Demo-crazy

For the second day, this chickenboat grumbles through the waters towards Padang. Locals are immensely friendly to me and whenever they take me into their homes, I feel as though I've been adopted by Indonesia, as if this is was family.

A group of boys pick me up as I come back to town from my run to Muntei. These are boys no older than me, and we look almost identical to the Western eye. They are construction workers from Palembang, and they take me to their worksite, a bridge over a swampy stream. There we chat as they lift gravel up from boats, their legs muddied, to fill the concrete embankment. Every heave is a flex of muscle, sinewy Indonesian arms and smiling adolescent faces, the pride of labour beaming through their teeth. Later, they invite me back to their hostel, where even more boys come out to shoot the breeze with me and where I am promptly offered teh manis. Would I like a shower, they ask, because I prolly stink to high heavens. I decline and say I should I get back to the boat because it's leaving soon. As I leave, I see them hitting the showers, wet brown skin against white briefs and shower silliness. I take a second glance of course, and then walk away from this boys whom I could very well have been, or who could be my brothers.

But, no, away, because our lives are too different, I am a visitor here. As we approach Padang, someone spits out his seed rambutan seed in my direction, and I am reminded that I do not belong in this demo-crazy, where that was all right.

On the Southern Road - Redux

The Southern Cross hung brightly in the sky while anothere constellation was being pointed out. tail body heart left claw right claw. Before this, there had to be NS, CD, ERS, Central, BOC, Jurong, OC41 and a credit card. The freebie that came with credit card - an air ticket, from Officer Commanding to NSF Rota Commander of Stn 41 and a plot hatched. An old book found in a store room that said Field Officer's Diary in bold black letters - it is a journal of another sort now. One year and eight months before the introduction of scorpio was a visit to Fariz's and notes kept about that visit. And then the hatched plot became an actual journey (that visit happened before the journey), a flight to Australia on a credit card's companion freebie. And in Australia too-many-things happened, including the Outback-Star-Gazing-Oh-God-Take-Me-I-Could-Die-Now and the It's-Raining-and-Pissing-Cold-and-Dark-But-Let's-Go-Eel-Fishing, but most important of all there was the Change-of-Heart. There was another change of heart in Singapore, where a poor decision was made and then made better by another correct one.

And this Change-of-Heart, after all the fire station and Australia business, is how the Southern Cross came to hang in the sky while scorpio was being pointed out. As I sat there I listened to Achil's astronomical explanations and the scary nearby-faraway waves. I held the line with which we anticipated fish for tomorrow's breakfast. It was easy to see how all these events lined up to bring me here, right here and now. This cannot be an accident, it must have already been mapped out by events which in themselves could-or-could-not-have-been accidents.

It wasn't hard to gain perspective then, with such a strong sense of history and purpose. How simple it was, to look back at the past year, before then, to realise what mattered and what didn't. Did it matter that I did not do Art at 'A' Levels just to keep the Humanities Scholarship? Did it matter that I could've gone to Law School for cheap knowing that a career waited for me? Did it matter that I was finally a Psi U brother (am I really - it still doesnt feel as real as everything else that has happened)? Did it? Did it really matter? No? Yes, no. What mattered was knowing, finally, that at the click of that button, the whole art-or-humans-scholarship-heart-or-head saga was resolved. That click that said no thank you, i will be going to wesleyan instead. You see, it doesn't matter that I don't already have a career. What matters is music - creating out of nothing - and adventure - that thump-thump in the heart - and discovery.

What matters now is learning - from things, on my own, from people. What matters now is the effort put into crew the past year (and can you do it again? i said yes to Jeremy Brown. Things have been mapped out). What matters now is Hannah and her spastic laughter and the way her pants hang on her hips, and Miles and how he drives me crazy but I still love him and can't wait to live with him next year, and Ryan, sexy beast Ryan who makes me feel so loved and whom I know loves me unconditionally, and Jeremy, that boy with his masterful dick-moves, with the girl problems, who was there for me through the Psi U ordeal, and I have a feeling he will always be there for me. And then Chip, the boy that I met too-late-at-the-right-time, Chip the boy I can't wait to see and touch again, knowing he's not judging me.

So that was what happened, how a boy ended up sitting on a beach in a deserted island between the Indian Ocean and Sumatra, listening to waves as the smell of Sampoerna filled the air. This was how I realised some of the things I already knew.

the straits

the straits of singapore come into view and i prep myself for that usual feeling. it's a blend of anticipation, which comes with seeing the green city crisscrossed with lines, and of dread just thinking of the wall of heat that will hit the moment i exit the airport.

this place is really far away. the arctic looks back when i peer out the window flying here, and a few hours later there is the gobi desert right at the same spot. that is a lot of ice and sand between me and the boy i like. that, and an eternity of a week, is what separates me from chip and our sleepovers, tadd pretending to be a robot, ryan singing the chili peppers, miles being intransigent and hannah talking about her girl problems.



it hasnt even been that long since i was last here and i'm already getting excited for full circle moments. back in the fire station, it feels like second nature to lick my fingers at lunch, dash downstairs, gear up, and hop onto the pumper. things are a little different, almost imperceptible, but i'm just glad to be cruising down the city streets at full speed. rudy calls me up tonight and his cracking voice over the telephone is a throwback to younger days and a reminder of why he is always that guy. here and there are little reminders of what i've left - wandering around the city in the sultry heat, sitting by the river with teh love club, and even listening again to dan's diaphanous singing all the way from yorkshire.



in a few days i hit the summer road. my work here in singapore will have been done for now, nieces greeted, parents placated, and old relationships renewed. going across an entire archipelago - the world's largest - i will ask myself, what do you miss? where do you want to be? who do you want beside you? the answer i think i know ("it really doesnt matter") but i would like to believe it and stop feeling so nauseatingly nostalgic. because it's all a big cycle, a kind of tandava and chances are, my one life will blend into the next, nothing to miss, nowhere else to be.

Returning to Breaks

At some point in NYC, I find myself in the 9/11 visitors' centre and somehow, I believe there were tears in my eyes. It was convenient to blame it on the sour nose, but really, I should thank the city for the fast times with such dear friends and for epic memories. I might or might not be motivated enough to tell you about Spring Break in Florida as well. For now, let's just say it involved a lot of rowing.

the violent jolt of the city

it has been an entire month in nyc, a month that vacillated between boredom and thrill, routine and discovery. even though cracking the mystery of nyc in such a short time might seem improbable, it finally comes to me on the last sunday. it is a hopeful afternoon and i am sitting in the front row, far left of the nederlander theatre, listening to jonathan larson speak to me.

new york city. the hustle-bustle, unforgiving crush of commuters an tourists, the ebb and flow of human flesh, the squalor of west 41st just one block down from the goddess that is 42nd street. this is where the upper east side borders harlem, where queens residents hop on the immigrant express into town, where hippies and yuppies wear brooklyn pride on their sleeve, and where visitors like me never step into the bronx. it is times square, is rotting subway stations, is leaking roofs, is quiet and pulsing nights, is the wail and yelp of the fire department, is defiant, is amazingly recuperative.


it is defiant. it resists categorization. typically it would be called a melting pot, but that isnt true because nothing really mixes. there is a mélange of peoples - families, yuppies, tourists, couchsurfers, students, artists, immigrants, mothers and brothers all fighting and stuggling to survive. they fight and struggle to survive, and beyond that, to live. we all do it in our own selfish but necessary way. where life offers itself, spread out in front of you as opportunity does in this city, you do all you can to eke out the best living, the best life for yourself and your loved ones.

this is how we live and survive, and it must get better - that is the hope that lights the city, which rushes to fill any void or heal any wound, no matter how gaping. i look at this as an outsider but i have been swept away by this struggle for life and love in the city. after all, this job, the now-dead cat, craig, rooftop bonanzing, and late night storms, these are just my own petty ways of demanding my life, satisfaction, fulfilment and exhilaration from this city and its masses. the city, brimming life and love, the lack thereof, the fight for more.

the city, feral and fey

the flock of birds circle above our heads as we suspended ourselves in mid-air, our bodies supported by this concrete skeleton hundreds of metres up in the sky. yet we knew clearly, from the gleaming city, from the vague pendular moon peeping through the clouds, that there was so much more space and matter beneath and above us.


the lights of manhattan beckon from across the east river; the unrelenting and inexorable tide of motors repulsing us. we were most comfortable yet, bathed in a soft red glow, apart from the city. still, we understood that the modern city was what we knew, what we are. these bright lights are us. within a city, every light feeds an existence, represents a purpose or mispurpose, and it is all reciprocal - i am just a light to the man across the river. how do we understand this? how do we help others understand it as well?


it is all pretty despairing. but with miles and hannah there, together with timur, i remained pretty grounded. in them is a feeling of home and now i realize home is to be found anywhere. it is meeting a fellow traveller escaping nyc by hiding in saks fifth ave, of all places; it is being 21 and reliving past years with charlie, brown, and his sister ruth; it is dinner parties and cooking in my own kitchen; it is bringing your teammate to a gay bar.


cities rise, buildings are destroyed, people change and things happen. yet tonight, standing with my feet sinking under me, the wind buffeting my face, standing astride, offering myself to the luminous night sky and the tyrannical city, i am alive with my friends, the people i have elected my family, home wherever i want it to be.

The View of Manhattan

The East River flows quietly between Long Island and Manhattan, while a steel drum band plays on a platform at Grand Central. The water is murky, the dirt and grime of the city reflected in the currents. Chewing gum marks on cement; city streets and buildings always messy, untidy, harsh and sticky. the brutal city is scary, rough, and it doesnt give chances. People fall through the cracks, they are down and out, fighting for a life. in singapore, where there is no fight, everything is purposeful and demarcated, there is no room for life's essential messiness. the necessary question then, is what kind of sadness you would trade for another. Would I spurn the sadness of risk and uncertainty to embrace the sadness of unfulfilment and ennui? Tonight I go to midtown again, and when a piss-soaked woman pushes me off my scooter, i will do a little dance and give her a hi-5.

We Are Picking Flowers, You And I

In my dream, I want to bring you flowers, but you are suddenly there, and we pick winter flowers off a tree together. When I wake up, Hannah is beside me and I've a splitting headache. I'm not thinking, so I wake her up and tell her about my dream. A man should not want for more. I'm waking up beside a gorgeous girl, I get to share my dreams with her, we ski for the entire day, Miles and Ryan cook dinner for us, and I am warm after a long day with Jeremy sharing Quaker tales. "Couldnt this be family?" I ask, because for once I feel at home. Perhaps. That moment will last forever, a miraculous coincidence of people, time and place.

The Real Big Apple By Bike

Destination: Valley Stream, Long Island. It's time to return the phone, the 21st birthday present I never wanted. That means 10 miles each way, all the way to to WalMart. If anyone can do it, I can. I realize though, it's not the cycling. It's about going through 8 different neighbourhoods, each one further removed from NYC physcially and figuratively. It gets quiet and busy, random and peaceful, white and then black. This is the hinterland, how most people actually live. Forget Manhattan nights, it's long commutes and Sunday shopping at the crazy fucking giant mall. So WalMart gave me my money back, and I got there by bicycle. Zero emissions, money back guarantee. Small guys taking down giantszzz.

Doorway

I left the library on Wednesday to sit at Bryant Park. It is chilly and dark, but the floodlights watch the tourists as they skate and their giggles warm the air in return. This evening, none of us has anything to do so we wander around the brutal and imposing city, so far removed from nature but terribly beautiful still. The rows and rows of walls wear fire escape ladders like a messy girl who cant keep her hair out of her eyes. We sit in a park and drink, like winos. The trees have barely changed colour, the fountain is turned off, strange people around, and a gay couple full-on making out. This is the problem of the 18 year-olds in America: there is quite honestly nowhere to go.

It is time for Thanksgiving dinner. The food is, as expected, fucking ridiculous and there is obviously more than all of us could painlessly eat. Except for the fact that everything is in plastic. I ask if I should set the table, because that is how I help best. They bring out plastic table lining, plastic crockery and cutlery, and we sip wine from plastic (ugh) goblets, while taking salad dressing straight from squeeze bottles. And this is supposed to be The Great American Meal.

Tonight, I meet Marie at her old workplace, an Irish pub on 57th. To get there, I walk 20 blocks. For all that effort, this Irish pub is not half-decent. I'm beginning to think that everything American is truncated, sanitised, folded in two and then rolled out flat. Not that I dont envy Marie's previous lifestyle, I think I could get used to just working and surviving in a nothingandeverything city. We leave together, me to meet Bethany and friends. Joel is there and he's cute like a button. So I tease and taunt him. I lie on his lap and we chat. Everyone goes to Zack's show a little before us, so it's just us two as we leave Laura's place. I'm in the doorway and we're saying we should go. He puts a hand on my chest, my heart is pounding (I'm already off the wall by now) and I almost make my move. But I know, I dont really want to, because. So I dont, and it's Friday night, I'm in New York City, USA, I'm not impressed at all and all I can think of is I want to tell Ryan about my week and why the fuck hasnt Rudy written to me in so long.

East River Crossing

Our car stopped last night at 209th. I say goodbye to Ryan, it is our second time saying goodbye on the road and I cannot wait to see him again. What happens if he goes to Vassar? How many more service stations will we stop at together? That's another story for another day.

Bethany's two greyhounds greet me, and there's some time for my grand settling-in routine before we leave for Brooklyn with Laura and Annie. Manhattan is a gem across the East River and I try not to look, what I am afraid of I do not know. Laura's town house is every bit the typical NYC home, urban-minded but American-sized. We end up crashing there and walk around the neighbourhood the next morning before heading to Manhattan. Zack waits for me to go to the Jack Kerouac show.

This is Manhattan. The heights of urbanization condensed in the size of a pill. It's been too long since I left Singapore and now I can barely keep pace with New Yorkers. Taking the subway to 42nd, there are people of every category, the smell of frankfurters, and then giant neon billboards in Times Square. Sirens and yelps fight for attention amid the sound of heels, pigeons, and a busker. These are the sounds of the city. Yellow taxis drive by in an uninterrupted procession, and so do pedestrians. There is life pulsing through the streets, it is another one of those cities. I can breathe again.

You could say it is hard to keep up here, though I'm not entirely convinced about the importance of keeping up with yourself. Wouldnt it be better to get lost in the city and let it shake you around? It is not so easy to lose yourself in Wesleyan where everything is quiet and slow; it is hard to get excited. The sea of faces are a stronger comfort than the sea of individuals - there is no need to be special. Walk, pay, breathe, repeat. (I thought I already knew how to let go. I'm sure I do, the question is, how much of my other parts should I keep?)

Jack- what did you say? I see your manuscript and it is you, high, typing. You are lost in cities, wandering on the road, lost on life. You have left your family. Now, whats it like to be you in your unending, driving madness? If this is all atomic chaos, how do we know, what do we do, how do I start? How did you start?

i fuck insects

we live in exciting times. the coach drops me off in byron bay earlier than i expected, and i found myself thrown out in the freezing east coast morning. the streets were limp and lifeless. with nowhere to go, no warm bed, nothing to do, i decide to pad up and try to get warmer. that takes a good ten minutes in the bus stop, during which i realise that there's no point in lying down in the cold, so i decide to walk around town and and then to the beach to watch the sunrise. that becomes the single most colossal decision of this month and sets the tone for the rest of the day.



as i look into the frigid distance at main beach, there are three hotties canoeing out to the julian rocks and there are... dolphins. two pods of dolphins just playing around, their black fins occasionally breaking the surface, just like in television. not bad at all.



i go towards the lighthouse with my haversack in tow, but it's getting warmer and i actually begin to perspire for the first time in a week. tshirt comes off, and so do shoes, and what a sight i must've been as i trekked along. a carpet snake comes out of hibernation to greet me. i say hello, we take a few pictures together, and he scoots away, so we go our separate ways.



up the lighthouse where the view is not so special (except if you psycho yourself into believing it is because it's the "easternmost point of the australian continent"), there's a volunteer chick showing people how to spot whales. she lends me a pair of binoculars - free - and i stand there for an hour with her and some other retirees from Blighty. well, of course there're whales, their shiny black backs catching the sun's rays and my heart melts from watching their gentle and quiet strength. they send a spray of water up, their tails pop up from the water when they dive down, and i'm thinking, this is fucking incredible.



afternoon was spent trying to be a surfie, the waves were wicked for an amateur, and we kept going at it till it was dark and too cold. we get back into town at six, and as far as i'm concerned, it could be midnight. im freezing, just wearing my boards, and i run into the hostel which two boys (this is Cute French Guy if i ever tell you about him) at the lighthouse recommended to me.

so i'm checking in, and for once i'm on the other side of the counter, and i'm playing the person who's My Favourite Guest Because He's Cute and Funny and Crazy Cool. i open the door to my dorm, and there's a dorm party going on. before i can say bugger off, they're offering me free chocolates and get this, surf lessons. thats, uh, good. so, free room and board from tomorrow onwards, free surf lessons, cute french boys and free internet. things are looking good.

before i left sydney, i told darius from confest that something will definitely happen, and many things have. it's amazing then, how in the midst of all this change there's still a very reassuring sense of continuity. ladies and gentlemen, everything is under control.

addendum:
i go with boys from dorm to cheekymonkeys and cocomangas, and for one night only, i'm living the east coast backpacker life. in a while though, the loud and bad music and overall ugliness of british gappers makes me leave for the warm comforts of bed. but not cute frenchie's.

AND THE CURE!!!

i've actually got a facebook account now, after so many years of holding out against friendster. paul from the inncrowd adds me to his facebook and i'm really delighted because he's such a cutie, and i really liked him from when he was in the hostel. ALSO because he's "IN FUCKING SYDNEY TOO"! so we meet today on oxford, and i wondered if something was up.

i'm sitting outside stonewall, the sun is full in my face and two council workers are doing what council workers do, or rather, not do. he appears looking really pasty and white, but cute. we settle down in battuta and i go for lemon twist tea by reflex. we're chatting for a little while about nothing really, when paul just came out and said it. which made things easier. we then spent hours on that little table beside the window watching boys and discussing our experiences. i'd jump him, but not yet, maybe when i have a joint and we both have jobs.

it's amazing because last we met we'd been trudging down selegie in the swamping heat, perspiring and looking for ah-balling. now we're walking down city streets together in jumpers, in the sydney winter, watching boys, and huddling together because of the cold. it's awesome, fucking amazing.




it's also really grand how i was working just last monday and now i'm cavorting around the harbour bridge and opera house and blue mountains and oxford street. things are happening so quickly now, and i simply do not have time for moments. it's all a whirlwind of dashing madness. this is 16, 17, 18, thinking of possibilities. it is now, on the train to byron and nimbin. to indonesia, to packing, saying goodbye to friends and then leaving. it's all happening now and i'm afraid i'll miss it. but we'll see, there's still the ocean to reckon with.

synapse

i was walking through katherine - on the tail-end of my journey, the return trip on the ghan - feeling so self-assured, knowing exactly what i was doing, all because i had saved a bit by walking into town instead of taking a bus. i was bored, though, because katherine on a sunday afternoon had the combined energy of two ants on a treadmill.

by this time, i considered myself highly experienced with turning down aboriginal requests for, variously, money to buy meat, cigarettes, and spare change. the style i adopted had evolved from flat out "no", to "hell, i need money too, can i come with you?" so imagine the warmth of familiarity in my heart when a group of three aboriginals approached me for some kindness on a desolate street. at that very moment i decided to employ a new tactic, because i was an aboriginal from taiwan who could not speak english, was very glad to be on their land, and would love to be in possession of some kindness too. THAT worked like a charm because god knows prolly the only thing aboriginals cant stand is someone exactly like themselves.

I Want To Go To

Rainforest World Music Festival, in Sarawak's Borneon jungles. W6za and Okeiko have an invitation to go and now i'm invited too. Ah...


Picture by Sarawak Tourism Board

Dividends

Morning is just a rehash of last night except we're dirtier because there hasnt been a real shower for either. I'm sitting topless in the passenger seat as Daryl brings us home. The wind is passing us by and I want to scream, which I do. We stop for three spots fishing for barra but fail quite miserably. Well, at least money buys us barra at Fisherman's Wharf again, just like the first time, but here we bump into Teddy and Ayumi, my trainmates who inspire laughter in between their Japanese-Korean attempts at English.



It's time to say goodbye, and this is the final entry On the Southern Road. But I know, when the police pulls us over on the way to the airport, there is no need to say goodbye, because, well, too many things can happen. You just gotta have faith, faith, faith.