin, a satisfying hiss

but would still not desist

turned towards another wind

ignored it as its cells thickened

through my twenties and beyond.

Last year, I found a chemist’s wand

technology finally caught up with me

do-it-yourself cryotherapy

I froze off layer after layer

settled into a drawn-out guerre

and painted it with podophyllotoxin

its primary use on vaginas and cocks, an

eye-catching brilliant royal blue

not something you’d want to admit to

recognizing. I know it’s pure fancy

but I expect magic if this dance, she

ends. Two times ten years or longer

this extra button sewn onto my finger

unfasten it, I shed my pale grey tunic

become princely, the opposite of eunuch.

Experimenting with Blogging - Learning about Home Design

2007-08-05T18:22:00.001+10:00

I just wanted to see how photos look on a blog entry. So, what if I was to show you my bedroom, and the first design decision, to place the bed against the backwall?

And then, inspired by my pal Daniel's redesign and declutter of my front room, I realised that while it made "sense" to put the bed there - since there were powerpoints on each side of the bed, convenient for bedside lamps and such - that having the bed in this position didn't allow me to take advantage of possibly the best feature of the room, the view! Lying in bed, I couldn't look out the window at the lovely city view. But I discovered something better, which was that by moving the bed against the other wall, there was somehow a lot more room in the bedroom, and that it opened the view down the hallway. Instead of seeing the bed and the other crap, I could make it clear and open! Also, helped by putting laundry baskets in the closet, getting rid of milk crates and generally tidying. But it looks much better, don't you think?

It's coming, it's coming.

2007-08-04T10:51:00.002+10:00

I'm back in my neighbourhood after nearly two months of travelling - at least that's what it feels like. The preparation for a long voyage consumes the days before, the week after my 5 week trip to Canada, Hawaii and Europe was only unpacking and repacking for a 5 day work trip to Bangkok. Now, I'm back for two weeks, before I'm off to an AIDS conference in Colombo, and though it's a short time, it feels relatively long, compared to what I've just been through!

Just before this last trip I received the catalogue for Signature Editions from Winnipeg, Canada. A full page to promote my new book of poetry coming out in November: Bowling Pin Fire. I'm so pleased. All that hard work editing it with John in the last few months and it's really, truly coming out. I've had minimal contact with the publisher so I'm still curious whether what the latest draft of the cover looks like, and more details about distribution and promotion, but yay: it's coming, it's coming, it's coming.

At my Pearson Reunion, a dear friend, Douglas, commented that sometimes being an artist is just being around for long enough. "Oh no, I'm sorry, that sounds horrible, I didn't mean that to be insulting," he apologised right after. But I knew what he was saying: experience, longevity (which, for some reason, I pronounced as long-e-tivity for the first 30 years of my life), and perserverance pay off. Also, that age brings wisdom, hopefully better skills, and an awareness of how your art fits into the greater world, artistic or mainstream.

Right now, I'm riding high. Not only is the poetry book coming out, but I've been asked to be guest editor for the AIDS Project of Los Angeles' creative journal, Corpus. It's an exciting project and I like the guy I'm working with on it already! And in the last few months, I've met two interesting young Asian-American men who'd found my work on the internet, and requested to meet me while passing through Sydney (one from San Francisco, the other from Auckland). It's good to meet a new generation of artists and thinkers, to discuss ideas, to be honoured that they've connected with something in my work or writing that prompted them to want to meet me, and to ponder changes in the world.

Young referred to an anthology of Asian-Canadian gay writing called Rice, which my piece had been pulled from at the last minute (by the editor, one of my first experiences with flaky and idiotic editors), and I thought about how exciting it was to start writing at that time: the age of gay anthologies and when identity politics were still about how to treat each other more kindly. And how the world has changed since then: the progress in gay and lesbian rights, visibility of Asians in media, more diverse gay and lesbian communities. Ah, it makes the heart glad. The curmudgeons that long for the good old days. The cynics that say things never change. But I've been through a social movement that has seen change for the better. As Homer Simpson would say, Woohoo. As the Spartans would say in the movie "300", Hawoo.

Dreams that are out of date

2007-07-29T09:00:00.001+10:00

I wake. The sheets are perfectly white. The mattress is hard. The air conditioning is on and noisy – but the room is a comfortable temperature. Hot sunlight creeps through the closed blinds, as does sounds of construction.

I’m in Bangkok, again, my third time this year. I have an hour before day two of my meeting starts. I seemed to have one long set of dreams this morning, a cohesive story. First was the recurring theme of finding a piano. It’s what I used to do in university years, whether at my own university or at a friend’s. Find the music building or a student residence and see if there was a beautiful piano to play on. A well-kept quality upright would do – a Yamaha perhaps – but a baby grand. Or a real grand piano! And then of course, it would depend on the space. Would it be hidden in a music practice room: great for privacy though, as a non-music student, would I be caught using it? Or would it be in a public space – likely to have much better acoustics, the notes allowed to travel up and reach a high ceiling – but the gambit of disturbing whoever was in hearing distance, particularly if I wanted to sing.

In my dreams, I am often in schools or buildings, and the pianos are always in the basement, sometimes up against walls or surrounded by furniture, or off in hidden rooms. This dream, I was in my elementary school in Vancouver, and I was successful, I found a piano to play. I was to perform, and was practicing “Strength” which was generally going OK though the bridge was unfamiliar.

It was a going away party for the younger sister of a friend – someone friendly – it was someone similar to C, the young niece of D, who I met in London, and she was going abroad for a while – hence the choice of the song. Strength needed to experience living overseas.

However, a main part of the dream was getting the idea for a wonderful comic song about accepting a gay brother. It was funny and feisty, a classic piece of musical theatre, with a set-up and then surprise, witty lyrics, and music which wasn’t clever enough to detract from the main story. It was heart-warming and a little rebellious and as first envisioned was a masterpiece. Somehow in the attempts to get away and write that song (having scribbled parts of lyrics on paper), I realized how out of date it was. Whether in England or Canada, the strides we’ve made in gay rights – including marriage or almost-marriage, and all the grand part of the population that I would socialize with – would find prejudice against someone, just because they’re gay, as old-fashioned and conservative.

How nice to wake up and find out not that my dream was unreachable, but that it was terribly out-of-date.

In the meantime, it’s been a million years since I’ve written on this blog. I’ve been away for 31 days of travel (North America and Europe, both personal and business), and was back only 4 days before coming to this current trip. Organising the travel beforehand was also busy. Life seems to be too busy these days to record, though not having the means to do so – i.e. easy computer access, is also an issue. Yet my writing career progresses nicely. I received the current catalogue for Signature Press which profiles my upcoming book of poetry, Bowling Pin Fire. That put a skip in my step the evening I received it, after a flat, hard day of work. I’m excited about being invited to be guest editor for Corpus, a literary magazine coming out of AIDS Project Los Angeles. I’m worried about finding the time to do it – though I know I will. The travel schedule until the end of the year is going to be intense.

Final thoughts that should really go in my journal blog but haven’t I always been too personal, too open? My back is slowly healing, though this time it’s taking a while. Today would be day 7. I’m still leaning over to the left, and it hurts to sit down in the same position too long. The oil massage helped somewhat last night, and the hotel bed is helping I think, but it’s hard and tiring when the body goes awry.

Meanwhile, I’ve been sleeping between 8 and 10 hours of sleep since coming back from the long trip. My body obviously needs it. And I still have a slight cough. Could be exacerbated by Bangkok’s pollution, but I am very tired of this cold/cough/sore throat that has been with me since my first week of travelling (probably since 25 June). Not drinking alcohol or coffee for a week may be helping…Enough complaining! Time to meditate, eat and get down to the meeting, hoping that my laptop will work today, despite its intermittent power problems yesterday.

Throwing out tape cassettes

2007-07-04T10:00:00.001+10:00

I go back and forth: should I just throw away things that I don't need... and the past is past. Do I hang on to them even when I don't need them (hopefully not, surely not)?

My early writing history was well served by hanging onto items, memories, diaries...

Yet my recent history, in terms of life lessons, is conscious of how much we hang on to ideas and items that we don't need (oh, hang on, hang on, I might need them sometime in the future)... and of how much this is a part of my family history: my grandmother and great-grandmother's cluttered houses, their saving everything. Mother absorbed some of this, and fought it too. She managed to throw away things that she didn't need, but she'd occasionally throw away things of ours (her sons) without asking! In my generation, my oldest brother hangs onto everything, the middle brother somewhat the same (we did clear out all of his packing boxes one trip), and I would rate myself the best of us but still with some packrat tendencies.

At least my new apartment in Sydney is clear and uncluttered. I'm trying to break the genetic code.

So, here I am in Vancouver, and the last year or two, I've found what serves me is to throw away things... but to make a little note of them before they go, a sort of acknowledgement or goodbye. Like now, when Walter says he can give away my tape cassettes to a women's shelter. Yay. I'll give them my walkman too - though don't know if anyone still uses those anymore.

If I really want these songs, I can download them to my ipod... Before I give them away, a nod to
Tom Waits, his spectacular Asylum Years collection ('Ol' 55, Rosie, Grapefruit Moon' and less accessible Franks Wild Years (though I liked Innocent when you dream). Prince: The Hits, Diamond and Pearls, and the NPG, Jane Siberry (who I've since got on CD, the Walking and Bound by the Beauty); Talking Heads' Wild Wild Life: (with the great title song), Best of Everything But the Girl, The Kate Bush Whole Story, really quite good, the classic Leonard Cohen's Best of, Greatest Hits Stranglers (how I thought they were cool, and me, by liking them), Crash Test Dummies God Shuffled His Feet (I remember liking the international hit mmm mmm mmm mmm but not much else), and the most excellent Nanci Griffith (Storms, and all).

Ciao, my tapes!

My Vacuum Cleaner

2007-05-01T17:52:00.001+10:00

When I first started this blog, I sometimes wrote about creativity and writing, but I also wrote about experiences that I felt had a literary quality about them. But lately, all I've been doing is focusing on writing about writing - which is likely monotonous for non-writers, and possibly boring even for other writers. Meanwhile, I've discovered some friends are tracking my life through my blog entries and I worry that all this writer's angst too easily collides with self-absorption and complaint.

So, I'll tell you about my vacuum cleaner. Which is also a complaint, but hopefully more interesting. And perhaps someone who googles "Eurolab Cyclonic Vacuum Cleaner" and possibly adding "directdeals.com.au" will read this. AND BE WARNED.

It was such a fine idea. My bright new apartment, my first property. I decided to get a nice, new electronic appliance, and needed a vacuum cleaner immediately upon moving in. I did a casual websearch for Sydney stores and "direct deals" came up with a special offer. A bagless vacuum cleaner. I'd seen the gorgeous and expensive Dyson models in stores, and the concept of bagless appealed to me. So, clicked on the photo. Registered retail price $230. Yours now for only $70 (plus $10 postage). Some further surfing revealed that other bagless vacuum cleaners were indeed pricy, and this seemed a bargain - my Asian bargain hunter reflexes made my heart jump all excitedly. I also thought that Eurolab sounded like a sleek name. German perhaps? Scandivian?

When it arrived in the post, it was smaller than I expected, but a fun bright blue, a cool compact shape, and worked OK, albeit the 1400 watt suction wasn't super strong. I don't have a big place, so it seemed to do the trick, especially since my IKEA carpet coughed up carpet-balls on a daily basis.

But as the Spanish say: Cheap is Expensive. It doesn't matter if a vacuum cleaner costs only $70 if after six months something starts to rattle and it smells like burning electrical parts. I surfed the web, and sent an enquiry to www.dealsdirect.com.au. No warranty. Only if dead on arrival. NO WARRANTY? What was I thinking? Didn't I check that. (No.) A friendly vacuum cleaner repairman told me that the smoke alluded to motor problems and a new motor, and labour to install it would cost: $150. I googled Eurolab and couldn't find anything (well, actually, a number of European laboratories, but none who produced electronic equipment). I finally found a link which lead me to a conversation on a consumer discussion board that focused on Australian broadband services. Someone complained about receiving the wrong children's toys, and being unable to return them. This lead into posts of all the problems that people have had with dealsdirect and testimonials that Eurolab is a cheap Chinese manufacturer and that a number of items: coffeemakers mainly, seemed to last about 2 or 3 months before conking out.

So, I should feel lucky I got six months.

I went out immediately to the Breville/Kambrook seconds discount place and got me a 1900 watt bagless Kambrook with a one year warranty. I sprung for the most expensive model in the shop ($120) and the suction is so strong that the paint has started to come off my walls whenever I turn it on. But my ex Michael reminded me to look for the lever on the handle that lets air in (and reduces sucking), my carpet is looking beautifully fuzz free, and my apartment is spotless.

As they say on television (or anywhere these days), "if my story only helps one person to change their life..."

Heh. Remember kids: buy products with warranties. cheap is expensive. deals direct are crooks. eurolab is not european. Words to live by.

(BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE)

Only two days after I posted this, I was notified that there was a comment on my blog. Of course, you could read it in the comments section, but I think it's much more fun to read it here:

Hi Andy,

I work for DealsDirect.com.au and came across your post this morning. I'm really sorry to hear that you had such a bad run with your Eurolab vacuum cleaner. It's obviously not a good situation either for you or us.

As I can see you have already purchased another vacuum cleaner elsewhere, if you are able to arrange return postage to us of the vacuum cleaner, I would be happy to arrange a refund in full. I'd also be very sorry to see you never return to DealsDirect.com.au, so would also like to offer a $30 credit on your DealsDirect account in the hope you'll give us a second chance to make things right with another order in the future.

I've also requested that our inventory team flag this vacuum cleaner with our suppliers, to review the warranty terms. This may mean a sacrifice in the price, but from reading your experiences, it may be a preferable option.

I'll check back on this post in a few days if you wish to reply. Again, I'm genuinely sorry that the wheels fell off so badly on your order and hope we can turn things around.

Leigh
DealsDirect.com.au

*

Imagine my surprise! On the one hand, I imagine that they don't see many public complaints like this (i.e. bad publicity) and that most people who suffered warranty-less eurolab breakdowns had to suffer in silence. On the other hand, this is my idea of customer service! An apology, a stated intent to actually address the problems, and recompensation. I was so amused I had to recount the entire story to my poor workmate David (who was also impressed and thought that he should lodge a complaint even though he's never bought anything).

So, I met a friend to see "Science of Sleep" that evening and then rushed home to look to see if my vacuum cleaner was still in the box that I left it in next to the trash. No such luck, and what very bad timing: the trash went out that morning! Ah well. I learned my lesson, Leigh has put $30 credit on my account, and it made a good story, don't you think?

A snapshot

2007-04-20T08:29:00.001+10:00

Here is a snapshot of my life: It's 7:20am. I have a teleconference for work with my manager in New York at 8am. I can't seem to shake the remnants of the cold from weeks ago and I feel like I've been in kind of a daze for weeks. I had a very energetic period where I was focused, trying to figure out how to work on my writing, as well as organise the rest of my life. I was catching up with friends, exercising. It felt dynamic.

Then my ex came and visited and we had a great catch-up. It was an intense few days, all my attention was focused on him (with a little leftover for the boyfriend). I got sick right away, and fought with the illness, unsuccessfully, for over a week. But since then, I haven't quite snapped back into place. I still feel physically off, and it's affected my mood too. A little depressed, frankly. I can feel the edge of it, that slow, open sadness, reminding me of other times in my life I've been down, and I wonder where it's coming from. The season has changed too. It's dark when I leave work and ride my bike home. There's less light in the morning. That would have something to do with it.

I wondered last night if there was some disappointment that I have been unable to do what I hoped to do, and wrote about in the last post: write regularly, 1000 words a day. Yesterday, I did word counts on my two books of short stories, and come up with 54,500 and 56,000 words. So, about 2 months of daily writing could produce a manuscript. I don't actually write like that though. I write short stories, in short bursts, and edit as I go, rather than just produce the work and finally look back at it. If I do want to write a longer work, I perhaps need to change this pattern, just so I can get out some words and ideas. Meanwhile, I managed... oh, dare I admit: once. That's it. One morning of writing 1,000 words. Of course, there are excuses: the illness, the mood, work is busy. I was thinking of reducing the aim to 500 words (then it's 4 months of writing...). It also competes with one of my other long-ago set goals, to write a daily journal - which this blog (writing) and my other blog (morning pages, private) help me to do, and which I've succeeded not badly in doing - perhaps once a week or more. Life, of course, is the main excuse, as I've mentioned a number of times in these entries. Last night, my simple list of things to do included writing. But I got stuck on the vacuuming item of the do list, and when, after five minutes of cleaning my shedding red carpet, the vacuum cleaner made a loud, rattling sound and started to smell of sweet electrical failure, and then did so again after I let it cool (and tried it in a different socket), I got distracted, looked for a warranty, sent an enquiry to the online dealer who I bought it from, and decided I felt annoyed and sluggish and would replant some of my succulents and it would make me feel better. Which it did, but it didn't help my writing.

The best excuse is that I HAVE been writing. So, it would be ludicrous to berate myself (except I'm doing so now). Work has started in earnest on edits on my poetry manuscript, and the level of editing is far greater than I expected. Which is great, really, since each poem will be all the better. But it's already an intense process, sending each poem back and forth, up to four times. I've generally been spending half an hour to an hour on this each day, so there's my writing, my thousand words, or equivalent thereof.

The problem is in valuing this work. I get little sparks of excitement that I'll have my fourth book out by the end of the year, and wondering what it will look like. At the same time, I know the majority of my friends won't read it, even if I give them a copy! It's such a small audience. I don't expect to be a mass author, it's just that it would be nice if a few more people read poetry, and there would be a bit more understanding and support if I tell people what I'm working on, or of my good news. Rather than that blank "poetry?" look that I can see even if someone manages to recover with a positive expression or word.

Finally, let me remind myself of the continuing cool things about being a writer. An amazing woman just wrote who discovered my writings on my website - a performer/comic/writer who looks at issues of Asian identity and stereotypes. "I think you're cool," she said. Which is rather affirming. And another fellow wrote just this morning with an intelligent and substantial response and thanks for one of my other pieces of writing. So there! I say to my self-conscious, negative, worried about achieving, worried about not writing enough self. So there.

Reading Advice on How to Write

2007-04-09T20:39:00.001+10:00

When I told my boyfriend's wonderfully creative and interesting best friend and flatmate, G., that I was trying to do more writing, produce something bigger this year, she told me, "there's this book you must read." I figured it was worth a shot. Why not? Although perhaps it was another way to procrastinate instead of writing itself... While at first it seemed like it would be difficult to find, it wasn't, the trusty bookshop near my work (which happens to sell more copies of my poetry book than anywhere else in the world...) had it, I didn't even need to special order it.

I was somewhat suspicious of buying a book by Stephen King to advise me how to write when I don't think I've ever read anything by him. But everyone has lessons to teach, and why not? It came on good recommendation.

If anything, it was an easy and enjoyable read. I found his straight-talking Americana language reminded me of my writer friend Steve K's books (hmm, that's strange that they have the same initials and first names). There is the strange form of addressing the reader during the whole book in a a cajoling, friendly, curmudgeonly tone. I liked the anecdotes of important events in his life of a writer. And the technical advice was pretty good. It was a primer on a whole range of topics, clear and direct writing, editing, dialogue, plot, themes, publishing, finding an agent.

In some way, it was affirming to read messages which I basically believe. Write truthfully. Write not for fame or fortune. Also, to recognise that I set myself on the right course in my early years. I submitted my writing far and wide, I sought readers and editors, I read as a way of inspiring and informing my own writing.

One of my main thoughts on reading the book was about "voice" and gaining a mass readership. Without having read any of his work, what I sense is that Stephen King is such a widely-read writer not only for his skill and craft but because his voice, his characters speak to so many people. He reflects back to a huge readership their fears and desires and imagination.

I sense that my own writing, no matter how truthfully or skillfully I write, will not reach a mass readership because my own experiences are so removed from the mainstream. They will instead attract a small and eclectic readership, not a bad thing necessarily. It's something I figured out after publishing "Calendar Boy" so it's not a new revelation - but King's book reminded me of the issue.

The other big issue brought up by reading this book is about writing, the physical act of production. King comments on writers who have only written a handful of books in their career. What else are they doing with their time?: "If God gives you something you can do, why in God's name wouldn't you do it?" Strong words. Strong advice. An issue that nags at me constantly, and moreso in the last year, the last months. I have published three books, and have another on the way, and I've never sat down consistently and worked hard at it! I've had periods of working hard to edit. I've had days of working hard to produce a story. I've worked to polish manuscripts. But daily writing? No.

I've been working towards this with both my daily morning pages (which aren't daily) and with this writer's blog - but my journaling or my thoughts on writing (and usually my complaints about not writing) are not resulting in actual production of fiction.

King suggests writing every day - something I've heard and shrugged off for years. But now it's really time to start. I feel fear writing this down - since if I don't do this, my failed intentions are up and public and visible. But King reflected back to me what I've said to myself all year. I believe I have a gift. I believe that I am a good writer. Why am I not using that gift? Why am I not writing? One thousand words a day, he suggested, one day off a week as a break. Let's see how I do.

Intensive Editing

2007-03-31T08:18:00.001+10:00

Winter has finally come to Sydney. It’s bright outside, from the quality of air has changed. Basically, it’s colder!

I’ve started editing the poetry manuscript with my editor. He’s suggested the method of doing two poems at a time, and when they’re finished, starting on another two. One of the first poems needed only a minor edit, the other one was much more intensive. It’s exciting to have an editor to work with so closely. I thought that S, the editor for my last book, was smart and good at what he does, but it will be nothing in comparison to my work with J, who is willing to really live with each poem, one at a time, to see whether it works.

Of course this brings up other issues. He’s prodding me to make the poems the best they can be – and will sometimes suggest words that I wouldn’t use (or am even unfamiliar with, I don’t believe I’ve ever used the word “ghosted” in a sentence!). But, as he explains, if I don’t use them, at least they’ll encourage me to think in more vivid images, less flat language. I’ve always been good at being edited, and open to suggestions, but I have the feeling this time will be more challenging, as he’s a more aggressive editor. So, the aim is to make sure that I still “own” my poems, and yet am willing to work hard, and not be precious. This manuscript really needs that, since the poems haven’t been through the processes of my earlier ones, where I’d be sending them out to magazines, grabbing ahold of any comments I could get, workshopping them with friends. I’d obsess over them much more. These days, I don’t have the time, or perhaps the inclination, which does make for worse poetry.

Publication is due for November, so we have lots of time – though of course, if we spend a few days of each poem, that time will go very quickly.

A new idea

2007-03-07T09:37:00.001+11:00

Coming out of the Mardi Gras weekend, I had the idea to write about seven years of partying in Sydney. The pros are that I'm not sure whether anyone has combined a narrative with an analysis of recreational drug use, and approached it with the style and voice I use: the wide-eyed innocent who explores an issue (whether it is sex like in the last book, or gay community in the previous book) in a way that tries to open up that world to both insiders and outsiders. It might get some good interest. It might be of commercial interest.

The cons are that it would definitely get criticized as promoting drug use, promoting a hedonistic lifestyle, of being shallow and focused on beauty and looks, that I would get personal criticism and scrutiny as the author, and that the efforts to illuminate that world will likely be missed by many - who will find the subject matter too strong. Also, how to disguise the real incidents, and not end up slandering anyone, and how much of my experiences to include, i.e. how much of being involved in the political side of Mardi Gras would I include.

In the meantime, my journal entries are slight. If I'd written stories as they happened, I'd have much more material, though then I would have ended up like those authors I don't respect who seem to be going through experiences only to write about them, rather than writing about experiences which they are going through in an authentic way.

More things to do when I'm not writing

2007-03-02T12:42:00.001+11:00

Eat, breathe, tidy around me
communicate, make love,
sleep, defecate, become engrossed
in vices of all sorts, unhelpful
diversions that contribute nothing
to the greater good. Exercise.
Try to spend time outdoors
as well as in. I make plans. Plot
emotions. Discard focus. I save
overseas stamps for our financial
controller. Create files of paper
and reduce them. Identify
and flick away dust with feathers
dyed blue. Examine my succulents,
their progress on my balcony
the particular elements that reach them.

So Good I Cried

2007-02-19T18:57:00.001+11:00

So, before I can start my journal, which I feel a need to do, with so many things that have happened in the last week, I will share my good news, with the world, with my blog (which no one reads, I believe, but an audience is not why I'm doing this).

So: finally, after more than two years of trying, perhaps longer the first inquiries I made with Nightwood and Silas, John and Signature have accepted my new book of poems. Thank goodness. It has been a really long slog. Now, I do believe as well in the idea that a book is not published until it is ready to be published, and it did need work - but it's been a drawn out process, and I was feeling a little like I'd given up some hope.

Not that I was going to give up, I am so tenacious. But after getting rejected again in December, after putting the book through its most comprehensive edit so far, and that, after shopping around and more edits, and convincing a few people to read it... Well, I was feeling desperate. Wondering whether I really had it in me to put more work into it. Whether I had new poems which could replace the weaker ones. Whether I could identify the weaker ones myself (I'm not sure) and then add enough substance, or beautiful language to these poems that they would be publishable.

It was a hard week and weekend with my back injury, and this morning, I was feeling sorry for myself. Off my game. Not focused or satisfied or... I don't know. Malaise. Negativity. And when the news came. Yes! I told Bridget right away and I really started to cry, not that you could tell, but I did.

Now I can tell people when they ask what I'm writing that I have a book coming out later this year. I have something to work on. I have breathing space. (Also, this 11 months ahead feels like a luxury. I know it's coming out, I'm not in a rush, I can polish it until it will be really really beautiful). I have momentum again, in a sudden blink of the eye, a burst of light and pixels, good news from a friend.

A few more excuses

2007-02-02T07:51:00.001+11:00

I was rushing off to the gym yesterday for the 2nd morning in a row, and the third day in a row of workouts. After ten days in Thailand with all you can eat buffets, and a lot of static time in a meeting room, I was feeling very out of shape. With so much travel this period, and three overseas trips within two months, I've felt out of an exercise routine, and heavy. Particularly with the stress-inducing flesh-exposing Mardi Gras on its way at the start of March, where I'll likely go to dance all night, and like everyone else, take off my shirt.

But I was thinking: if I put as much energy into my writing as I am doing now into my exercise, I could really get going. I would be OK, I would be producing and more disciplined. It has gotten me thinking and perhaps beyond these blogs (which are working OK), I'll get to work on that idea I had for organising my writing notes and ideas - and start working on things in a substantial way. This is the year that I want to do some major writing.

Last night, I talked to S about writing, and he asked about the various blocks. One is what I describe above, having other things take up the time, not allocating time to do it. In terms of the exercise, I'm not quite ready to give up vanity yet. Perhaps after Mardi Gras...

The other thought which I shared with him was something I'd pondered yesterday or the day before about how I've stopped with my autobiographical stories. I was tired of feeling that I've revealed so much. I hated the reviews which didn't deal with my writing but attacked me as a person instead. I was annoyed that even when stories weren't about me, people assumed they were. The natural boldness of how I wrote, the self-confidence and ease, have become less and less the last years. I think there is a foolish young writer in there who expected by writing about the honest emotions of my life that I would be "understood" somehow. It is true, I have had some lovely comments, and have had people really connect with my writing. At the same time, I've been misunderstood, and hell, there's some disappointment that I can't get my friends to read my books sometimes, and as I said, a few bad reviews, even though: why should my creative process and being be dampened by a handful of people that I don't even know. I need to get back on track, and while I do want to write non-autobiographical fiction, I shouldn't be afraid of the form in which I first found my voice. Let it be free. Let it be free.

On Creativity

2007-01-29T07:19:00.002+11:00

A week in Bangkok for work, and while I had the intention to think about writing and move ahead, I'm not sure if I expected to come away with so many ideas. Talking with Moises, who is also a writer, helped. We compared notes. He thinks about the big picture, what he wants to say as a writer, what a whole piece of work will mean, and then he will work on that. Meanwhile, I work in pieces, and told him the anecdote of being in art class at age ten: asked to draw a self-portrait, I drew myself in pieces, an eye here, an ear there. The teacher was disturbed I think. My excuse then was that it was easier to draw that way. It hinted at a particular way of seeing the world.

I brought many books to inspire me, a mixed bag. I didn't manage to read any of the Linda Greig poetry book, but I did get through a lot of Ghostwritten by David Mitchell. Some of the stories I like a lot. I don't like that he switches into British vernacular for most of this characters, no matter they are from, but I'm getting used to it. It felt like a lack of imagination at first, flattening out the different ways people would think around the world, but now I'm just substituting. The Mongolian old woman makes an insult, I imagine an insult in her words rather than the ones that Mitchell gave her. The book inspired me in two ways though: first of all, it's in parts, and is considered a novel though has nine interconnected short stories. This gives hope to me, who cannot imagine writing a sustained narrative over the length of a novel, and as I pointed to above, thinks in small pieces. The second thing is that Mitchell went on to be nominated for the Booker Prize, and though the stories are exuberantly imagined, I'm not crazy about some of the writing. Hey, it was his first novel, and he wrote it at a younger age than I am now, but I think it results for me in a good sense of competition, not "why did he get published" but "I can do that."

In the meantime, I'm trying to get inspired to revise "Bowling Pin Fire", my poetry manuscript. I have worked on these poems so long, and considered them, I'm having real trouble figuring out where to begin an edit. I think I need to write new poems, so aim to read more poetry to inspire me. My writing doesn't feel so fluid these days, it's not flowing out.

The other idea was to comb my journal for ideas and phrases and incidents. And to make a more organised list of my notes from various places, notebooks and computer files. To divide them into "phrases", "anecdotes" and "stories" and start to develop them, no matter which way they turn out, at least I will be doing some writing.

Things to do when I’m not writing

2007-01-10T08:15:00.001+11:00

Looking through the lens of the present at my past entries, I note a few different themes: the desire to write, berating my lack of discipline, some jealousy at other people who write more, and the sense of drifting away from old friendships. The last subject I see as both true and false: I still have that sense of drifting out of contact and yet, through the fairly recently discovered skype, and occasional visits or e-mails, an old friendship becomes suddenly immediate.

That’s not a bad segueway into today’s list: if I’m not working on creative writing, what am I doing? A partial list:

Keeping in touch with old friends, mostly e-mail, some skype these days, and I’ve been trying to revive the art of the telephone call, even though the time zones make it difficult in Australia (but how the costs have come down from years ago!)
Getting together with friends in Australia – mostly dinner and drinks.
Time with my boyfriend
Exercise
Feeding myself, cleaning and tidying surroundings
Making lists of things to do
Occasional shows, movies, and other entertainment
Work. Preparing for work travel.
Keeping in touch with my family.
Trying to keep my webpage up to date, mostly photos of my niece and nephew

I often thought that if I worked on something related to writing, then it could count as creative production. So:

Writing reviews and short essays
Editing and organising previous work or work in progress
Reading other people’s writing

But I’m not sure how much that has really contributed to my own work. Meanwhile, I’ve been self-critical in the last few week: how am I going to get writing this year? What am I going to do? Why don’t I have any ideas?

But three nights ago, as I was about to go to sleep, I started playing a quick, bright melody on the piano. When I lay down to sleep, lyrics started coming. First, I recorded some of them on my voice recorder (one doesn’t say tape recorder anymore, does one, when there is no longer tape in them?). And then, too tired to get up and sit at the piano, I grabbed my notebook of songs, scribbled down the rest of the lyrics and finally went to sleep. I sometimes have to work at finding another verse, or spend time rewriting lyrics, but no, this one can out pretty much perfectly and so fast it surprised me. The next day, I added a simple bridge, transposed it to a better key for my voice, and voilá!

I was reminded that during times in my life when I write songs, I really don’t write much literary work – and vice-versa, and I should be grateful for my creativity, and if songs come out instead of stories, let it be. Singing words of wisdom, let it be.

Taking it to another level

2007-01-07T18:27:00.001+11:00

On the same Sunday when the skies softened up with rain, fell apart in a sudden downpour and have now cleared to a two-colour swirl, a paintbrush of white cloud across the blue sky -6:30pm and it's still so light out- I spent a few hours of the afternoon thinking about what to do with my writing. This year, I'd like to work on something significant. I'd like to put some effort into it. But I have no clear ideas yet what I want to do, what I will do.

I wonder if it's just a matter of getting started: working on different projects, or simply writing until something takes shape. For some reason, I thought of my long neglected blog. I started it at the start of 2005, and managed to write 11 entries until it languished. I enjoyed some of the writing that I did but I was never sure of what to make of it. I wrote the entries in a voice that was meant to be heard by friends or a broader audience, but I never told my friends about it, and I never publicized the blog.

So, for no reason in particular, today, I will put a link up to this on my website - not in a prominent position, either under "writing" or "about me", and so it changes the nature of this blog, in a small way. That perhaps I won't be the only one reading it.

How I love and hate travelling

2005-09-25T08:00:00.001+10:00

18 August Friday 11:30 am, Toronto Time / 25 September 8am, Kunming Time

I started this particular post over a month ago as I was heading to Toronto from Chicago. It was a particularly hard trip. North American routes of travel compared to Asian ones are a big step down in terms of comfort. My flight had arrived in San Francisco from Sydney. The next flight to Chicago was delayed for three hours because of a thunderstorm, possibly the precursor to the hurricane that hit New Orleans. When I arrived in Chicago, the flights had stopped for the night. It was mayhem. I had to pay for an expensive hotel room in an ugly little complex near the airport, sleep for only five hours, and come to the airport in the morning. I was unable to get on the first flight because they didn’t know where my luggage was – so I had to find it myself, and check onto the next flight.

My friends who travel understand that business travel is different than personal travel. My friends who don’t travel, when pressed, seem to understand this concept as well. These days, almost all my trips are business trips with personal days attached.

It seems so ungrateful to complain about travelling, to feel so utterly awful about it. Especially when the North American trip was 90% holidays, and 10% work. And who gets the chance to travel as much as I do? First of all, I travel about a third of the year for work. Second, I live in Australia, a land where most people get four weeks a holiday a year, somewhat like the Europeans, and not at all like the North Americans who are pressed to get two weeks of holidays, unless they work for the government, are schoolteachers, or have some other sort of professional luck. Thirdly, in Australia, many companies offer long-service leave - three months of paid holidays after ten years of work.

But here’s the bonus: I work for in the HIV/AIDS sector. Years ago, before the advent of antiretroviral medicines which keep most people living with AIDS alive for years, our organization decided that employees would either burn out from the emotional pressures of working with a fatal illness, or they would die before working for ten years for our organisation. So we get half-time long service leave – 6 weeks at five years. Sweet, huh? Six weeks on top of my four weeks of holidays equals ten weeks this year.

So, this year I’ve been using that leave and adding on personal travel to the business trips. And I’m exhausted!

The things I love about travel are obvious. New sights and sounds. Food! All types of different food. Seeing friends. Meeting new people (though less so these days – I tend to prefer catching up with people I know, or spending time alone with my thoughts). Most of all: time to think, or not think, and have that time illuminate both the life I’m living in Sydney, or how that life fits in with all the other places I’ve been and travelled.

The things I hate: all those hours in the airports; uncomfortable seats in airplanes, getting sick, sleeping problems, exhaustion, expensive cabs or really long public transit rides to airports. Having my friends in Sydney forget where I am (and who I am!) – for the most part, because of my travel, I have to maintain my friendships in Sydney because it’s too difficult for them to keep track of me. The loneliness, especially in a completely new city if there’s no one to hang out with, can be unlike other loneliness. Not managing to exercise or eat properly.

I’m writing this now in Kunming, China and need to rush to get ready to go to a workshop. I have a sore throat and feel sicker than I have in weeks. I’m unable to sign onto my blog to post this – the internet connection in the room (good) is not connecting properly to my blog (bad). This post is pretty boring really, but I guess I’ll post it anyways. Sometimes life is like that.

Waking and not quite knowing where

2005-09-07T14:06:00.001+10:00

7 Sept 05, San Francisco

I open my eyes. Brooklyn? Toronto (on the Bloor line, far enough east or west for the buildings to thin out)? No. Oakland. The BART to San Francisco. Some surprise how many seconds it took to remember where I am but it’s been a long travel. Plus, I’m sick and also recovering from a night at a gay dance club, toxins working their way out of my body. I change trains and try to get a seat facing forwards. I read a witty local poet. My shoes need a polish. My book launch is tonight. On arrival to the station, a man plays “Oh Susannah” on a classical Chinese violin.

Leaving My Ex

2005-08-23T09:00:00.001+10:00

23 August 2005, 9am, en route from Gravenhurst to Toronto

I’m leaving my ex. I’m on a bus from Gravenhurst to Toronto. The sky is a wash of moody greys, partly an effect of the shaded windows. I realize that I am squinting in the light, but also, I’m wrinkled my forehead – I’ve noticed this recently, an expression of concern or concentration, the skin between my eyebrows bunched into a tiny fist of furrows. I worry it will leave permanent wrinkles.

My ex lives next to a railroad. A few times each night, a train roars by the house, and as it is an old house, and the tracks are fairly close (though hidden by the trees, they’re not visible), the entire house rumbles. It is loud and intense and an unusual sensation, being inside in a quiet interior then a low, rumbling explosion of sound that feels as if it could be passing right through your skin.

I like to call D my ex. Though it was so many years ago, over ten years now, but that is the label that I keep for him. We’ve both had few relationships in our lives, and so this name, which said by other people and in other contexts takes on darker or more irritable meanings, to me is an acknowledgement of his role in my life, and in my imagination, the first relationship where I really fell in love with someone, a level of care that would not be repeated for many years.

This trip, the first that I visited him at his home in quiet rural Ontario, rather than in Toronto, where we met and where he used to live, I met two of his dearest friends, C and A. C is a medical doctor, and an expert in macrobiotic diets. When I saw him, he’d only just deeply cut his left hand while trying to cut apart a parsnip. He’d sewn the wound together with only minor help from his wife an hour ago. His expression was calm though. He was more irritated than anything else – that he’d mentally told himself to be careful while at this particular task and still had this traumatic accident. He admitted some pain, but would barely sit still to wait for D to prepare his acupuncture needles, and then to insert them into the skin – a way to help the pain. C noticed how uncomfortable I was with the injury. It was not the sight of it, a fairly neat criss-cross pattern in crimson; it was the knowledge of how deep the cut was, and the events afterwards.

A was more agitated, but still able to convey a great deal of warmth and welcome. She is also an expert on food and diet. D told me the story that as a young girl, the city hospital had done an experiment on nine girls where they believed they could remove their adenoid glands through radiation rather than surgery. As young women in their thirties, eight of the women had died. Nearly on deathbed herself, A received a call from a family friend, who assessed her situation, and asked her what was in her cupboards. “Throw them out,” he told her. “All of them except the oatmeal.” He flew up the next day. With a radical change of diet, she began a slow process of healing and survival, and moved from there to sharing her story and teaching others about macrobiotic cooking and providing inspiration to others wanting to heal themselves from serious illness.

A also works as a counselor and uses astrology. In the evening, after tea, she pulled out her almanac on planetary positions and asked me my birthdate. “You’re a perfectionist,” she told me, “and have been disappointed often by others who don’t live up to your standards. You’re an explorer of new lands. You have a brilliant intelligence, as if your knowledge has come from many lifetimes. But in love, you are very young.”

D asked her if the two of us would make good partners. Or would have. He did not make it quite clear, and C asked if this was something that we were considering. “Oh no,” he explained. “Just asking.” I added, “it was a very long time ago. I was heading off to work abroad.”

It takes some time for A to look up our different charts and to match them up. “There’s great friendship. I see that. You are both very similar in many ways. You have the same moon in Aries. Do you do some sport as well? You’re both active.” She pauses for my reply. “What I see and I can’t say is true or not in your situation is that everything else is good but the sexual attraction doesn’t last. If you were a straight couple, I’d say it would be one of those couples that gets married young and then wonders how in the hell they ended up in this situation but I don’t know how that would apply to you.”

I picture us together at the time, and now. A day later I can see that it was a good thing for the relationship to last a short while, and for the friendship to continue. It is something I have thought these last two times I’ve seen D. He is a handsome man. He was always thin, but seems perhaps a little too thin to me at times these days, his face somewhat too narrow. I wonder if it his strict vegetarian and organic diet, but perhaps it is just age. When I’ve seen him, there’s been no physical attraction – which is probably not unusual for ex-partners. Attraction fades. But I think A was right. Over these ten years, for better of worse, I’ve developed a taste for men with bigger or more muscular builds than D. Or perhaps I was always that way. I remember that while the sex was good, the attraction was more emotional and spiritual.

I notice that D is sarcastic with C and A. They are gentle jibes but they are jibes nonetheless. I enjoy seeing him being playful like this. During our time together, I did not meet many of his friends, though he met most of mine. He was never sharp with me, and this was appropriate as I do not like to be teased.

I haven’t mentioned that I only see D every three or four years. It is my life lately, that I often go for years without seeing people who I have loved and are significant in my life. This was a good visit. Meeting C and A, and also going to a potluck dinner with members of his choir. I saw how he lives here and unlike other visits when we’ve only had a few hours to spend together, this time I committed to making the trip up to see him, and he took a day and a half off from his work.

Still, there was some awkwardness – mostly on my part I think. I have this feeling these days of being on the threshold of something. I don’t want to use a cliff as a metaphor, something so dramatic and physical. It is more an image from television or the movies, a door that closes behind you when you enter a completely new land and then disappears. But I feel a loss of the ability to stay in touch, and perhaps a loss of will. I have always been the most incredible communicator, but I feel that I am a rare breed. Lately, I’ve had a sense that I could just drift off into my new life in my adopted country and not look back.

In fact, it is strange to be here. The rolling green farmland, now brightly lit in sunlight which seemed unlikely when I started writing this, does not look like it does in Australia. It is a specific Canadian landscape, and it was one that was embedded in me for many years, the whole time of my university degrees, from 1988 to 1994. I don’t miss it. I suppose, in fact, that I’d forgotten about it.

So now I’m back here, I’ve visited my ex, I’ll be visiting my old friends, and seeing what effect that has on me. I have long left behind a dramatic flourish that would guess if this was a goodbye. Of course not, I’ll be back in this area over the next years. But still, is once every few years enough to nourish relationships, to keep them alive? How do my old lives serve me and how much of them do I keep with me in the present? I intended this piece to be more about my ex, but now it’s turned into being only about me. And I’m so tired, I need a nap. I can’t keep my eyes open to write another word.

Coming back from a break

2005-08-18T10:30:00.001+10:00

18 August Friday 10:30am, Chicago.

I have put aside blogging for a long time now. It’s like most things. I take an interest in something, I put in some effort, and then I put it aside.

How do I make things a part of my regular life? Is that something that I want.

Actually, yes. I would like to exercise regularly. I would like to do a spiritual practice regularly. See friends. Write songs. Produce writing.

Other things: well, I guess they come and go. Sometimes after a short while, sometimes after a long time. I am right now thinking about getting rid of my guitar. How could I do that? I learned how to play “Southern Cross” by Crosby, Stills and Nash as my first song when I was sixteen. Guitar seemed a smart solution to wanting to play music but a piano not being mobile. I developed quite a repertoire. I would play with other friends – we all learned because we were all part of an outdoors program where it was a cool thing to do. Sadly, we all knew exactly the same songs, and learned the exact same strum.

I took my guitar playing to college. One night, I wandered around the campus, singing out to the stars and trees, and likely annoying or worrying anyone who could hear. I played at university too, and wrote songs madly during some years. I played on stage. I recorded my songs on tape cassettes; a few of those recordings had as many guitar songs as piano.

Then I moved to Europe, and although I brought my guitar, no one else played. No else knew the same songs. The echoey sounds of my electronic piano seemed to suit the moods of the cobblestone streets of Brussels, and the leafy streets of London much better.

I also brought my guitar to Australia. I don’t think I’ve touched it since. It hurts the pads of my fingers of my left hand to play. I can’t quick strum or pick like I used to. I’ve forgotten how to play not only other people’s songs but my own as well. I don’t live in places big enough to store an infinite number of items that I hang on from my past.

So, there is a conflict between which activities in my life will become regular practice and what parts will leave. My colleague, David, a dear friend and a wise man, constantly reminds me of how humans tend to hang on to a concept of forever, and particularly in terms of relationships, that often it is best to let them go when they no longer have use or are functional. Everything changes.

I think one aspect of blogging that I need in my life, and will continue to need, is that I have lost a regular way to post my writing in a public way. The constant flow of stories and of small publications have stopped, really. But the urge to write and express is still there, blunted though it may be of insecurities, other priorities and some alchemy of weariness, worldiness and cynicism.

A small reason for stopping blogging was that the excitement and activity around my new book, Six Positions, took over. I may not have been expressing myself through new writing, but I was promoting my older writing, my older expressions made new again were being put out into the world into a new form.

Another reason is that my friend, L, who was writing a beautiful blog about her life in Japan stopped with hers. She knew she would be leaving for London and the format of the blog, the thoughts, the need, all seemed to belong to being in Japan. It was a practice that started in one place and did not, at least for now, translate to being in another place. I loved her writing. It was infused with both wonder and loneliness, two of my core states (and perhaps with our shared understanding of them, a reason why we are close friends.)

They reminded me, too, of when we first shared our writing with each other, at sixteen and seventeen, two young writers-to-be. It was never competitive, but her writing did inspire my own, as I hope mine did her – and her blog was certainly the spark that started this one.

So, now here it is. I’ve started again. I’ve broken the silence. Or the block. Or the break. Or whatever it was. But there’s no promise that it will continue, nor worry that it will not. It is what it is. It seems so tired and clichéd to speak in those terms, the archetypal confession that age makes one let go of a whole host of things: expectation, neuroses, delusion, attachment.

And yet that is one lesson that is more particular to me than to most people – to allow myself to be like other people, to focus less on my differences and not need to be original and unique, to try and let go of judgement, of others and myself if it feels like my life is the same, rather than different, from everyone else's.

I woke up screaming

2005-04-17T04:37:00.001+10:00

The dreams that most fascinate me are when something in the setting has changed from a reflection of real life to something very different. I still remember a dream in university of a red-orange dessert and dinosaur type creatures. Also once, a watery world. I don't remember the details. It interests me how mundane my dreams usually are, for example, one of my dreams this evening was an overly long vignette of discovering that I had my headphones on and they were hooked up to the computer, and instead of hearing the usual beeps and clicks through the speakers, the sounds were coming directly into my ears. Gosh, the mind can be boring.

In my other dream, I am in a bedroom. It has the same light as my childhood bedroom with the shutters or drapes shut but on a sunny day, so there are these small cracks of intense light that shine through at the edges. Like my room in my university college in first year residence, there is a small desk, and shelf space above it and beside. An effort has been made to display who I am with objects and images that are important to me. I am showing two friends these objects, and though one isn't recognizable, the other more familiar one happens to be Ian, who had me over to his apartment for dinner. It was a lovely get-together, quiet and intimate. I had never been to his home before. His partner William had abandoned us at the last minute to meet with an old work colleague, so Ian cooked a simple meal of steak and tomato risotto for the two of us. I had a tour of his apartment - it's the regular routine in Sydney when someone has an impressive place - so we looked at the view of the city from his balcony, and I asked questions about the artwork on the walls which I detected were unusual and not inexpensive. Mostly, we took turns on his grand piano. I don't have any other friends who have a grand piano in Sydney, and it was a delight to sing him my three latest songs, and then he played various songs that he's picked up or liked over the years.

So, what was happening in the first part of the dream was a variation of that. I was showing my bedroom to two friends, I was opening my world to them and offering them pieces of my past and present to allow them to know me better. There was an album of photos of my past on the shelf which we didn't open. We looked at a few large photo prints. One was still wrapped in plastic, with the negative from which it was enlarged still attached. The other photo was a gift, it was a bold image of Australian nature.

When I turned my head, the room had changed, while the bottom half of it was still a long rectangular shape, the upper half suddenly merged with the Australian countryside. It was still a room, and still dark, but looking up, the left side was a field with a farmhouse, and the right side had a long sluice a few feet wide. This water way was teaming with platypus, who, although they looked like platypus, were swimming more like the crazy penguins from the aquarium in my home city of Vancouver. Ian was explaining that they ate small clams, each other (when there was a weak or sick member of the group), and an algae that grows on humans, so basically when you took a swim, they would approach you and touch their bills to your skin, and swim off. Somehow that was eating.

So, I laid down to sleep in this room, a cross between a university dorm room, a museum of natural history, and an aquarium (the platypus river would shift between being a messy stream and a clear tank with dim yellow lighting). When I woke minutes later, there was a man lying at the foot of my bed, a bed so long that he was lying in the same direction as me, but with his head near my knee and the rest of his body extended below. He was small, maybe 5"6, wiry with a moustache. "Oh, I'm sorry," he giggled.

There was an intruder in my bedroom! What was he doing here? Were the intentions sexual? Or did he mean to steal something? There was nothing of monetary value in the room, but I would have been unhappy to lose possessions that meant something to me. While I was thinking these thoughts, he hopped up and was in the darkness somewhere to my right side or slightly ahead of me.

What do I do with a stranger of unknown intention in my room? I yell. Because yelling will scare him away, and someone will hear, and at the least, I will have done something. And though the initial noise gets caught in my throat, it rises in volume, and I wake myself up screaming just as he is running away from me, towards the farmhouse, and I feel a presence in my real bedroom and then stare into space because no one is there, my beddings so tight against my throat I feel strangled and my heart pounding so hard and loud I think I can hear it.

A prayer for my friend's dad

2005-04-13T07:48:00.000+10:00

Yesterday, I received an e-mail from my friend K. "I wanted you to know that my dad died last Wednesday morning. We have been doing ceremonies for him and will be having a memorial service next thursday. Say a prayer and remember the person that you spent some time with at the cottage."

I'd thought of K. in the last weeks. I don't remember when, but it's not unusual that some train of thought will lead to her. She was my group leader on a program called Canada World Youth from 1989-1990 where a group of young Canadians and Ecuadoreans spent time in farms in Canada and then small villages in Ecuador. She became a friend immediately, and we kept in touch for years after with love and intensity. We had an ability to connect with each other, and I think valued our kindred spirits, two people who value friendships.

I've lost touch lately though. I've been noted by many friends as the person they know with the strongest ability to maintain contacts with people, and this is probably true, but I've been faltering for years. The ties sever in tiny ways. The ability to maintain a sense of connectedness over a long period of time wanes, especially if you haven't seen them for years. Though e-mail means people can burst back into your lives for short periods after many years, I miss that magical, strange time of my early twenties when I travelled across Canada regularly, and somehow managed to SEE my friends occasionally, wherever they were.

Still, I felt the same connection as always when I called K. this morning, though it's been a few years since we saw each other at my book launch in Toronto and neither of us have been very good at e-mailing since. She's doing well, all things considered, and is busy with a gentle storm of ceremonies and activities; the memorial service is soon. Her dad was Indian so they're having the ceremony not at a funeral parlour ("my friend says they always smell of that death perfume, whatever it is, embalming fluid or something else, it always smells the same") but at the Aboriginal Resource Centre at the university where K. teaches. Her students are helping out and rearranging the furniture. K. closed the office for ten days and is treating herself well while she grieves. They lit a fire for her dad at the sunset after he died and kept it burning for days and days. She cut off her braids, her long hair; it's the first time it's been short in decades.

I remember the weekend at the cottage, though only vaguely, it comes back to me in a more visceral way: the smell of wood and damp, a colour: a forest green, though was it fall instead and I'm making this up? I remember how much I liked observing the relationships between every one who was there: K.'s parents, K., W., D. - was there anyone else? - deep bonds of care. We ate well. Walked in the forest? Canoed on a lake? K. told me she found a photo of that weekend: K., D. and I all had long braids of dark hair on our backs, and then the light of her father's white hair. I think of myself as slightly unformed then: a wilder, brighter energy, different neuroses than the ones I have now, probably less damaged but at the same time: more dramatic.

"Have you got friends around?" I asked K. "It's good that the ceremonies and people are keeping you busy, right?"

"Oh, we never lack for activity around here," she laughed, and that's what I remember of K.'s father, and family, and K.: people laughing, making food, drinking wine, sharing in good company. And here is a prayer in form of small thanks that I met that kind man. And here is a prayer in form of request that the world bring comfort to K. when she needs relief from grieving.

The Only Gay Bar in the Village

2005-03-12T22:00:00.000+11:00

On my first night in Delhi, which is also my first night in India, I work with a colleague into the early evening, late enough that my friend Sunni who was going to meet up with other gay friends has left, and though he said he might return to the YWCA later that night, he never does.

My colleague leaves for home, and in the reverse position, I might have done the same: I tend to separate my work and personal life and offer less generosity to strangers and acquaintances these days. On the other hand, I think that Sydney is an easier place to negotiate to Delhi, and though I venture into the city for a few hours, it is unhappy and stressful.

So when offered on the second night to go out with Sunni and some others “on the town”, I am more than ready. It’s not a successful beginning. We were told that we’d be picked up at 7pm and aren’t. The phone of Anand, a flamboyant, thin, talkative lawyer who apparently is growing his hair long, goes unanswered. We give up and find a restaurant for dinner. Eventually, we reach Anand who informs us that though he won’t join us, his boyfriend, Rajesh, will be at the Y to pick us up at 9pm. Along the way, we pick up Vivek, a smiling Pakistani in round spectacles, a colleague who I’d never pondered gay, only thought a little odd.

Rajesh rolls up in a fancy white car, I’ve never known the models of cars, but this one has an air of old luxury. We pile in, he gives instructions to the driver, and then finally turns around to introduce himself. He is muscular and stocky in a tight white singlet, and is wearing lightly tinted sunglasses. I’m thinking ‘Indian film star’. He offers us a swig of a plastic drink bottle. Sunil enquires its substance. “Vodka,” he says cheerily, though with its dark colour, it must be mixed with cola.

Across many highways and with much honking, we finally turn into what looks like an industrial area, empty streets, a tall abandoned factory, and then on our right, a highrise surrounded by lawn and garden, and at the corner, a bright spotlight upon a doorway and a sign: Pegs N Pints.

In the West these days, we have a set idea of what homosexuality is about. It can’t be helped. It is a right. It has history that involves irony, sarcasm, and cross-dressing. The figure of 10% is repeated often. Many choose to live in the same neighbourhoods and support a small economy of discos, bars, saunas, and stores that sell rainbow paraphernalia. And while I don’t exactly believe all of the narratives we tell about ourselves, still, I can’t get over the fact that in a city of 14 million people, that Delhi, at present, supports one gay bar and it’s held on a Tuesday night.

Rajesh knows the promoter of the night, a short slim man in a white business shirt and tie. We’re introduced to him along with the names of our countries and front up to a podium where we’re asked for 300 rupees each to enter which will give us 300 rupees of drinks inside. I have the feeling that this amount is way too much for my colleagues from Nepal and Pakistan. I empty my wallet to pay for all of us and then wonder if I have enough money for a cab home. A huge bouncer stops and pats me down. He is a huge slab of meat wearing sunglasses.

When we enter, I realize suddenly that it is actually a gay-ish bar. A young white couple are in sight as I enter. I think at first it is a gay man and his woman friend but when they later start to dance with each other and the man in a clumsy fashion, I know they are straight. There are perhaps half a dozen young men on the ground level, and up a narrow spiral staircase, on a high balcony are another dozen, a group of four men together who are recognizably gay (I think with some relief), a few single men, and two couples together: two Sikh men with beards and turbans dancing with two young slim Asian women – I asked Sunil about their origins: “Nepal, Manipur, Japan – could be anywhere,” he comments and I think that perhaps I’ve never seen this particular racial coupling.

“It fills up at eleven,” Rajesh informs us. He is light with drink and sits with us only a while before rising and leaning over the balcony rail and soon disappears downstairs to dance. They’re spinning Black American dance music – I’m not a fan so I can’t name the artists but there’s rapping, and a reggae dancehall beat, and slick beats. They play the song about “Sexy Ladies” which I find cloying.

The bar itself is a clash of styles, exposed pipes and crossbeams, black metal and long wooden planks: there is an attempt to be an English pub, an attempt at a nautical theme, and something of a generic Western restaurant with a soaring angles and ceiling. After the first hour, the few lights are replaced by a few glowing bulbs of blue, and more than anything, I’m reminded of the entrance way to the Disney theme park ride “Pirates of the Caribbean,” something new pretending it is old, knotted wood, and a feeling of being submerged.

It takes until nearly midnight before the music starts to segue back and forth between Beyoncé and Bollywood, Hindi dance music taking over from American. The crowd is eclectic: expat straights at the most daring place they can find, and gay men in all shapes and sizes and garment: a business shirt, a sweater, a loose-fitting Indian top, a t-shirt; some young and lithe, a fat, short man dancing with one arm in the air, various metrics of strength and height. No more than a hundred people in all, but all clearly enjoying themselves.

I’m glad I’m here in a distant and amused fashion, but worry about getting home, as well I think about my cab driver at 6am the next morning who will take me to Agra and the Taj Mahal. Some other lifetime, I’d get drunk, chat to locals, and try to find out what it’s like to be gay in Delhi. But for now, Rajesh has instructed his driver to take us back to our respective beds – he hugs us goodbye and runs back inside to join his friends.

12 March 05

Today I am used to my loneliness

2005-02-12T12:27:00.000+11:00

Today I am used to my loneliness. I woke up, and was happy to do some work on my computer that had been waiting for me, and some updates to my webpage. I ate a bowl of noodles left over from last night. I am about to do grocery shopping, but felt an urge to write.

I've often been lonely in the last few weeks. I am tired of being the one that has to call my friends. Frustrated by how complicated it is to fit into friends' schedules, and try to remember if they need to be booked far in advance, or only a few days, or not at all, and whether they need to be reminded in order to keep the date.

I am also somewhat confused that most of the people I feel close to are friends from a distance, both temporal and geographical, that I keep in touch with by e-mail, and like my friendships in this city, I am the one who does more work, puts more effort in.

I've also felt edgy, not the same sort of feeling as loneliness, but something that has exacerbated it. Unable to feel at ease and calm, instead of using my time alone to read all those unread books, watch the unwatched DVDs, fulfill a much-wanted regular routine of exercise or meditation or simply even feeding myself properly, I fret. I think of people to call. I check my e-mail obsessively. I end up surfing the internet. I waste my energy in sexual fantasies. I tidy things. I feel lonely.

But today, I woke with energy and joy. Not without effort, the next week is completely full with meeting up with friends. This weekend is not full, but has enough markers to point me in various directions, get me out of the house, and give structure to my days. Also, after some periods that have felt slow, my work looks like it will be taking off in a good way, some interesting tasks and trips in the near future. My writing has also accelerated, and the new book's publication feels just around the corner. Three poems came out mid-week. It felt like a beautiful stranger opening his palms again and again: a jewel, a chocolate truffle, a candle.

So, while I'm alone today until the late afternoon, and my friends who said they'd call haven't called and are not answering their phone, and my friends overseas are all busy in their own lives and work and sleep and that we inevitably drift apart from each other as we age in a range from an infintessimal amount to so far it is unuseful to measure, I feel somehow, today, used to my loneliness.

Lately I scatter

2005-02-07T17:08:00.000+11:00

I'm so scattered these days. My thoughts take off like a startled flock of birds and then fly back and forth in aimless directions like small buzzing insects.

Such erratic flight. I sit at my work station and try to focus on something, anything, but instead, I shuffle my papers, I check my home e-mail, I surf something on the web. I'll answer a work e-mail, and possibly move something forward on the discussion paper I'm writing or program proposal - but I'm not particularly busy at the moment.

I kind of think if I'm going to waste time, at least I should be productive! Thus, work on a personal project during the times at work that I can't write. But generally, I can't do that either. I'm just not concentrating.

During Christmas holidays, this was what I criticized my mother for. Morning to night, she was busy in activity: weeding in the garden, digging a hole for something, vacuuming up the endless amount of hair from my brother's dog (enough to build a small dog if we wanted to). Slow down, I'd think. You exhaust me just looking at you. But here I am. I am my mother's son. Pin me down until I'm still.

I wanted to work in the music industry

2005-01-27T22:59:00.000+11:00

I am a filer and collector. I save scraps of paper for ages before throwing them out. I think it might come from my grandmother who saved absolutely everything, old tin cans, bolts, pieces of string. This habit doesn't sit well in the modern world of disposables. I come off as a bit of an oddity.

I did a bit of a clear out of my two drawer file cabinet this weekend, and came across some papers from when I first moved to Sydney, six years ago. On this one page of lined paper, three holes punched in the side - I notice that it's North American sized, so I must have brought it with me from Canada - is a list of names and phone numbers and music companies.

See, I wanted to work in the music industry.

I'd worked four years at that time in gay and lesbian politics and HIV/AIDS education, and I figured it was time for a change. I had the confidence to believe that I could do anything (this has been tempered by age). Somewhere in the music business would be room for me: project management, administration, human resources, publishing, something.

I made calls. I found ads in the Sydney Morning Herald. I sent e-mails. I wrote to human resource departments with polite enquiries and my C.V. Names: Vanessa Greening, Jo Ballanzano, Mitchell Rubin. I wrote at the top of the page, "if I could send my CV or arrange a meeting with you, I would be most grateful." I suppose this is what I intended to say if I got through to someone who cared.

More importantly, something which could have yielded success, is that I used personal contacts. I plugged into the gay mafia. I had names from a friend in London, and met one person, who then gave me three more names to try. People gamely met me for coffee, and sometimes had more contacts, and sometimes gave friendly advice. This went on.

I'm a believer in fate, and I think the path I'm on is the right one for me. So, if I had gotten one of those jobs that I'd wanted at the time, I wonder if it would have interfered with what I'm doing now. When I look back, I'm happy for my small quest. It gave me something to do and focus on, and the biggest problem, I think, when you have nothing to do, and when you're unemployed or underemployed, is aimlessness. Malaise and lethargy that creeps up on you and steals away your days.

It was a little like when I travelled in Europe the first time. I read a series of books. When I finished the one I was reading, I would make it my mission to find a used English bookstore in a city - usually there was only one. It seemed a bit silly: rather than seeing a famous museum or landmark, I'd be reading an unfamiliar address written out on a piece of paper, and trying to figure out a local map. But that was the point: along the journey, I saw how the cities lived and breathed on a daily basis, I got lost in pretty, ornate streets, I learned how to use the public transportation systems, I let myself wander.

So, now, as I take this piece of paper in my hand, and crumple it up before I put it in the recyling bin (see, I still never throw anything away), I remember those months, which I've barely thought of recently: that excitement, the cells of my body infused with this unfamiliar, hot weather; my young courage and bravado, meeting unfamiliar friends of friends and extending my hand out wide and steady to introduce myself; those first few months in a city I never knew I'd stay so long in, where I'd live longer than anywhere else besides the city in which I was born.

Blirth of my Blog

2005-01-26T22:25:00.000+11:00

It's 10:30pm on 26 January 2005. And I have birthed a blog.

Blirthed a bog?

I intend this to be a way of writing down thoughts. Ironic is probably not the right word (and people get so touchy about defining it after Alanis had that hit song), so perhaps the word is "problematic": that, although I am a writer, who has published widely and because of this, feel comfortable and confident to call myself as such, I write little.

Oh, to be a disciplined writer. Was it Leonard Cohen who wrote a few hours each morning just to keep the parts of his brain involved in his literary practice shiny and sharp? How about my writer friends - M... who is polishing up a 2nd novel, and on his way to a third, after a published 1st novel and a collection of short stories (or two? he's awfully prolific). G... has a number of novels under his belt I think. I know they may be exceptions to the rule, but still, they are examples. Examples I would like to follow.

Having become a writer, people always ask me what I am writing and if a book is coming out soon. Since (finally) there is a book on the horizon, I tell them that yes, a book is coming soon, and I've been editing it, and will be involved in this process of getting it out to the world. And that is true: I expect to be busy with promotion, and writing it up on my webpage, and doing a launch. But it also allows me to hide from the other question, to which the answer is: no, I'm not writing. I write poems here and there (which I should probably count as writing but since they are so little read or respected by people, I tend not to). I can't remember the last short story I wrote. I write essays when asked for them. I haven't written any erotica lately, because all of it went into this book coming out.

I guess what I really want to be saying is: yes, I'm writing a novel, and have it plotted out, and I intend it to be both critically and commercially successful.

But instead, I think I'll be saying: yes, I'm writing. A blog. I'm doing it for myself and seeing what turns out.