Tattoo

For years I thought about getting a tattoo. What's the one thing which meant so much to me that I'd want to have it on my body for the rest of my life? I used to think it was freedom: to be able to live the way I wanted to, to be free from the world's standards and restrictions. Yet when I looked at myself--Had I not always been free? Finally I decided it was freedom from fear that I sought: the courage to make decisions, to embrace situations and relationships that are in sync with my true nature, however complicated or unsettling they may be.

After a long wait - the artist was booked up and then away for a while - I got my tattoo today. It says courage in Hebrew, or as I've been told by a Hebrew speaker, courage of the heart. Let it be an affirmation of how I'll always strive to live.

Going Home

One thing that unsettles me is not being able to go home. Today I was watching a video at an art gallery for work when I realized I didn't have my keys--which happens at times. Locksmiths in Hong Kong work around the clock, though they charge more if it's late at night or a public holiday. On the phone I asked the guy that supposing I could get a neighbor to open the gate downstairs, was there any way we could break into my flat without changing the lock? The task was easier than I imagined: the locksmith had some 'multi-purpose' key that did the trick. That also means anyone could possibly sneak into a stranger's home and steal everything, if they had the right tools and the security was kind of flimsy.

Back home I lay down and fell asleep. My dream began with me loitering around a movie set on the streets where a few friends of mine were working. A director came up to me with a story idea and asked if I could write it: it was a revenge story about a young man who wanted to gun down a rival. The director left the scene with my friends, and said they'd come back to catch me at a later time.

For no known reasons I was on the train, just killing time as I thought the story over. The director had said he couldn't find someone who could put together a tight plot and deliver the thrill. Talk about gripping, commercial drama--wouldn't I be the past person to pull it off? My mind drifted; I started to forget the storyline and fell asleep. A beautiful young woman was beside me when I awoke--she nestled into me and presented two tiny dolls, talked about them as if they were alive. At that moment I realized she was insane, but her innocence moved me and I agreed to give her my contacts. My search of a name card turned surreal when all I found in my wallet were packets of pills, medical prescriptions that belonged to my friends.

I couldn't leave the woman. She had to stay on the train for the whole day: "My father told me not to go home for a few days. He couldn't stand my insanity." The next thing was we started to make out and there was a curtain around the bed, as if we'd been transposed into a movie set. A man - a figure of authority - saw us. Before he called for security, I abandoned my friend and got on the train again. Never had I felt so vulnerable in my shabby state: I was in some skimpy T-shirt and shorts, obviously a run-away who's ill-prepared for her journey. Everyone else was dressed in suits and dresses. I looked for a seat, a spot to hide.

At the end of the dream I was back in the original scene, waiting to meet the director or to find his number. It turned out over a week had passed. I was unsure if he'd remember me, but I had to reach him and ask, Do you still want my story? How do you want me to write it? I wanted to go home.

State(s) of Flux

Here's the chapbook of my good friend Steven Karl, a poet who lives in NYC. Isn't it beautiful? Check out his blog for more details. Curiously, I think the cover images and the font capture his sentiments quite well--or it seems so to me, anyway.













Steven said I've probably read all the poems in the book--good writing surprises you every time you read it! I'm very happy that my friend's efforts have materialized in such a gorgeous little book for the world to see. Can't wait to get my copy!

What A Stunner

I thought the US Open was over for me after Nadal was out. Finally I went to sleep early and got up to watch the Del Potro vs Federer final--it'd be curious to see if Del Potro could upset the invincible Swiss superstar who's returned to form this year. Didn't this Argentine stun the world! Early in the match he seemed clueless against Federer, but he turned it around with incredible confidence and stamina. When Del Potro led 4 to 1 in the 5th his fellow countrymen began to sing and dance. The moment Federer sent a forehand over the baseline, the audience celebrated the crowning of a new champion.

Many of my friends are surprised that I love tennis. Being the introverted 'artsy' type, I seem to be bound up with books, music, movies and the likes--sports looks like an unlikely item on my list of interests. Like most people in Hong Kong, I grew up to be a soccer fan thanks to British influence. Tennis only got my attention in 2005 when the Federer-Nadal rivalry started to become a media fixture. This wonderful clash of styles has got a number of my girl friends into watching tennis, including those who'd never been into sports in the past.

One thing that grips me about tennis is the duration of the match. A close match in men's tennis can run up to three or four hours; it's incredible to see the players put their mental strength to the test. If I ever learned the meaning of persistence - an attribute I rather lack in my own life - I learned it from watching tennis. To think what these players have to give to be on the court, and the faith they must have in themselves at every crucial second--just a glimpse of that leaves one utterly inspired.

Here's a disclaimer: unlike most girls who stare at Nadal's arms on the screen, I'm not into men of his physique, and he can certainly grunt less. Today I'm just thrilled to see a new Grand Slam champion other than Federer or Nadal. And I do have a preference for slightly darker skin. Hmm.

US Open

I decided to slack in my work tonight and watched the Nadal vs De Portro semi-final. My favorite tennis player has apparently not bounced back from his injuries yet: it's really hard for me to watch Rafa choke right from the start of the match. Del Portro gave an amazing performance today that drove everyone wild and has sure won him many new fans. Still, I'm so disappointed that Nadal is out--I was seriously hoping he would win the US Open and complete his Career Grand Slam! The time will come when Rafa makes it. The good news is he'll be back in the no.2 spot after this tournament.

Last night I went to Claire's birthday dinner and had fun meeting some people, independent folks with an interest in art, movies, etc. Which was a nice respite since I'm looking to get swamped with work in the coming days. Now I just have to recover from my disappointment at Rafa's loss and get ready for tomorrow's work. Hmm...

This Cracks Me Up

American novelist and fellow blogger Donigan Merritt - who currently lives in Buenos Aires, a city I hope to visit one day - has a blog entry about the debate over universal health care in the US and the reaction of the Christian Conservative Right. While I have minimal connection with or interest in the country - except for its literature and that HK dollar is linked to the US dollar - I must say the debate puzzles me a great deal. Even in a small city as Hong Kong, we have decent health care for the public. You can afford visits to clinics and public hospitals even if you don't have insurance, and in emergency cases you receive certain free treatments. There've been uproars over recent mistakes made by medical professionals and the Hospital Authority can be lame at times. But we get more than what we pay for--Hong Kong's gotta have one of the lowest tax rates in the world. At least we won't have hard-core Christians barking at their tax money going to save the poor: the hilarious rabid face featured in Donigan's entry.

(Sorry my Christian friends--I know you aren't one of those hypocrites)

Back to the literary: I finished reading Intimacy by British author Hanif Kureishi. The novel is the interior monologue of a man who plans to abandon family. The narrative reads somewhat contrived at first as the protagonist has to explain the backbones of his story. Soon it picks up speed when the readers get to the heart of the conflict: Do we choose to be faithful to others or to ourselves?

One passage of the protagonist and his wife at the therapist made me laugh:

'Susan and I sat side by side and six feet apart opposite a middle-aged and somewhat patronizing woman who had a 'concerned', if not pained, look. What a job, the harvesting of misery. She will never want for work.

Susan was soon into her second handkerchief.

The therapist, like me, appeared to sympathize with Susan, particularly when--in the attempt to get things started--I tried to define love as curiosity. I argued that unrest, disquiet, curiosity and the desire for more was at the root of life--you could see it in children. I said I had lost my curiosity about Susan. I said I had no passion to know her soul. She bores me; or I bore myself when I am with her. I said:

'All that matters is the hinge!'
The therapist leaned forward. 'What does the hinge mean to you?'
'The hinge?'
'Yes. How does it make you feel?'
I leaned towards her. 'The hinge of one's mind! Whether it opens inwards or outwards. Let it be outwards. Let it be - out!'

I fell back in the chair, ashamed of my desire, of all I wanted. That I couldn't want my life with Susan--which should have been enough--was inexplicable and cruel. The therapist, surely seeing the point of the hinge, would help me with this.

The woman, who presumably believed in the ungovernable desires of the unconscious, appeared, nonetheless, to be some kind of rationalist. She replied patiently that relationships did become less passionate. This was to be expected. Enthusiasm would be replaced by other consolations.

Consolations! Mad to learn what they were, I could have kissed those consolations from her lips!

'Yes?' I said.
'Contentment,' she murmured.
I leaned forward once more. 'Sorry?'
She repeated it: contentment.

Sobbing Susan was nodding.

How I wished I were nodding--with my face between Nina's legs, my hands holding up her arse up like a dish I am hungry for, my tongue in all her holes at once--tears, dribble, cunt juice, strawberries! I suck the soup of your love. Soul doctor, therapist--who tickles their tongue in your old hole? I am not ready for the wisdom of misery; I have had that with Mother. I am all for passion, frivolity, childish pleasures! Yes, it is an adolescent cry. I want more. Of what? What have you got?

The therapist insisted we see her later that week.

Susan's fat, red weeping face in that room the second time, as I declare that I don't think things can be repaired. To have made it absolutely clear, I should have given her a back-hander or a finger in the eye. Then they would have understood! Instead, the therapist gets up and goes to the shelf where she extracts a book. She tries to get me to read a poem aloud. I glance over it. Seeing it is a bad poem, and being smart, I say I've forgotten my glasses. Ever-obedient Susan has to read it out in a tremulous voice, glancing at me in the old ways, as if to say, later we will laugh at this. I keep thinking: I'm paying to hear poetry read aloud. I would pay not to hear this. Not even poetry can help us!'

Taro My Cat

Taro on my Mac mini in winter.

Taro means 'first born, male' in Japanese. I got him from SPCA three years ago. Growing up I lived with dogs; in my mid-20's I shared a household with a black Maine Coon, a smart and defiant long-fur cat for a while. A few years ago, during a trip to an island in Hong Kong, I saw a black cat curled up by the window at the pet shop, sleeping. That moment changed my domestic life in the years to come: I decided to have a cat of my own.

I saw Taro on his first day at the SPCA Mong Kok branch. He was with three other kittens, all recent transfers from the cat shelter, shivering at the sight of strangers. According to his record he was two months old at the time, though he was big, more like the size-of a 4-month-old. He started to lick and nestle into one of his friends, as I made arrangements to take him home the next day.

























Taro at 1.5 years old, looking bewildered. In real life he rarely wears that look.

During our first days together Taro was timid and innocent as any other kitten could be. He'd be lying on the couch when I got home from work. The next moment he'd gone into hiding. At night he was more active: he'd explore the flat, enjoy his food and his scratching pole, discover the many wonders of the world. One night he sat looking at a tiny cockroach that was dying on the floor, until his eyelids started to close and he dozed off on the spot.

For all the affection and freedom he got, Taro grew up to be a playful, gentle and obedient cat. He roams around and plays with everything, even a piece toilet paper, without causing any destruction in my home. He likes to poke his head into my sneakers or rubs his face against a leather shoe. Rather puppy-like, as you would say. Taro flicks his tail or meows when I call his name. If I raise my voice at his being naughty - like scratching my office chair - he meows and bounces away. At night, when the lights are off, he gets into his basket (with a giant red velvet cushion) or curls up in my chair to sleep.


















Taro thinks he rules the world.


Unlike some cats who get aloof or grumpy, Taro is almost always affectionate and happy. There're times of the day when he hides away in some spot, but for the most part he stays close to me and follows me around the flat. During the day he often makes his way to the top of the wardrobe and watches me work. Once or twice a day, Taro lingers around me in my office chair, meowing; he wants to jump onto my lap, or to get picked up. In winter he sits on my lap a lot, and he purrs for an hour at a time.

The only 'drawback' of the Taro package is that he gets extremely nervous around strangers. Whenever I have visitors, which is rather infrequent, he hides under my bed or gallops to the bathroom to find a safe corner, usually behind the toilet. After an hour or so, Taro may appear and check out the intruder; if my friend is one of those folks who have an affinity to cats, then he may sniff and paw the visitor as an invitation to play. That doesn't usually happen unless it's my friend's second visit though.






















Earlier this year I moved my bookshelf perpendicular to my wardrobe, which means new platforms for Taro to bounce around and to watch the apartment from different angles. Since my bookshelf is parallel to my bed, Taro and I can check up on each other until we drift off. What a nice way to spend our days.

Reprises/News

An anthology I'm published in, Fifty-Fifty: New Hong Kong Writing, will be relaunched at two meet-the-authors events at Pacific Coffee this month (click the link for details). I'll be at the first one in Central this Tuesday night. Drop by for a coffee or a chat with me if you live in this town. Get yourself a copy of the anthology featuring 42 writers and their musings on the city's changes since the handover.

In recent weeks I caught up with a few writer/artist friends I didn't get to see in a long while. One dinner ended with me drinking powdered Chinese medicine in my friend's lounge room, and him hitting the back of my neck with an acupuncture device ('Here comes the cadenza,' he said). Talk about being multi-talented--I too should develop another skill to make a living before I get buried in words.

One thing that will drag me away from my writing desk: the upcoming tango workshop with masteros Damian Esell & Nancy Louzan from 23 to 29 September. Come see the masteros' first ever performance in Hong Kong at the Grand Milonga on September 25 in King's Park. It's sure to be a wonderful glimpse into tango whether you're a dancer or new to the thrill.