Fiction

rumours in the city: "the statue galloped last night!"... "and the stars are unfavourable!"... but despite these signs of ill-omen, the city was poised, with a new myth glinting in the corners of its eyes. august in bombay, a month of festivals, the month of krishna's birthday and coconut day; and this year - fourteen hours to go, thirteen, twelve - there was an extra festival on the calendar, a new myth to celebrate, because a nation that had never previously existed was about to win its freedom, catapulting us into a world which, although it had five thousand years of history, although it had invented the game of chess and traded with middle kingdom egypt, was nevertheless quite imaginary; into a mythical land, a country which would never exist except by the efforts of a phenomenal collective will - except in a dream we all agreed to dream; it was a mass fantasy shared in varying degrees by bengali and punjabi, madrasi and jat, and would periodically need the sanctification and renewal which can only be provided by rituals of blood. india, the new myth - a collective fiction in which anything was possible, a fable rivalled only by the other two mighty fantasies: money and god.

hon lyn would really like her camera now because the view is moving. the two of us sit on a jetty in sembawang and the twinkling lights from the shipyard, dickens's fairy lights, sing a rousing chorus with the quiet night, breaking waves and soft wind.

i cant quite decide if i like this place and i tell her that. at times like this, when we are quiet and the weather is not oppressive, there is a possibility of this being home. and then there is the unforgiving crush of humanity, Singaporean humanity, and the midday heat to contend with. here there are annoying 20 year-olds talking nonsense in my mother tongue.

there is a song in that language, its title transliterates to son of the island, and i feel like i could be that guy. but this island city is constantly taken away from me, it calls me an others; i am other-ed, robbed and excluded. when this home expels its sons like that, i cannot see its history and our ties, and that makes me sad. it says to me, you dont actually belong here, you are only fictional.

but i have talked too far, a little too far from hon lyn and the story she is telling me now. she's on a bus full of singaporeans, malaysians, indonesians, thais, and vietnamese. this bus - i can already imagine it - is travelling from thai malaysia to muslim thailand. luscious green trees speed by the windows, rubbish littering the roads. maybe the airconditioning isnt working and a hot sticky stream of air passes the windows bup-bup-bup-bup.

they communicate with a blend of malay and hokkien, maybe a little thai - no? we wish this could happen more, this mixed bag of southeast asian-ness, because we're quite sick of poms, aussies, and german gappers every time we travel. we say it's about time for southeast asia to represent.

but, ah, no, not going to happen. whereas i instantly identify singapore with southeast asia, more people feel related to japan, hong kong, taiwan or korea. after it exiled me, singapore extended its project to itself, and there are now five million mental exiles who do not feel at home in their backyard. the 550 million people around them are too strange, too... brown. their city and their other-ness in their neighbourhood are objects of their diligence and creation and now this place has become too unreal, a fiction of its own creation.

as i write this in my own anglepoise, i'm forced to ask myself if perhaps my state of exile is due to a lack of my own imagination. am i unlike my father, who, at the age of 57, wants to change his name, dreaming up a new identity and history more in line with his self-image? is that what i should learn from that old man, to fight fiction with fiction?

You, Revisionist

your story stretches cross the room to me -
i see it come my way.
this place we sit is not quite so big,
yet you can't hear you scream.

you have known me from the day i was born
but you still dont know me.
you have written me my history and
my future you want to see.

is there a girl whom i have met that
i would like you to meet?
is this when we start to pretend
girls are my cup of tea?
(i have a boy for me,
you do know what i mean.)

has it been that long since i said,
"i want a bicycle
and a new lego set."
do you really think that i'd like
a quiet village girl,
an indonesian girl?

you change your tack and tell me about
your quiet village boy dreams,
but i never had a japanese mum and
i've never lived in france.

it's me you say who can change your past
by marrying a quiet girl.
hated your name and you had it changed -
i'm afraid i'm not your name

why, you, revisionist, you
project such power onto the past.
and i would like to help but i am afraid
my dreams are mine to fuck up.
(you had your chance but i'm
sorry i'll need mine too.)

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.

Notes from the Past

A little writing on an order chit from CCSG was stuck inside the The Postal Service's Give Up CD case.

Soup of the Day: Tomato
Upsell: IMT and apple crumble
86: maple walnut, ny cheese, choc opera, chix pie

"despair is the sudden calm in the cafe on sunday evening. the perspiration of fear as i see, things will never be... (overleaf) ... it is seeing something and then not, and... then seeing again and knowing that this is the way it will always be... and it is the certainty the..."

God, I needed a pill.

POW, wow

Harith Bizarro calls me out and after much bitching we decide to meet in our old haunt, Little India. As is very typical, I get there early and he late so I'm hanging out alone at POW for about two hours. Our theme for tonight is "I Remember When I Was a Backpacker Last Month", but Harith states plainly, "So, slippers and shorts right?"

It's been a bit more than a half-year since we last met and it starts out a little awkward but things begin to warm up. His pint of Hoegaarden and my stubby of VB lubricates things just enough, and the tension in me eases somewhat. We're speaking fondly like old ns kakis again.

On the walk back to catch the last train, our conversation turns to what exactly happened in the last few days. But really, who knows and who cares why things turned sour? Nothing much matters now, we're mates again. The placid night holds in it some kind of expectancy, the kind that makes it placid, not still, not calm, the kind that brings with it some kind of tremulous sensation in each ticking of the second hand.

It is trying to say something, though it was not apparent then. But now, putting thoughts down, sketching a mind map, it is clear. This new independence, confidence and willingness to be with myself, seems to have put a rest to the unresolved feelings towards abandonment, perceived or otherwise. More specifically, the benefit of hindsight made it clear how badly Harith must have wanted to get away from Jurong. It felt so real then, it still does, the silver sharpness still glistening in the back of my mind. But I understand it enough now, enough to shine a little bit of light in that corner, and know it for what it is, know that it itsnt a threat anymore.

Perth Redux

Time to say goodbye again, and then I walk to Olle's home where I'm sposed to collect the key from the Lesbian Neighbour but she's not home. Take a quick walk to Tarts for brekkie anyway, where they believe im a writer and i get a free slice. Drop by the Garage Sale Lady's House to see how she's doing but she isnt at home so I leave a note to thanks her for the crazy tent that was part of ConFest and is now in some Melbourne woman's home. Really, it's part of all that Love. Back home, I meet crazy Rachel and invite Olle and Adam out to Hotel Northbridge to treat them to a Golden Plate Dinner. We're walking back home, freezing, stuffed, but damn, it's great to be in Perth again.

Napping on the Verandah

Tilly's the only one who's not sick and today as we send Ruby (the other girl cousin who did the Donnie Darko-esque dance) away, everyone's feeling a little short. Not to mention that Magy brought her to Holly's Lolly shop for her weekly retail practice. She gives me her blue candy because she hates it, but finishes the rest with the voracity only my sister could muster, guaranteeing a sugar high, oh, like, now.

With superior reflexes and agility, I corner her into the hammock on the verandah and start to panic. Time is running out and unless i occupy this crazy bundle of energy within the next 20 seconds, I'll have a worse time keeping up with her OUTSIDE the hammock. Think, Ivan, think, think like a five-year-old girl! So I started a story of Princess and the Pea, and I'm very surprised she hasnt heard of it before. Silly gruff voices for the king/prince/peasants and the pricky voice for the princess. Im just pulling stuff out of the hat as I remember parts of the story, and make up others, including a sub-plot about peasants and a broken wheel (from my favourite story We Need A Wheel). Maggie is on the deck chair with her Lonely Planet Australien and Erika is on the other hammock. Turns out that they're listening to my vocal and mental acrobatics in glee as they take time to buzz.

By the end of the story, I'm parched but Tilly's asleep so it's game point to me. Molly comes to visit as she returns to the circus and I speak with her about ConFest. Of course, she's gone, and now I definitely have to go. Lauren, Beth and Magy were pretty okay referrals but Molly, now, thats an iron alibi. So I run back to the verandah where Maggie is and tell here we are going to the festival. We immedately make plans to leave tomorrow, and Tilly wakes up with all the excitement much to our dismay

On the Indian-Pacific (Kalgoorlie)

last night we all slept well, i think. hyo ju, the girl beside me, reminds me of hwee ying, dimpled cheeks and dainty chin. Prince's voice reminds me of 1996 when he was formerly known as Prince, when Power Rangers saved the world (Angel Grove) every week and when unbreak my heart and betcha bye golly wow were a chart-toppers. this was while travelling in indonesia with my family.

Hyo Ju accompanies me through the empty Nullarbor.

ten years later, betcha bye golly wow is playing on max kingsley jr. but im in australia alone and the only thing that happens for sure every week is a right good fuck. railways, or at least GSR ones, are very odd. we travel through the ugliest corners of cities and then go straight into vast swathes of nothingness. it is bewildering and peaceful all at once.

In Alice Springs, for example, The Legendary Ghan pulls into a scrapyard.

the indian-pacific goes through the Nullarbor (No-tree) Plain now. i contemplate taking a picture now but instead i write. because i know ten minutes later, after i've finished writing, it will still be harsh treeless unending land. if mountains are the upheavals of the earth's heart, then i think i've found the spot of the earth where its heart unfolds into peace. the lands stretch till they meet the sky. without a whisper or sigh, everything is as-is, contented and sleeping since the sea went away.

the sunset is magnificent. a vengeful red pours out of the clouds. there is no amber or purple; it is all the colour of bloodlust. i think of taking a picture but sit and enjoy it instead. because i know i can enjoy the moment and write about it later.

The Mighty Indian-Pacific stops at Cook for one hour. An abandoned railway town with a population of 4, it's easy to appreciate the cunning sense of humour of all its residents.

while on the GSR network, feel free to go on the whistle stop tours. they're very value for money and it beats sitting in the train anyway. in kalgoorlie, you can either go on a guided tour for 20AUD (good for the first trip) or you can walk into town on foot (good on the return trip).