Books

With my recent move I've donated and given away a few bags of books. Most of my collection sits in my old family home, now inhabited by my father and his girlfriend. I haven't gone back in 5 years and I don't know if he has thrown them out, or what condition those books are in if they're still there. The books I left behind are mostly classics (Austen, Dickens, Lawrence, Joyce, Woolf...), and some modern day and contemporary ones as well. There're several of them that I wish I had taken with me, like Rosemary Edmonds' translation of Anna Karenina (I'm not a fan of Tolstoy, but I do think it's one of the greatest novels ever written and it changed my life when I read it at 22), Madame Bovary (I picked it up at 15 and the world was never the same again), Their Eyes Were Watching God (we all have the right to hope, don't we?) and a few others.

The one book that I regret losing--it irks me to this day--is The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. I read and loved it like crazy in my university days. A couple years later I left it in Melbourne, where I once thought would be my home, and the man wouldn't mail it back to me. ('Please? It has sentimental value for me'). The cover was that photo of Joyce as a young man, wearing a cap and a vaguely smirky smile, you guys must know which one. Once you owned and loved and spent your days with a book like that, you wouldn't want to get another copy. No!

Last night I sorted out my bookshelf in the new place. If I have to choose, say, 10 books out of this  lot that I'd bring with me wherever I go, they would be:

Selected Prose and Poetry of Paul Celan

Birthday Letters by Ted Hughes

Cuttlefish Bones by Eugenio Montale

The Captain's Verses by Pablo Neruda

The Best of Marina Tsvetaeva

Disgrace by J M Coetzee

Cathedral by Raymond Carver

Franz Kafka: The Complete Stories

First Love and other novellas by Samuel Beckett

...the last one is a tough choice but I'll choose Unseen Rain: Quatrains of Rumi over Love in the Time of Cholera by Marquez,  Honored Guests by Joy Williams or my books of Seamus Heaney's poetry, because I bought the Rumi book in Istanbul, which makes it a special one for me. 

What about you?

100 Days of Stories

Along with Marcus Speh and Susan Gibb, I've joined 100 Days 2011 - 100 blog posts of vignettes, micro-fictions and whatever I can come up with till late August! Since 52/250 A Year of Flash I've been keen on taking part in online writers' communities--sometimes there's no better Muse that the looming deadline. As a collective, the participants of 100 Days 2011 are supposed to draw on one another's works for their own creations. So I'll be looking forward to checking out others' blogs and responding to them too. 

The blog I created for the collective is Le Bleu du Ciel, after Bataille's novella which I've recently read. It's a pretty name for a book full of vomit and other horrors most of you probably wouldn't want to read about. I'm a fan of Bataille and transgressive fiction, but the narrative in Blue of the Noon just isn't great - it turns into a tirade of sort half way through and all the hooks are gone. Still, I chose this title for the blog since it resonated with the mental picture I had of the world my first character found himself in. 

In other news, after a lot of mental juggling and running back and forth, I've more or less sorted out my new apartment. In a few days it should feel like home. 

If You Think You're Lonely Now (II)

Clyde hit town when I was staring at the sea on a windy afternoon. I had told him that I would be away from home for a few nights, but he should be able to reach me when he was back. 'Call me,' he sent a text message. In the evening he turned up in my neighborhood, a tall Eurasian man in a New Order T-shirt standing outside 7 11' with a bottle of diet coke. We had a long hug, got a quick bite and went back to my place so I could finish packing. 

Clyde took a look at the junk lying around my flat, said Hi to my cat Taro which had gone into hiding in the bathroom, and sat down to play a Bach sonata on the piano. In his home in Singapore he has a digital piano which sounds pretty much like the real thing, but in his mind it isn't the same thing. Whenever he is back in his family home in HK or visits a friend who has a real piano, he sits down and plays.

'Have you called the piano mover?'

'I'll do that tomorrow.'

'Do you even know those guys?'

'Not really.'

'Leave it to me. By the way, mum says Hi.'

The next day Clyde and I hopped onto the truck with the movers. The building I now live in is in the middle of a clubbing area, though my flat is quiet and there is a tree outside one of my windows. When the movers had unloaded the twenty cardboard boxes and assembled my bed, Clyde and I went up to the rooftop to get some air. It started to rain. I told Clyde that he should go home and I had to go shopping for stuff to clean up the flat. Clyde insisted on coming along. When all was said and done, the two of us walked up the slope in the rain--Clyde lugging a mop and a bag of grocery, me trailing behind him with two plastic bags of towels and cleansers and random household items, past bankers and models drinking beer at the sidewalk bars.

***

My friend is someone who doesn't hold onto the idea of home. Clyde has relocated several times in the past years, and he has always worked hectic jobs with long hours and frequent business trips. With every move he threw away most of what he had--books, DVDs, clothes, women--checked in a large suitcase and his classical guitar at the airport. For the last few years he has lived in Singapore, a city he dislikes. But it almost doesn't matter when he works at 60 to 70 hours a week, and is away half of the time. To make time for this trip back to HK, he had to put in extra time the past two weeks to get things done.

The day after my move, Clyde and I were back at my old place, clearing out junk and old furniture I no longer wanted, scrubbing stains on the walls and the kitchen sink. For a moment Clyde couldn't take the plastic gloves off his hands and I had to pull them off. 

'I'd have done just fine on my own, you know.'

'I had to come back to see my folks anyway. It's been a year.'

'When was the last time you had to do housework?'

'Back in uni when I lived in that studio flat.'

'Oh yeah. Hmm.'

'What does that mean?'

'I've just...never imagined seeing you do housework.'

'It's not very glamorous.'

Clyde didn't come back because I needed help. He came back because he knows I never ask people for  anything--not their time, not their attention or love, and certainly not their help in sorting out a practical situation. And I don't accept help from someone unless I consider them a true friend, or a lover I wish to keep for a long while. The last thing I want is to intrude into someone else's space, or to end up with a sense of obligation towards a person I don't truly care for. 

***

Over the past 15 years, Clyde and I had played music, got drunk or stoned in a bar or someone's home, hit the beach in sunny weather, talked in the guest room in his family home till the morning broke. For those of you who haven't read my previous entries about him, Clyde grew up playing classical music--his third instrument is double bass. We met through a pianist friend when we got together to do some Tom Waits' songs, so the guy could propose to his girlfriend with me singing 'Jersey Girl'--which didn't work out. When our musical aspirations died an amicable death after a year, we threw a rocker's party--Clyde and I were dancing on the couch, and I fled to escape getting whipped by Clyde flinging his belt.

As much as I love my friend, Clyde has his quirks and they are difficult to deal with for those who don't understand. Strong-willed and incisive, Clyde has little tolerance for people who aren't game or honest. Tell him why you can't do something--certain evasions or refusal he can take, but if you feed him a half-assed answer that spells weakness of character, you're out of his world pretty quick. Try arguing with him and you'd get a blank look that says 'Points taken. I'm leaving.' Go the route of 'But this is what I've been going through' and you'd see the tagline 'Don't fucking waste my time' on his face. It has nothing to do with life being insane--you have something real to offer, or you don't. 

Which isn't to say Clyde doesn't go through the interior Q&A about what he can give to others. He just keeps it to himself because it wouldn't change the outcome. The night he came back in town, I got  messages from two ex-boyfriends, both alcoholics in denial who I'd rather not talk to again. Years have passed and they email, call, text, follow my Facebook and Twitter and possibly this blog, holding onto traces of me in their alcohol-induced self-pity. These guys never loved me. They just can't seem to get over the abuse and eruption they brought into the relationships, the way I exposed their flawed characters and cut them off for good. 

Clyde read the messages. 'That guy who married the rich girl...he's classic.'

'He wanted to be an artist but he was never gonna be that...Still, not reconciled to life. It's been six years and I wish he'd leave me alone.'

'He won't. Because what irks people the most is not having the chance to justify themselves around you, to prove their point: 'But you were wrong about me.'"

***

Yesterday Clyde had a late afternoon flight back to Singapore. Before he left, we checked the piano after the movers had done their job. All was fine and Clyde made me promise to practice playing scales so I can play for him next time he comes back. Which is very typical of Clyde--he puts himself out there for you and you'd better show him that you love him.

'But I can hardly play now,' I said.

'It doesn't matter. As long as you practice. Do you still talk to Brent?'

'I can get hold of him...but we haven't talked in a few years.'

'Take some piano lessons.'

'Huh.'

I was off to see an artist girl pal in the area, so I hugged Clyde goodbye at the train station. Speaking of Brent, our pianist friend, there's a funny story involving the three of us from years ago. But this entry has gotten too long, so I'll save that for the next one, or another time.

Pure Slush. New Home.

One of my 52/250 stories (the week's theme was 'blind spot') is now up at Pure Slush here and I'm grateful for the comments from my fellow writers! I'd always wanted to submit something to this zine but most of my flash stories didn't fit until I wrote this one. So, very happy to be a part of Pure Slush! Also check out my answers to the Hue Questionnaire, which can be quite a revealing list of questions for anyone who's up for giving some honest answers. Editor Matt Potter always has such good ideas, coz he puts a lot of heart into what he does.

The past two days were spent on moving, cleaning and moving, mostly with Clyde around. Tonight I took my cat Taro to our new home. It's rather tired me out and there's still a lot to sort out this week, so I'll talk to you guys later on.

Bedposts. Dismantled.

My last story for 52/250 A Year of Flash is up here. It's been quite an adventure with Michelle, John and Walter who created this wonderful community for us flashers and poets. Here's to their labor of love!

This week's theme is threesome and my story is a direct yet somewhat twisted take on the idea. For a while I didn't have a story at all, though I really wanted to be a part of the 52/250 finale. One morning as I set my mind on writing the story and found myself staring at this rash on my forearm, caused by an anti-mosquito wristband I wore. The rash had spread; there were tiny scraps of swollen skin and scratches, not noticeable to others but rather annoying for me. There, I had the drama. Writing this story made me feel like a fiction writer all over again.

Last week I went away and came back, having left a lot of things behind and made some new discoveries. My rash has healed and I've even found a remedy for the mosquito problem, which plagued me so badly in the past couple months. Right now my good friend Clyde is sitting on my four-poster bed--which will soon be dismantled--while I'm writing this entry. Then we'll get lunch, wait for the movers to come and head off to my new place. True to his word, Clyde came into HK last night to be here for my move. I'd be damned if I ever let this man down.

I Keep Falling Out of My Chair

How many of you watch tennis? I don't have a TV at home and I watch it online. It takes a bit of time and trouble to find a functional live stream channel whenever a match is on, which is one reason why I skip a lot of the ATP World Tours even though I'd like to watch more often. The other reason is, huh, it gives me heart attacks. Most of these matches are on past midnight HK time, or even 5am if it's the US Open. Who wants to sit in front of the computer screen alone, at such hours, to wave their fists at some world-class athletes spinning magical shots across the court, displaying superhuman mental strength to take each other down? The match that could go on forever takes that sudden turn you've been waiting for, and the crowd goes nuts at those fatal last shots that leave one of these guys walking off the court, disgruntled, even destroyed. What do you do with yourself when the match is over?

Sometimes I feel I'd fall out of my chair just watching a match. Other times I feel a terrible sense of dread and I'm almost tempted to closer the browser, stop watching right then and there. Most of the time I don't work regular hours and I have the luxury of staying up late to watch sports. Just the same, it sucks up my energy whenever I do it, esp. when my favorite player is losing and I feel a little crushed.

So, Rafael Nadal, please adjust your game now. You've got a new nemesis and he's getting too good. The clay court in Madrid was somewhat favorable to Djokovic and you hadn't had much time to prepare for this tournament, but he played better than you today as he does these days. Whatever it is, you've gotta change and step up on your game and beat him. You're still at the top and in world's sports, you're one of those guys who can bounce back against all odds. You can do it. Because if you don't, I'm going to be raging mad and losing a bit of sleep next time you lose to Djokovic! 

Now, people, don't get me wrong--I'm not a Nadal fan because of his muscle or anything like that. I have a soft spot for him because he's the first tennis player I sat down to watch years ago and that experience got me into this sport. Growing up I was a soccer fan, but it got boring and a tad too dirty. Now I like tennis because there's always a lot going on, so incredibly competitive and classy, and it shows me what perseverance means. Shot by shot, game by game, these guys give the best of themselves until they win or get broken down. One day I'd love to learn to play tennis, just to get a taste of hitting that ball across the court. 

The Lost Island

A true story about my grandmother set in a remote island in Hong Kong. Originally appeared at 52/250 A Year of Flash.

***

My grandmother's childhood was floating away on a boat. The moment she looked back at her brother on the shore, a bony figure waving goodbye in frantic pantomimes of love, she knew her fate was sealed. There would be no going back.

The strange woman by her side had chosen her because she was fair, the fairest child on the island. In the years to come she would grow into a solitary teenager, who haunted the wood and cried by the sea until the well within her ran dry. Tall, erect and sparkly, she would break into Baptist churches in the colonized land to steal water, and to tread between trampled bodies before the day's killings began. 

On this day she remained a small girl rocking to waves in fright, and her tears made a magnifying glass through which she saw cruelty on the woman's face. The middle-aged woman had travelled through mud and rain, in search of sweetness to bring into her household. A looming presence at the dinner table, waiting to receive the love that would forever elude her grip. The wind was in her eyes as she turned to look at the child.

'My husband doesn't like children crying,' she said. 'Dry your tears before we land.'

My grandmother never did what she was told. After all, she was headed for war times. 

Write About It

'Write about it,' is what my online writer friend, American novelist Donigan Merritt always says. As most of you know, I don't vent on this blog a lot--I save it for literary news, bits and pieces about my life, stories I share with friends and ex. or soon-to-be ex. lovers (I never write about current ones for privacy reason). For once I'll tear a page from Rose Hunter's book--our neurotic sweetheart who used to write some very amusing rants in her old blog--and say this much:

Fuck off, you pussy. You & you & you who're full of bullshit and have no balls to do anything real. Stop sending all this interference into my sphere. Stop milking us for 'inspiration' and whatever else you want from us. Go somewhere else to find your muse because--like I said in an entry last year--if there's any truth in your artistic persona, I'll fucking eat my hat.

Thank you.

Negative Suck Word Prompt Issue, Language > Place Blog Carnival #6 & Misc

The May special word prompt issue of Negative Suck is up! Featuring Julia Davies, Robert Vaughan, Len Kuntz and others. Our editor and my dear pal Jeff, who likes his morbid thoughts and secret outbursts, has--maybe not so curiously--gone quiet in recent days. I'll wait and see when he resurfaces.

That said, Dark Chaos wants your submissions!

Edition #6 of Language > Place blog carnival, to be hosted by Michelle Elvy at Warm Glow, is open to submissions till May 15. The theme for this edition is 'language and place on the edge'. 

As for me, I'm going through this manuscript of short shorts that I've written in the past months. A handful of them are balanced/crafted as they are, or finished in the sense that I don't see them going anywhere else. The rest I'll tear apart and rework into poems, just to see what these pieces are made of and what I can do. Which means I'll still be writing and hopefully publishing flash pieces, but you probably won't see me and my writing around as much.