London to Montreal
1
There were Brussel Sprouts in the Kensington street this morning.
Having discussed my other name – Bruxelles - before leaving.
An echo of sprouts spied by the Solent at Christmas.
We’re haunted by the symbols of our names. Sprouts and
Arrows. Saints and jackdaws. The name Kafka’s derived,
They say, from the Czech for jackdaw, and now there are
Jackdaws roosting in the Winchester chimney.
My sister, due to fly East to Khartoum, and I
Blocked up the chimney breast with old sheets, shelves, firewood,
Bird tomes, an encyclopaedia, an atlas.
The jackdaws are Franz’s revenge for my birds-eye view.
A perspective he, forever flightless, never knew.
2
Looking at my airline map, London and Montreal appear
Poised on a similar longitude. Through the cabin window
Can be seen a vast snow-speckled plain, as uninhabited
As any place can be. The snow reads like a pre-historic
Book. The lie of the land, described before and after words.
3
According to that map, as the plane flies into the mouth
Of the Saint Laurent, (another of my handles), it skirts
A neglected spot named Sydney, breasting the Atlantic.
There were Brussel Sprouts in the Kensington street this morning.
Having discussed my other name – Bruxelles - before leaving.
An echo of sprouts spied by the Solent at Christmas.
We’re haunted by the symbols of our names. Sprouts and
Arrows. Saints and jackdaws. The name Kafka’s derived,
They say, from the Czech for jackdaw, and now there are
Jackdaws roosting in the Winchester chimney.
My sister, due to fly East to Khartoum, and I
Blocked up the chimney breast with old sheets, shelves, firewood,
Bird tomes, an encyclopaedia, an atlas.
The jackdaws are Franz’s revenge for my birds-eye view.
A perspective he, forever flightless, never knew.
2
Looking at my airline map, London and Montreal appear
Poised on a similar longitude. Through the cabin window
Can be seen a vast snow-speckled plain, as uninhabited
As any place can be. The snow reads like a pre-historic
Book. The lie of the land, described before and after words.
3
According to that map, as the plane flies into the mouth
Of the Saint Laurent, (another of my handles), it skirts
A neglected spot named Sydney, breasting the Atlantic.
Dawn Window, Montreal
My sister explains they tried to put the blind up but it fell down.
It lives in an elongated box, awaiting a window in the domestic
Calendar. I’m easy. I sleep like a prince, waking at dawn,
(A half-ten lie-in on the Westerly passage), dreams of Berlin.
Eva’s buying beer in a DIY bar; British businessmen drink big
Think small. I dream in Berlin because I was there when Theo
Was born. The news reached us on Karl-Marx Allee. News clouded by
The present, a present receding with each day Theo grows.
The dawn window frames a metal fire escape. Sunshine falls on
Leafless trees. Inert lumps of snow frame the trunks. I spy half a
Garish garage. Behind it an elevated road. Traffic nosing noise-
Lessly. Theo cries on waking. Still working it all out, eighteen months in.
It lives in an elongated box, awaiting a window in the domestic
Calendar. I’m easy. I sleep like a prince, waking at dawn,
(A half-ten lie-in on the Westerly passage), dreams of Berlin.
Eva’s buying beer in a DIY bar; British businessmen drink big
Think small. I dream in Berlin because I was there when Theo
Was born. The news reached us on Karl-Marx Allee. News clouded by
The present, a present receding with each day Theo grows.
The dawn window frames a metal fire escape. Sunshine falls on
Leafless trees. Inert lumps of snow frame the trunks. I spy half a
Garish garage. Behind it an elevated road. Traffic nosing noise-
Lessly. Theo cries on waking. Still working it all out, eighteen months in.
By The River
The ice is melting in the morning sun. Huge sheets float down the
Saint Laurent. One, a crisp rectangular shape, straight edges and
Forty five degree angles, looks factory made. Theo relocates
A playground, snowbound since Autumn. Instinct leads the migrant bird
Back to his favourite slide. In the same way he’ll note the site of
A passing truck, and is puzzled to find that source of pleasure
Missing the next time he’s there. Yet to learn that pleasure is less
Intractable than nature. [It seemed as though the snow, waist deep
A week ago, threadbare today, was going. Then, just this second,
Through my window, a fretful blizzard pounces on the night sky.]
Saint Laurent. One, a crisp rectangular shape, straight edges and
Forty five degree angles, looks factory made. Theo relocates
A playground, snowbound since Autumn. Instinct leads the migrant bird
Back to his favourite slide. In the same way he’ll note the site of
A passing truck, and is puzzled to find that source of pleasure
Missing the next time he’s there. Yet to learn that pleasure is less
Intractable than nature. [It seemed as though the snow, waist deep
A week ago, threadbare today, was going. Then, just this second,
Through my window, a fretful blizzard pounces on the night sky.]
Dream
I am staying at a friend’s Manhattan penthouse. The friend has let a young journalist use the flat to interview a rock star. The journalist is a hot shot, but the rock star runs rings round him. At one point the rock star makes a gift of some Ming bowls to the journalist. The journalist is non-plussed. I am sitting in. The rock star doesn’t mind. He says he’s got a friend who works for the Guardian so he’s sat in on interviews before himself. The interview dawdles on, then a friend of the journalist arrives, followed by more friends. The room fills with brattish Manhattanites, coming and going. The rock star suggest that this is spoiling the interview. The earlier intimacy is lost, and I head across to my bedroom. The room is vast, but there are people occupying the en-suite shower. More of the brattish Manhattanites appear, mentioning they’re hoping to see ‘Barack Obama, man’. In a corner of my room, a stall has been set up. Two old ladies are selling War Dead memorabilia. Photos of marines who’ve been killed, and other servicemen. They tell me they come here most nights. The lights of Manhattan glitter behind them. I say I was hoping to sleep – my camp bed is behind their stall. I leave the bedroom. The rock star has gone. I was hoping for a passing goodbye, but am too late. Most people have left. One girl is cleaning up. I point her to a box where something important has been placed.
Downriver
To the South of Montreal is the old port of Lachine.
Named for the adventurers’ dreams of finding the fabled
World of China at the end of the Saint Laurent. Further
Downstream, the ice holds firm as fishermen, landrovers and
Ramblers test its weight. It glistens like the Salt Lake of
Uyuni. America is one vast whole, out-
Growing the stunted motherlands. Its dreams fulfilled
In size and stature, if not in spices or silks.
Named for the adventurers’ dreams of finding the fabled
World of China at the end of the Saint Laurent. Further
Downstream, the ice holds firm as fishermen, landrovers and
Ramblers test its weight. It glistens like the Salt Lake of
Uyuni. America is one vast whole, out-
Growing the stunted motherlands. Its dreams fulfilled
In size and stature, if not in spices or silks.
The Dauphin
Rain falls in the vieux-ville. Slap-shot, spring-loaded,
Imprecise, plunging between granite, cobblestoned
Echoes of New York, Paris, Minnesota. Adults schlep through
Puddles, whilst the next generation dozes beneath plastic.
Snow turns to slush on La Montaigne. The pushchair
Balks at this fag-end season. It skews and ruts.
Finally the adults concede defeat. One at each
Corner, they bear the child, a viceroy in his sedan.
Toothache and cold drive the child to distraction. He
Rages against his world. His rage is splenetic,
Haphazard. Later he sleeps. The adults assess his
Every move, reading the runes of the next generation.
Imprecise, plunging between granite, cobblestoned
Echoes of New York, Paris, Minnesota. Adults schlep through
Puddles, whilst the next generation dozes beneath plastic.
Snow turns to slush on La Montaigne. The pushchair
Balks at this fag-end season. It skews and ruts.
Finally the adults concede defeat. One at each
Corner, they bear the child, a viceroy in his sedan.
Toothache and cold drive the child to distraction. He
Rages against his world. His rage is splenetic,
Haphazard. Later he sleeps. The adults assess his
Every move, reading the runes of the next generation.
Urban Jungle
Through the un-blinded windows I see a creature, too heavy
For a cat, lumber down the fire-escape. I investigate.
Taking its time, bearing its striped tail with pride, oblivious
To traffic, a pottering racoon heads off into the night.
For a cat, lumber down the fire-escape. I investigate.
Taking its time, bearing its striped tail with pride, oblivious
To traffic, a pottering racoon heads off into the night.
On Traffic
In a book of Hesse’s I read as a teenager,
He spoke of the wise soul who gazed at the constant flow
Of water. It’s movement a sure sign of something. The
Endless tail light eddy might be our modern sartori.
He spoke of the wise soul who gazed at the constant flow
Of water. It’s movement a sure sign of something. The
Endless tail light eddy might be our modern sartori.
At JFK
The first time I arrived in New York, the skies were grey. Not until I
Reached Manhattan did the skyscrapers loom into view, and scrape the sky
They did. I felt dwarfed. Today, a clear day, the small jet flew low over
The island. Its buildings looked like the lego set which Theo and I
Built then destroyed this morning. A puny mark on the vast open spaces,
A plea for attention; a hostage to the whim of an errant limb.
Airports take you into a city without being in the city. A
Modern Ellis Island. I have four hours to kill with Goethe’s musings on
Italy. I long to cut loose, catch a bus, share a beer with Matthew. But
I am in transit, and, from the tone of my immigration officer,
Lucky to be so. He made me ‘passenger of the hour’, sent me to Mr
Customs, who, more kindly, said he’d look out for ‘Mr Fletcher’ at the Oscars.
Reached Manhattan did the skyscrapers loom into view, and scrape the sky
They did. I felt dwarfed. Today, a clear day, the small jet flew low over
The island. Its buildings looked like the lego set which Theo and I
Built then destroyed this morning. A puny mark on the vast open spaces,
A plea for attention; a hostage to the whim of an errant limb.
Airports take you into a city without being in the city. A
Modern Ellis Island. I have four hours to kill with Goethe’s musings on
Italy. I long to cut loose, catch a bus, share a beer with Matthew. But
I am in transit, and, from the tone of my immigration officer,
Lucky to be so. He made me ‘passenger of the hour’, sent me to Mr
Customs, who, more kindly, said he’d look out for ‘Mr Fletcher’ at the Oscars.
Coast to Coast Turbulence
The plane appears to battle with the United States almost as
Vigorously as I battle with K’s biography which might be
Nearly as vigorously as K battled with life, bringing to mind
The turbulence of an infant battling to make the world fit the mind.
Vigorously as I battle with K’s biography which might be
Nearly as vigorously as K battled with life, bringing to mind
The turbulence of an infant battling to make the world fit the mind.
Kerry’s Café/Bar - North Hollywood
Dark, low-ceilinged. Five different sports channels. A moose head on
The wall. Men in T-shirts and forage hats. No windows. A man
Asks if I like tennis. He likes Federer. Federer’s
Losing. A far cry from slick, Kerry’s keeps Hollywood at bay.
The wall. Men in T-shirts and forage hats. No windows. A man
Asks if I like tennis. He likes Federer. Federer’s
Losing. A far cry from slick, Kerry’s keeps Hollywood at bay.
Los Angeles - Initial Impressions
The plane skims a carpet of light. Every passenger a star in
Waiting. Ancient Jewish shops on Fairfax flank the Shalom Retirement
Home. Smell of eucalyptus and orange blossom. Beverly Hills
Suburbia; Surrey with palms. Mexicans selling mangos and
Their skills in the hardware carpark. The etymologic city:
Sunset and Mulholland and Melrose and Beverly and so on.
A city you’ve never visited but sense you know backwards. Though
You don’t. Because real life’s not like it happens in the movies.
Waiting. Ancient Jewish shops on Fairfax flank the Shalom Retirement
Home. Smell of eucalyptus and orange blossom. Beverly Hills
Suburbia; Surrey with palms. Mexicans selling mangos and
Their skills in the hardware carpark. The etymologic city:
Sunset and Mulholland and Melrose and Beverly and so on.
A city you’ve never visited but sense you know backwards. Though
You don’t. Because real life’s not like it happens in the movies.
Midday Screening of The Boat People at the Fairfax Cinema
As we enter Swingers Diner Bob’s crooning The Gates of Eden.
I eat aki tuna with wasabi and quinoa. Still worrying if the film’s
Going to screen at all. Come a quarter to I head to the Fairfax, five
Minutes away. The crowd’s about two dozen. The cinema seats
Three hundred. A few more trickle in through trailers for New
Mexico HD services. The film begins. That soundtrack glitch
Hits after five seconds. From then on it’s fine. Russell’s Russell,
Larger than life. Tim and Raquel, Nabil, Maimie, Clara and Dermott
Too run through their lines impeccably. The knife scene raises a
Chuckle. Alan’s murder a frisson. The film, as hard to watch as ever,
Trails some kind of blaze over the biggest screen to ever do it
Justice. Curry’s in Vietnam and I’m in Hollywood. The film ends
And is followed by a short about a man in love with a girl half
His age who lies about living in Alaska. Another short’s a spoof
Of Alive. Canessa in the Andes set in Pasadena. I walk out with
Ravi, go back to Swingers for coffee. Sun shines bright. Twenty years
Ago, N kissed an Irish-American actor in the back of a New York cab;
Now his brother’s drinking coffee with me, talking film-making. Back in
The Fairfax, the Q&A inspires the question: What next? Three other
Film-makers talk future projects. I reply that I haven’t got a clue.
I eat aki tuna with wasabi and quinoa. Still worrying if the film’s
Going to screen at all. Come a quarter to I head to the Fairfax, five
Minutes away. The crowd’s about two dozen. The cinema seats
Three hundred. A few more trickle in through trailers for New
Mexico HD services. The film begins. That soundtrack glitch
Hits after five seconds. From then on it’s fine. Russell’s Russell,
Larger than life. Tim and Raquel, Nabil, Maimie, Clara and Dermott
Too run through their lines impeccably. The knife scene raises a
Chuckle. Alan’s murder a frisson. The film, as hard to watch as ever,
Trails some kind of blaze over the biggest screen to ever do it
Justice. Curry’s in Vietnam and I’m in Hollywood. The film ends
And is followed by a short about a man in love with a girl half
His age who lies about living in Alaska. Another short’s a spoof
Of Alive. Canessa in the Andes set in Pasadena. I walk out with
Ravi, go back to Swingers for coffee. Sun shines bright. Twenty years
Ago, N kissed an Irish-American actor in the back of a New York cab;
Now his brother’s drinking coffee with me, talking film-making. Back in
The Fairfax, the Q&A inspires the question: What next? Three other
Film-makers talk future projects. I reply that I haven’t got a clue.
Beverly Laurel Motor Hotel
My first solitary night brings dreams of England. People
I know, doing things I expect. And things I do not expect.
I know, doing things I expect. And things I do not expect.
An Evening Burger at Swingers
When I order a beer I’m asked for my ID. All of the
Waitresses have tattoos. Some of the clientele have tattoos.
A scraggy-haired Englishman; a large fantasy-reading, shorts-
Wearing college boy. A female driver, here to take away,
Nervously fingers her car-keys. The Mexican waiters
Pour drinks but do not serve. One asks me what I’m reading. I
Tell him Goethe’s obsessed with detail. He says when he doesn’t
Like a book or a film he leaves them half-finished. Money,
He informs me, is less important than time. Back in the
Hotel room, I forego Goethe, watch crap TV instead.
Waitresses have tattoos. Some of the clientele have tattoos.
A scraggy-haired Englishman; a large fantasy-reading, shorts-
Wearing college boy. A female driver, here to take away,
Nervously fingers her car-keys. The Mexican waiters
Pour drinks but do not serve. One asks me what I’m reading. I
Tell him Goethe’s obsessed with detail. He says when he doesn’t
Like a book or a film he leaves them half-finished. Money,
He informs me, is less important than time. Back in the
Hotel room, I forego Goethe, watch crap TV instead.
Walking In Search of Shape
When I ask Ravi how long it takes to get to the centre
On the Metro, he says: Wait a minute. When you say ‘centre’,
What, exactly, do you mean?
Wandering around West Hollywood – 3rd Avenue, La Brea –
Suburbia’s at work. Detached houses with Lynchian lawns at
The heart of the heartless city.
I think of Chandler’s Marlowe staking out a bungalow.
The drama’s kitchen sink, behind closed doors. In every home,
Intrigue awaits discovery.
Wealth usually likes to flaunt itself. The rich sit on stage, stroll the
Piazzas, head for church. Here the rich slide by, groomed in groomed cars,
On their way to hilltop eyries.
The mansions in the hills cast a cold eye on Mexican fruit-sellers
Adorning manicured lawns. LA is a systematic labyrinth.
You cannot get lost; but can you be found?
On the Metro, he says: Wait a minute. When you say ‘centre’,
What, exactly, do you mean?
Wandering around West Hollywood – 3rd Avenue, La Brea –
Suburbia’s at work. Detached houses with Lynchian lawns at
The heart of the heartless city.
I think of Chandler’s Marlowe staking out a bungalow.
The drama’s kitchen sink, behind closed doors. In every home,
Intrigue awaits discovery.
Wealth usually likes to flaunt itself. The rich sit on stage, stroll the
Piazzas, head for church. Here the rich slide by, groomed in groomed cars,
On their way to hilltop eyries.
The mansions in the hills cast a cold eye on Mexican fruit-sellers
Adorning manicured lawns. LA is a systematic labyrinth.
You cannot get lost; but can you be found?
Charades
The next door neighbour, daughter of a famous B-Movie actor, holds a charades evening. Her daughter, a former child actress, and daughter’s boyfriend who works in wine and is on a six-week life-diet crash course, are present. Also two old friends, one a sculptor, the other a Yale professor of Acting and Business.
After some cursory introductory chatter over a mug of chilli, we get on with the issue in hand. The daughter explains the rules. This takes twenty minutes with every nuance noted. Each participant has a maximum three minutes to perform, and the lowest collective time of each team determines the winner.
Mother, daughter, boyfriend and a missing guest constitute one team. The rest of us the other. We select subjects for the opposition, put them in a suitable container, and the game begins.
It is soon apparent that this is no ordinary game of charades. It is a kind of holy sacrament. Not a quarter is given by the experienced players. The mother-daughter combination is a phenomenon, the daughter a Charades-prodigy, heir to Fischer, Kasparov and their ilk. None of the mother-daughter team’s rounds last more than thirty seconds. The harder we expect our subjects to be, the easier it is for them to get them. Gilgamesh, Subterranean Homesick Blues, Salaam Bombay, Disturbia: all are fortresses waiting to be stormed. The only stubborn resister that defeats them is Martin Chuzzlewit.
Our team has some entertaining moves. Ravi attacks their offering with panache. Meera is wrong-footed by Brigadoon. The sculptor shows enthusiasm and the Yale professor has a dedicated attitude. It’s not enough. Our team is crushed and the humiliation is awesome. The mother-daughter team wins by three minutes forty to fifteen minutes eighty five.
They have the bit between their teeth. This is just the start. Before the evening is out we will play again and again and again, each defeat heavier than the last.
After some cursory introductory chatter over a mug of chilli, we get on with the issue in hand. The daughter explains the rules. This takes twenty minutes with every nuance noted. Each participant has a maximum three minutes to perform, and the lowest collective time of each team determines the winner.
Mother, daughter, boyfriend and a missing guest constitute one team. The rest of us the other. We select subjects for the opposition, put them in a suitable container, and the game begins.
It is soon apparent that this is no ordinary game of charades. It is a kind of holy sacrament. Not a quarter is given by the experienced players. The mother-daughter combination is a phenomenon, the daughter a Charades-prodigy, heir to Fischer, Kasparov and their ilk. None of the mother-daughter team’s rounds last more than thirty seconds. The harder we expect our subjects to be, the easier it is for them to get them. Gilgamesh, Subterranean Homesick Blues, Salaam Bombay, Disturbia: all are fortresses waiting to be stormed. The only stubborn resister that defeats them is Martin Chuzzlewit.
Our team has some entertaining moves. Ravi attacks their offering with panache. Meera is wrong-footed by Brigadoon. The sculptor shows enthusiasm and the Yale professor has a dedicated attitude. It’s not enough. Our team is crushed and the humiliation is awesome. The mother-daughter team wins by three minutes forty to fifteen minutes eighty five.
They have the bit between their teeth. This is just the start. Before the evening is out we will play again and again and again, each defeat heavier than the last.
Los Pobladores
At the top of Olvera Street is a square containing a plaque listing
The first families brought by the Spanish from Mexico to settle
The new community of El Pueblo de Los Angeles. There are
Eleven named families: fathers, mothers and children. Beside each
Name is their race. Two españoles. Several indios. Mulattos
And mulattas, mestizos, mestizas and negros. Los Angeles
Was born a cornucopia. So it’s but tradition that places
A French Mansion next to a Korean deli; a colonial
Bungalow opposite a taco shop. Olvera Street claims to be
The city’s oldest. It contains the first house, adobe, and the first house,
Brick, where we ate quesadillos, tacos and nachos. This street still
Belongs to its multi-racial Mexican forbears, a quaint
Hostage to history in a city dedicated to fantasy.
Spanish is the given language, guyaberas and wrestling masks the
Momentos of choice. The gringos may have won the day, but just as
Mexico’s Spanish colonialists learnt that that the Indians could
Be defeated but never vanquished, so the gringos should be
Aware: the foundations of LA shall be forever Mexican.
The first families brought by the Spanish from Mexico to settle
The new community of El Pueblo de Los Angeles. There are
Eleven named families: fathers, mothers and children. Beside each
Name is their race. Two españoles. Several indios. Mulattos
And mulattas, mestizos, mestizas and negros. Los Angeles
Was born a cornucopia. So it’s but tradition that places
A French Mansion next to a Korean deli; a colonial
Bungalow opposite a taco shop. Olvera Street claims to be
The city’s oldest. It contains the first house, adobe, and the first house,
Brick, where we ate quesadillos, tacos and nachos. This street still
Belongs to its multi-racial Mexican forbears, a quaint
Hostage to history in a city dedicated to fantasy.
Spanish is the given language, guyaberas and wrestling masks the
Momentos of choice. The gringos may have won the day, but just as
Mexico’s Spanish colonialists learnt that that the Indians could
Be defeated but never vanquished, so the gringos should be
Aware: the foundations of LA shall be forever Mexican.
Marine Layer on Venice Beach
The beach is shrouded in a benevolent sea mist. The tat
Of the stalls is hidden, the noise of beachcombers dulled. Dolphins
Bask off-shore. As they break the surface it must seem, though the haze,
Like the land their forefathers described. Silent. Full of promise.
Of the stalls is hidden, the noise of beachcombers dulled. Dolphins
Bask off-shore. As they break the surface it must seem, though the haze,
Like the land their forefathers described. Silent. Full of promise.
Sunburnt
My Birkentocked foot was over-exposed on the beach. Now
It’s tenderised and throbs like a misplaced heart. Over
Beetroot and chickpeas Meera asked if I wanted to talk.
I ventured down two years’ road in half an hour, the highways
And by-ways of being out of control. It smarts, still, though
The sequence of events makes more sense with each passing entry.
It’s tenderised and throbs like a misplaced heart. Over
Beetroot and chickpeas Meera asked if I wanted to talk.
I ventured down two years’ road in half an hour, the highways
And by-ways of being out of control. It smarts, still, though
The sequence of events makes more sense with each passing entry.
Los Angeles Exhibit A
Caspar David Friedrich, the rubric claims, was the first to invest
The language of landscape with human emotion. A few of his
Meisterwerks adorn the walls of the Getty, a museum
Seemingly created for the audacity of its views.
The art’s an added bonus; a haystack here, some irises
There. The super-scale city, laid out before the discerning
Patron’s eye, is the true attraction. As unaccommodating
In it’s sun-drenched way as Friedrich’s Northern landscape. Frozen snow
On an alder’s branch echoed in the shimmering freeway
Grid; our gaze trapped in an auto-motive chiaroscuro.
The language of landscape with human emotion. A few of his
Meisterwerks adorn the walls of the Getty, a museum
Seemingly created for the audacity of its views.
The art’s an added bonus; a haystack here, some irises
There. The super-scale city, laid out before the discerning
Patron’s eye, is the true attraction. As unaccommodating
In it’s sun-drenched way as Friedrich’s Northern landscape. Frozen snow
On an alder’s branch echoed in the shimmering freeway
Grid; our gaze trapped in an auto-motive chiaroscuro.
Los Angeles Exhibit B
Downtown, the scale’s still epic, but at least you can walk. Cross
The street from the Bradbury to the Central Market; eat
A prawn taco; stroll past the Million Dollar Hotel to
Skid Row; first world concertinaed into third in the high
American Style. In this ghost of a city humans
Still stroll rather than cruise, shout rather than honk. The lofts are just
Starting to sell. The heart of the city exists after all,
Tucked away as though the limbs are ashamed of its vigour.
The street from the Bradbury to the Central Market; eat
A prawn taco; stroll past the Million Dollar Hotel to
Skid Row; first world concertinaed into third in the high
American Style. In this ghost of a city humans
Still stroll rather than cruise, shout rather than honk. The lofts are just
Starting to sell. The heart of the city exists after all,
Tucked away as though the limbs are ashamed of its vigour.
Los Angeles Exhibit C
The Bradbury Building was where Scott filmed much of
The dystopian Blade Runner. Society’s
Detritus left in its rotten core whilst the rich
Hover in the sky. If that was a metaphor
For Los Angeles, perhaps there is hope to be found
In its restoration. The plunging ironwork lifts,
Marble staircases and glass roof articulate
A sense of heritage. It seems fitting in a
Hollywood fashion that Internal Affairs have
Taken up residence in its film noir portals.
The dystopian Blade Runner. Society’s
Detritus left in its rotten core whilst the rich
Hover in the sky. If that was a metaphor
For Los Angeles, perhaps there is hope to be found
In its restoration. The plunging ironwork lifts,
Marble staircases and glass roof articulate
A sense of heritage. It seems fitting in a
Hollywood fashion that Internal Affairs have
Taken up residence in its film noir portals.
The Awards Ceremony
Arriving too late for the synthetic canapés, or even a beer, I grab a seat towards the back of the Fairfax. The ceremony starts fifteen minutes late. At 6.15 the hosts, a muscular black man called Tony and a diminutive white woman whose name I never catch, begin their introduction from the on-stage podium. On stage there are 34 mini-Oscars lined up. This is an ur-Oscars: the film ceremony for films which have not been shot on film. The third award up is for sound. The Boat People has been nominated. Only now does it dawn on me that if we win, I’ll have to go up and say something on Fabrice’s behalf. We don’t win. My relief is palpable. Several dozen awards later, it’s the director’s award, for which Rob is nominated. If he wins I’ll dedicate it to the writer, and to Russell. He doesn’t win. My relief remains palpable. Another six dozen awards later The Boat People is nominated for best dramatic feature. Every film in the festival has been nominated for best film in it’s category (Zombie; Chainsaw; Squirrel; Action; Aviation Stunt; Macabre; Romantic Comedy etc) so this is no great shakes. All the same my relief is still palpable, if dulled, at being pipped by a feature based on an American Football Game. (And should surely have been in the Best American Football category?) At 8 I sneak out, award-free, and wait forty five minutes for a bus. This is the beginning of an epic Sunday night bus-metro-automobile journey to North Hollywood, for which I should certainly have been at least nominated.
A Final California Thought
Perhaps, once in their life, everyone should drive the 101 on a bright morning in a green mini with exile on main street playing on the stereo...
At Some Point on a Lost Day - LA to Sydney
April the third has been edited out of my life.
I didn’t spend it anywhere. Leapt from the second
To the forth amidst an endless stream of movies
Snacks and elbows. The day that has not existed
Feels like it might last forever. Only now does
A dawn break the night which this day has not seen.
I wonder, should this day ever be returned to me,
My stolen hours, what I should dedicate it to. Not
Writing. Nor sleeping nor travelling. Nor reflection,
Solitude or literature. With friends, not strangers.
I’ll claim it from a time of purest happiness, some
Future land awaiting my footprint, some state of grace.
I didn’t spend it anywhere. Leapt from the second
To the forth amidst an endless stream of movies
Snacks and elbows. The day that has not existed
Feels like it might last forever. Only now does
A dawn break the night which this day has not seen.
I wonder, should this day ever be returned to me,
My stolen hours, what I should dedicate it to. Not
Writing. Nor sleeping nor travelling. Nor reflection,
Solitude or literature. With friends, not strangers.
I’ll claim it from a time of purest happiness, some
Future land awaiting my footprint, some state of grace.
The Memory Game
It is only, I thought as the plane glided across the
Arid mosaic of Australia, when you have reached
A certain age that you can reflect with due distance. Returning
To a place I have not known for twenty years is like entering
A puzzle. Was this not there? Was that not larger or
Smaller? Did the flower’s bloom have the same hue? And so on,
And so forth. It does not take any great synaptic
Leap to surmise that these questions are as much about
The alteration in the questioner
As they will be about the questioned.
Arid mosaic of Australia, when you have reached
A certain age that you can reflect with due distance. Returning
To a place I have not known for twenty years is like entering
A puzzle. Was this not there? Was that not larger or
Smaller? Did the flower’s bloom have the same hue? And so on,
And so forth. It does not take any great synaptic
Leap to surmise that these questions are as much about
The alteration in the questioner
As they will be about the questioned.
Sixty Years
My father sits across from me, drinking wine, his features
Softened by electric light. In a box in his mother’s house
There’s a picture of him, aged seven or eight, wearing leder-
Hosen. The shape of his face, the lint of his eye, the scope
Of his gaze, seem, flesh to picture, almost precisely the same.
Softened by electric light. In a box in his mother’s house
There’s a picture of him, aged seven or eight, wearing leder-
Hosen. The shape of his face, the lint of his eye, the scope
Of his gaze, seem, flesh to picture, almost precisely the same.
The Rosella Parrot
A shot of red, hitched to a bolt of blue, aquaplanes clean
Through your field of vision. Reckless bikers of the ether,
The parrots vie to trump each other’s aerial gymnastics,
Before alighting on the eucalyptus for a breather.
They raucously discuss their feats; then set the world to rights.
Through your field of vision. Reckless bikers of the ether,
The parrots vie to trump each other’s aerial gymnastics,
Before alighting on the eucalyptus for a breather.
They raucously discuss their feats; then set the world to rights.
Poised By The Barrage
The Pelican’s eye swivels like an OAP’s. It gobbles
Fish like a crocodile. Some creatures are made to be eaten
Whilst others have a guzzle which has been designed to eat.
Fish like a crocodile. Some creatures are made to be eaten
Whilst others have a guzzle which has been designed to eat.
Beyond The Barossa
We passed through hamlets known as towns. Williamstown, Murraytown,
Laura, Clare. Each and every one adorned with an arcade,
Some wrought iron, its own degree of sleepiness. At six
We landed in Melrose, sheltered by the lee of Mount
Remarkable. The bar served beer on tap. The locals,
Both of them, told us how a hundred and forty people
Cavorted there that weekend. ‘Aww…You should have been here.’
The day waned, the wine plains left behind. We had reached The Flinders.
Laura, Clare. Each and every one adorned with an arcade,
Some wrought iron, its own degree of sleepiness. At six
We landed in Melrose, sheltered by the lee of Mount
Remarkable. The bar served beer on tap. The locals,
Both of them, told us how a hundred and forty people
Cavorted there that weekend. ‘Aww…You should have been here.’
The day waned, the wine plains left behind. We had reached The Flinders.
Telephony
At Clare, less pretty than it sounds, my father checks his
Mobile. It runs through Geneva and appears to have been
Cut off. We locate and infiltrate a Telstra dealer. The man
G’days us and sells us a SIM card. Which works. My father
Calls to register, out on the street. An ambulance hovers.
Several numbers are dialled before the Telstra operator’s
Connected. She runs through the usual connection
Options. My mother asks if it takes this long in Europe.
We call the North Star Hotel in Melrose. They have two rooms.
Technology in excelsis, deep in the backwoods.
Mobile. It runs through Geneva and appears to have been
Cut off. We locate and infiltrate a Telstra dealer. The man
G’days us and sells us a SIM card. Which works. My father
Calls to register, out on the street. An ambulance hovers.
Several numbers are dialled before the Telstra operator’s
Connected. She runs through the usual connection
Options. My mother asks if it takes this long in Europe.
We call the North Star Hotel in Melrose. They have two rooms.
Technology in excelsis, deep in the backwoods.
North Star Hotel 4am
The room has designer metal light-switches. On the wall is a piece of abstract art which resembles a series of red and white tears. There is a coat-stand on which are hung two dressing gowns. I wore one last night. When I took it off the static electricity would have lit up Sydney harbour. The bathroom has two shades of brown metallic tiles and organic shampoo plus conditioner. There’s one old leather chair. Downstairs, in the pub, there’s a vacant pool table. In another life I would have spent last night drinking beer and losing at pool. Instead I put on my waders and delved into Proust.
Spoils of War
When it came to it I lacked sufficient discipline. It had taken all
My strength to claim the table and pack my books. Whole realms of
History were abandoned. Plants, crockery, CDs, all the stuff of life
Foregone in the lost hope of simplicity. There were few
Bones of contention. Just the lemon tree and the Syrian glasses. I
Made my bid for both, knowing I lacked the discipline.
Both were given up meekly, and it was only at the other’s bequest
That I finally put the lemon in the van. The six
Glasses eluded me. They would have been safer in my care. Half will perish
Within two years, casualties of the party wars. The others will attrite,
Their coloured glass a pale memory of family, hostages to
Entropy. I should have fought harder for them, but I lack the will to fight.
My strength to claim the table and pack my books. Whole realms of
History were abandoned. Plants, crockery, CDs, all the stuff of life
Foregone in the lost hope of simplicity. There were few
Bones of contention. Just the lemon tree and the Syrian glasses. I
Made my bid for both, knowing I lacked the discipline.
Both were given up meekly, and it was only at the other’s bequest
That I finally put the lemon in the van. The six
Glasses eluded me. They would have been safer in my care. Half will perish
Within two years, casualties of the party wars. The others will attrite,
Their coloured glass a pale memory of family, hostages to
Entropy. I should have fought harder for them, but I lack the will to fight.
Melrose
The morning call of cockatoos brings to mind the screeching of Pantanal
Monkeys. Sometimes our lives seem nothing more than a tissue of resonance.
Monkeys. Sometimes our lives seem nothing more than a tissue of resonance.
Out of Sight Out of Mind - Wilpena Pound
On the lamp-lit terrace, humans chat over evening drinks. A hop, skip
And a jump away, wallabies nibble at the freshly watered lawn.
They go about their business silently, invisibly. The humans
Go about theirs, oblivious to their unassuming hosts.
And a jump away, wallabies nibble at the freshly watered lawn.
They go about their business silently, invisibly. The humans
Go about theirs, oblivious to their unassuming hosts.
Wallaby
The wallaby is a timorous beastie. Or maybe just
Blasé. Passing humans receive short shrift. It too could be bi-
Pedal if it wanted. But the short front limbs come in handy
For jet-propelled leaps or digging dirt. The wallaby’s blessed. With
The shape of a kangaroo and the demeanour of a cat.
Blasé. Passing humans receive short shrift. It too could be bi-
Pedal if it wanted. But the short front limbs come in handy
For jet-propelled leaps or digging dirt. The wallaby’s blessed. With
The shape of a kangaroo and the demeanour of a cat.
North Flinders
From Quorn to Hawker, the land dissolves into a burnished
Clay-red, frozen in the glare of perpetual sunset.
The ranges loom across the plain. They’re given names like
Pugilist Hill or Death Rock. Designated sites of
Historical interest are barren. They were surveyed, a
Century back. Mapped, settled, abandoned. The odd ruin
A tribute to the settlers’ optimism. In Nineteen Fourteen,
A Wilpena Pound diarist wrote: All we wanted for
Christmas was rain. The rain came on Christmas Day. With such
Vigour that the road was washed away. Drought followed by
Destruction. This will always be frontier country. The last
Inhabitable edge before dingoes and desert lay claim
To the world. Its beauty is its starkness is its warning.
Clay-red, frozen in the glare of perpetual sunset.
The ranges loom across the plain. They’re given names like
Pugilist Hill or Death Rock. Designated sites of
Historical interest are barren. They were surveyed, a
Century back. Mapped, settled, abandoned. The odd ruin
A tribute to the settlers’ optimism. In Nineteen Fourteen,
A Wilpena Pound diarist wrote: All we wanted for
Christmas was rain. The rain came on Christmas Day. With such
Vigour that the road was washed away. Drought followed by
Destruction. This will always be frontier country. The last
Inhabitable edge before dingoes and desert lay claim
To the world. Its beauty is its starkness is its warning.
Wilpena Pound – Parachilna – Blinman – Wilpena Pound
Parachilna is an old railway stop on the way to no-
Where. Step out of the car and flies crawl up your nose. It’s one
Hostelry, The Prairie Hotel, serves feral food. The flies
Respectfully decline to enter the old wooden bar.
The tea shop in Blinman, perched at the tip of a
Rocky twenty five mile dead end, serves Devonshire
Teas in a converted school hall, featuring a welsh
Dresser, quondong scones and kangaroo ciabattas.
The road back from Blinman skirts a range of hills which
Are topped with a crust of dental rock. These summits
Look man-made, from a distance, like a string of forts.
The range has been christened The Great Wall of China.
Late afternoon is the high-tea promenade.
Kangaroos stretch to monitor traffic. Emus
Stroll Aristocratically. Parrots dawdle by
The roadside, their pink throats full of gossip.
Where. Step out of the car and flies crawl up your nose. It’s one
Hostelry, The Prairie Hotel, serves feral food. The flies
Respectfully decline to enter the old wooden bar.
The tea shop in Blinman, perched at the tip of a
Rocky twenty five mile dead end, serves Devonshire
Teas in a converted school hall, featuring a welsh
Dresser, quondong scones and kangaroo ciabattas.
The road back from Blinman skirts a range of hills which
Are topped with a crust of dental rock. These summits
Look man-made, from a distance, like a string of forts.
The range has been christened The Great Wall of China.
Late afternoon is the high-tea promenade.
Kangaroos stretch to monitor traffic. Emus
Stroll Aristocratically. Parrots dawdle by
The roadside, their pink throats full of gossip.
The Great Australian Divide
Not far from here you run into the longest fence
In the world. At more than three thousand miles, it puts
Other great walls to shame. It’s called The Dog Fence.
On one side is the savage land of the dingoes.
On the other: sheep, pastoralism, society.
In the world. At more than three thousand miles, it puts
Other great walls to shame. It’s called The Dog Fence.
On one side is the savage land of the dingoes.
On the other: sheep, pastoralism, society.
Saturday Morning
I switch on the hotel TV. The video of The Cure’s Friday I’m in Love is playing, a video I’ve never seen before. Robert Smith wears an out-sized white T-shirt and looks angelically chubby. The video’s a high-powered shamateur production. Laurel & Hardy pop up behind canvas backdrops of a council house estate. Everything descends into a beautiful eighties party. Someone turns up carrying a tray of pints. As the beach ball bounces around and the extras take over, the bassist steps towards the camera and raises his glass. I don’t mind if Tuesday’s sad, Wednesday, Thursday, I don’t mind, it’s Friday…and so on. Outside the Pound hovers, red sandstone awaiting the kiss of the sun.
Camp Bus - Auburn
On the wall of the hotel room is an abstract pink and
Yellow watercolour. Stare at it long enough and you’ll
Make out the words: Victoria Station – Gateway to Empire.
In the bottom right-hand corner there’s a pink double decker.
Yellow watercolour. Stare at it long enough and you’ll
Make out the words: Victoria Station – Gateway to Empire.
In the bottom right-hand corner there’s a pink double decker.
A Thought
Some people never manage to overcome their resentment at the cruelty they have been compelled to suffer through the very act of having been born.
Tree House
Just down the road from Eden Valley is the tree where
Friedrich Herbig lived. Moving South from the Barossa,
He made the old gum his home. Settling down, he brought
His new wife to live in the tree, which has a broad,
Hollow base, room for a small family. After five
Years and two children, Herbig upgraded, to a
Hut. Later he built a stone house with room for his
Sixteen offspring. The house still stands. As does the tree.
Friedrich Herbig lived. Moving South from the Barossa,
He made the old gum his home. Settling down, he brought
His new wife to live in the tree, which has a broad,
Hollow base, room for a small family. After five
Years and two children, Herbig upgraded, to a
Hut. Later he built a stone house with room for his
Sixteen offspring. The house still stands. As does the tree.
On Finishing the Second Volume of A La Recherche…
Like being thrown into the sea and having to learn how to swim,
All by yourself, reading Proust is also like being forced to learn
How to read all over again, how to write as well, even how to think,
In all its garishness and precision and imprecision and beauty
And boredom and everything else besides. It is also about learning
How to live, or how to have lived. Layers of life, like Salomé’s veils,
Adorn the words, which even as they are read I know will make
Another sense when I have become another Anthony, in the
Life which will be when I am become him, changed in
Perception of love, desire, selfhood, words, thought.
So, at this Australian point, as opposed perhaps to a
Previous Greek point, the process of reading Proust
Feels like part of a life’s work, a search for the time to
Come, those subsequent chapters to be revealed.
A life’s work, which is the life of the writer himself, the
Dedication to the completion of a strand of thought, which
May be Marcel’s strand of thought, or may turn out to be my own.
All by yourself, reading Proust is also like being forced to learn
How to read all over again, how to write as well, even how to think,
In all its garishness and precision and imprecision and beauty
And boredom and everything else besides. It is also about learning
How to live, or how to have lived. Layers of life, like Salomé’s veils,
Adorn the words, which even as they are read I know will make
Another sense when I have become another Anthony, in the
Life which will be when I am become him, changed in
Perception of love, desire, selfhood, words, thought.
So, at this Australian point, as opposed perhaps to a
Previous Greek point, the process of reading Proust
Feels like part of a life’s work, a search for the time to
Come, those subsequent chapters to be revealed.
A life’s work, which is the life of the writer himself, the
Dedication to the completion of a strand of thought, which
May be Marcel’s strand of thought, or may turn out to be my own.
Wilpena Pound
When the names have gone there will still be the land.
When the teapots are smashed, the welsh dressers consumed
By termites or fire; when the accent’s not even a memory;
When Australia’s no longer an island floating above a
Pole, for it, Australia, no longer exists,
There will still be the land. The soil as burnished as
A dying coal. Sandstone arcs blown by a rock face.
Plants in endless pursuit of water. Mountain ranges
Ripped from the valley floor, their flanks a striation
Of colour, all of a piece and every piece different.
These were all here before and they will be here
After. The time in which they will cease to be will
No longer be known as time and their cessation
Will not be known. In Wilpena Pound, roast beef
On the menu, the land itself rears up like a
Crown or a noose. We are captured in its shadow,
Our inheritance revealed, our lineage clear,
All of us made convicted children of kings.
When the teapots are smashed, the welsh dressers consumed
By termites or fire; when the accent’s not even a memory;
When Australia’s no longer an island floating above a
Pole, for it, Australia, no longer exists,
There will still be the land. The soil as burnished as
A dying coal. Sandstone arcs blown by a rock face.
Plants in endless pursuit of water. Mountain ranges
Ripped from the valley floor, their flanks a striation
Of colour, all of a piece and every piece different.
These were all here before and they will be here
After. The time in which they will cease to be will
No longer be known as time and their cessation
Will not be known. In Wilpena Pound, roast beef
On the menu, the land itself rears up like a
Crown or a noose. We are captured in its shadow,
Our inheritance revealed, our lineage clear,
All of us made convicted children of kings.
Albertine
I dreamt I met who in the morning light I can only assume to be Albertine. I was on a tube, heading far out into the East. A girl, initially there with her family, and then heading to do a job at a museum, had some kind of game. She invited me to play, but I declined. The pieces were such that they could be scattered all over the floor, as they were. I helped her pick them up. We began to talk. The train came to a station and we got out, still talking. I wrote my number on the box of the game. The station had a kind of foyer, where I collected my bags and changed my jacket. I had several jackets to choose from. The girl had gone through to the other side. I hoped to meet her there. I was faffing, unable to choose a jacket. Suddenly the shutters started coming down on the foyer. I rushed as fast as possible to get out, but it was too late. The shutters slammed closed. Did it open again, before I woke up, or was it still shut? I cannot tell for sure. The next thing I was awake on a Wednesday morning.
The Hill-Top Garden
You will find there several horses, a vegetable garden,
Fruit trees protected with nets from the Rosellas,
Including an almond tree which bore fruit its first
Year and never again, a stunted yew tree, in
Amongst the other new-planted trees, views across
The valley to Mount Barker and a distinct lack
Of water, the sole snake in this small piece of Eden.
Fruit trees protected with nets from the Rosellas,
Including an almond tree which bore fruit its first
Year and never again, a stunted yew tree, in
Amongst the other new-planted trees, views across
The valley to Mount Barker and a distinct lack
Of water, the sole snake in this small piece of Eden.
Leaving Australia
From the air the land looks like a work of Aboriginal art.
A coded picture made of muted, arid colour, linguistic
Tracks, persistent green. Perhaps the artists place their easels in the sky.
The modern aboriginal art found in the Adelaide galleries
Seems more studied than their elders’ work at the Yourambulla caves.
The marks there looked, to my eyes, like a subway scrawl. Although the
Notice informed that one mark represented a kangaroo track,
Another an initiation rite, they were more like something
From another world, part language, part art, beyond the reach of our
Culture’s definition. A different mode of things being seen.
On the plane there are gangs of Chinese men. They dress
Casually. They all know each other. They read papers
Full of bold calligraphy and pictures which look
To my eyes, like exotic teenage magazines.
A coded picture made of muted, arid colour, linguistic
Tracks, persistent green. Perhaps the artists place their easels in the sky.
The modern aboriginal art found in the Adelaide galleries
Seems more studied than their elders’ work at the Yourambulla caves.
The marks there looked, to my eyes, like a subway scrawl. Although the
Notice informed that one mark represented a kangaroo track,
Another an initiation rite, they were more like something
From another world, part language, part art, beyond the reach of our
Culture’s definition. A different mode of things being seen.
On the plane there are gangs of Chinese men. They dress
Casually. They all know each other. They read papers
Full of bold calligraphy and pictures which look
To my eyes, like exotic teenage magazines.
On The Way to Hong Kong
Above unknown seas, the Banda, the Arafura, the
Timor, the plane inches its way Westward, crossing a
Desert island which looks like a winged horse, another which
Might be a goose, before night’s fingers close the cabin’s eyes.
Timor, the plane inches its way Westward, crossing a
Desert island which looks like a winged horse, another which
Might be a goose, before night’s fingers close the cabin’s eyes.
Late Night Arrival in a Foreign City
At 11.30, when I get off the bus which the cab
Driver told me would take two hours but actually took one, the
Streets round Causeway Bay are all of a bustle. It’s only five
Minutes from the bus stop to the hotel, but it takes fifteen.
My father gave me my grandfather’s old Samsonite suitcase.
I was won over by the dark tan, retro design. It looks
Like the kind of case Clark Gable, sighted on Sydney airport screens,
Might have had. Except he’d have had someone to carry it. I
Lug twenty five kilos down Paterson Street. Then am relocated
And lug twenty five kilos round to Jaffé Road. Hong Kong’s a steam bath.
I’m foolishly attired in jeans and my Buffalo Bill LA shirt.
After being given the worst hotel room I’ve seen in a long time,
In a warren of a building, I change into linen and head out
To take the air. The streets are still bustling. I learn that Iced
Green Tea is an acquired taste. I sample Wasabi-smeared
Street food. I mooch. Then, with a San Miguel and a packet of
Okinomiyaki flavoured crisps, I opt to retire for the night.
Driver told me would take two hours but actually took one, the
Streets round Causeway Bay are all of a bustle. It’s only five
Minutes from the bus stop to the hotel, but it takes fifteen.
My father gave me my grandfather’s old Samsonite suitcase.
I was won over by the dark tan, retro design. It looks
Like the kind of case Clark Gable, sighted on Sydney airport screens,
Might have had. Except he’d have had someone to carry it. I
Lug twenty five kilos down Paterson Street. Then am relocated
And lug twenty five kilos round to Jaffé Road. Hong Kong’s a steam bath.
I’m foolishly attired in jeans and my Buffalo Bill LA shirt.
After being given the worst hotel room I’ve seen in a long time,
In a warren of a building, I change into linen and head out
To take the air. The streets are still bustling. I learn that Iced
Green Tea is an acquired taste. I sample Wasabi-smeared
Street food. I mooch. Then, with a San Miguel and a packet of
Okinomiyaki flavoured crisps, I opt to retire for the night.
Number 15 Bus Route
My guidebook advises not to catch buses. Fortunately I
Ignored it. I’d climbed up towards the cemetery, which the map shows
As a Muslim, Catholic, Hindu, Parsee cemetery. Unable
To find the entrance, I grabbed the 15 bus instead. If one of
The goals of public transport is to offer a democratic
Equality (of movement), then this bus journey is the summit
Of public transport. As it veers up the chicane of Stubbs Road, the
Schumacher driver skirting the precipice, passengers soar
Above millionaire penthouses. They glide through the clouds with the
Kites. I sat on top of the double decker, at the back, bouncing
From side to side to catch the shifting view. When your guidebook tells
You to steer clear of buses, jump on the first that comes along.
Ignored it. I’d climbed up towards the cemetery, which the map shows
As a Muslim, Catholic, Hindu, Parsee cemetery. Unable
To find the entrance, I grabbed the 15 bus instead. If one of
The goals of public transport is to offer a democratic
Equality (of movement), then this bus journey is the summit
Of public transport. As it veers up the chicane of Stubbs Road, the
Schumacher driver skirting the precipice, passengers soar
Above millionaire penthouses. They glide through the clouds with the
Kites. I sat on top of the double decker, at the back, bouncing
From side to side to catch the shifting view. When your guidebook tells
You to steer clear of buses, jump on the first that comes along.
The Peak
The Peak has the best views and the feel of a gaudy commercial fair. The only
Problem is views can’t be bought. A man pointed into fierce mist and said every square
Metre costs twenty five thousand dollars. I climbed the hill as far as I could. Signs
Barred the way to the very summit. But a concealed path in the Governor’s Park
Lead up and up, further into the clouds, the atmosphere thinning, a chill in the
Air, scarcely a bush visible, until it stopped at a lonely mobile phone mast.
Problem is views can’t be bought. A man pointed into fierce mist and said every square
Metre costs twenty five thousand dollars. I climbed the hill as far as I could. Signs
Barred the way to the very summit. But a concealed path in the Governor’s Park
Lead up and up, further into the clouds, the atmosphere thinning, a chill in the
Air, scarcely a bush visible, until it stopped at a lonely mobile phone mast.
In the Tsui Wah Diner, Causeway Bay
You can order Chinese, Malaysian, Korean, Japanese
Or Italian. The staff, wearing various shades of mustard,
Buzz around with intent. There are three menus, which take half
An hour to decipher. Diners are placed in small yellow
Booths. The chairs are lime green. There’s takeaway orders stacking
Up by the door and a notable absence of tattoos.
Or Italian. The staff, wearing various shades of mustard,
Buzz around with intent. There are three menus, which take half
An hour to decipher. Diners are placed in small yellow
Booths. The chairs are lime green. There’s takeaway orders stacking
Up by the door and a notable absence of tattoos.
Outskirts of The Territory
Sheng Shui is the last stop before the border. It’s a small
Town in its own right, with its own collection of high rise
Blocks surrounding a small square. The square’s circular,
Containing a dozen snub-nosed palms and eight pavilions.
Most of the high-rises are utilitarian, but
There are two new ones, shinier, blue-green glassed. At street
Level there’s a warren of shops selling everything from
The latest Nokias to live crabs. The impulse to purchase,
So endemic, is nurtured as keenly here as in the
City. Old men loll about under the pavilions, bare-
Chested, indifferent to the ever-changing world. A nearby
Sign reads: LUNG FU SITTING OUT AREA. Alongside the standard
Notices, one depicts a loaded trolley reading: NO PARAPHENALIA.
Town in its own right, with its own collection of high rise
Blocks surrounding a small square. The square’s circular,
Containing a dozen snub-nosed palms and eight pavilions.
Most of the high-rises are utilitarian, but
There are two new ones, shinier, blue-green glassed. At street
Level there’s a warren of shops selling everything from
The latest Nokias to live crabs. The impulse to purchase,
So endemic, is nurtured as keenly here as in the
City. Old men loll about under the pavilions, bare-
Chested, indifferent to the ever-changing world. A nearby
Sign reads: LUNG FU SITTING OUT AREA. Alongside the standard
Notices, one depicts a loaded trolley reading: NO PARAPHENALIA.
Shek Wu Hu Municipal Services Building
In the market, tortoises struggle desperately to break through
The net. At the back of a butcher’s stall is a faded picture
Of Mao, the first I’ve seen. The butcher scoops rice from his bowl, prowling
Behind his wares, daring anyone to disrupt his lunch.
The net. At the back of a butcher’s stall is a faded picture
Of Mao, the first I’ve seen. The butcher scoops rice from his bowl, prowling
Behind his wares, daring anyone to disrupt his lunch.
Ten Thousand Buddhas Temple, Sha Tin
The fact that the temple is also a building site lends
A weirdness to the scene. The summit is closed, guarded by
A ring of golden Buddhas and swathes of corrugated
Iron sheeting. Two cranes loom overhead. There are stoves tucked
Into corners. Fresh apples and oranges are left as
Offerings, the air fraught with incense. The expansion will
House the burgeoning clientele. Neat, raftered rooms with mass
Individualised compartments are scattered across the
Hillside. Death swells the temple’s growth. Signs urge against feeding
The wild monkeys. Women spray down the steps with hoses. Cranes
Wheel. One of the larger of the ten thousand Bhuddas looks
On, an inverted swastika adorning his golden chest.
I think of my grandparents’ ashes, kept in the corner
Cupboard of the study, waiting to be scattered on their land.
A weirdness to the scene. The summit is closed, guarded by
A ring of golden Buddhas and swathes of corrugated
Iron sheeting. Two cranes loom overhead. There are stoves tucked
Into corners. Fresh apples and oranges are left as
Offerings, the air fraught with incense. The expansion will
House the burgeoning clientele. Neat, raftered rooms with mass
Individualised compartments are scattered across the
Hillside. Death swells the temple’s growth. Signs urge against feeding
The wild monkeys. Women spray down the steps with hoses. Cranes
Wheel. One of the larger of the ten thousand Bhuddas looks
On, an inverted swastika adorning his golden chest.
I think of my grandparents’ ashes, kept in the corner
Cupboard of the study, waiting to be scattered on their land.
Melting Pot
In Statue Square yesterday afternoon there were hundreds of women, sat on the kerb or on newspaper. They gathered in groups, eating sandwiches, playing cards, singing or chatting. One group was perched in front of Jude Law, who pouted at them from behind a Dunhill window. It seemed strange, these women reclaiming the streets, turning them into their living rooms, the private made public. It took a while for me to learn that this was a protest on behalf of Filipino female labourers. Later, in Victoria Park at dusk, there were more groups of women. They wore headscarves and I guessed they might be Malaysian, or Indonesian. Each group took their own corner, on the grass or a bench, by the river or under an underpass. Like the women in Statue Square, they chatted or picnicked, with not a man in sight. Besides what this may denote about differences between Eastern and Western female culture, it was also an indication of a city as cosmopolitan as any I’ve known. On the streets are all the nations of South East Asia, as well as Australians, Indians, Africans, Americans and Europeans. Hong Kong is a melting pot, a trading place for all the world. However, when I went half an hour up the road to Sheng Shui this morning, with not another Westener in sight, there was only one place it felt like and that was China.
Supper
I ate prawns in the spicy crab emporium. Even
Though it’s just a short jump from multinational Causeway Bay,
My presence seemed to trigger some uncertainty. Speaking
Cantonese, a waiter offered hard-to-avoid advice.
Later, seeing a man eat a plate of finest spicy
Prawns without rice, a waitress brought back the menu to point
Out what she knew I was missing. Hong Kong’s beer of choice is
San Miguel, for no evident reason. I downed a drop,
Ate my prawns and rice. From out of a side room appeared a
Young man in a baseball cap, smoking, in spite of the u-
Biquitous ban. I looked at him and he glared back
At me. Later, he and two others left the side room, which
I deduced must be the Triad enclave. I escaped in
One piece and strolled back as close to the waterfront as I
Could, awed by the Asian Gotham, so full of frenetic
Vitality, seduced by the winking harbour lights.
Though it’s just a short jump from multinational Causeway Bay,
My presence seemed to trigger some uncertainty. Speaking
Cantonese, a waiter offered hard-to-avoid advice.
Later, seeing a man eat a plate of finest spicy
Prawns without rice, a waitress brought back the menu to point
Out what she knew I was missing. Hong Kong’s beer of choice is
San Miguel, for no evident reason. I downed a drop,
Ate my prawns and rice. From out of a side room appeared a
Young man in a baseball cap, smoking, in spite of the u-
Biquitous ban. I looked at him and he glared back
At me. Later, he and two others left the side room, which
I deduced must be the Triad enclave. I escaped in
One piece and strolled back as close to the waterfront as I
Could, awed by the Asian Gotham, so full of frenetic
Vitality, seduced by the winking harbour lights.
Conspicuous Consumption
To be in Hong Kong and not to shop would be like going
To the Canadian Winter and not throwing a snowball.
Shopping’s a way of life and an art-form. You don’t need too
Much cash. This evening, a stroll down Temple Street’s night market
Delivered magnetic beads (for the health), a low-brimmed hat,
And a pair of silk Boxers. For less than a London tube fare.
To the Canadian Winter and not throwing a snowball.
Shopping’s a way of life and an art-form. You don’t need too
Much cash. This evening, a stroll down Temple Street’s night market
Delivered magnetic beads (for the health), a low-brimmed hat,
And a pair of silk Boxers. For less than a London tube fare.
Storm
The ceremonial dispensation of the suitcase was impaired
By the ferocity of the rain. Bouncing up and down off the
Pavement, space-hopper style. The downpour refused to abate, trying
To soak the city into submission. It failed. Brollies speared the
Sky, shoes splashed around, and everything proceeded as urgently
As ever. The suitcase alone is still, at rest, on some corner of a foreign shore.
By the ferocity of the rain. Bouncing up and down off the
Pavement, space-hopper style. The downpour refused to abate, trying
To soak the city into submission. It failed. Brollies speared the
Sky, shoes splashed around, and everything proceeded as urgently
As ever. The suitcase alone is still, at rest, on some corner of a foreign shore.
Chep Lap Kok
This is the seventh airport of my trip. They have acquired
A homely, love-hate feel. This will be a British Airways
Flight, full of familiar features, speech inflexions, concerns.
Impatient to leave, people queue with a studied patience.
A homely, love-hate feel. This will be a British Airways
Flight, full of familiar features, speech inflexions, concerns.
Impatient to leave, people queue with a studied patience.
Victoria Harbour
There is an Avenue of The Stars on the Tsim Sha Tsui side of
Victoria Harbour. Similar to the one on Hollywood Boulevard.
The views may be more spectacular, but the names on the
Stars are mysterious. Signs of a parallel culture: same format,
Different planet. As the planet changes, perhaps these names
Will acquire the same allure as Clark Gable, Victor Mature or
Jean Harlow. The clouds buckled and the rain descended.
It shrouded the island in mist. Buildings vanished like part
Of a magic trick. Two minutes later they were back. One day,
Maybe, we’ll turn round and our LA dreams will be but a
Trick of the mind. We’ll inherit new dreams, which will have been
Made in China.
Victoria Harbour. Similar to the one on Hollywood Boulevard.
The views may be more spectacular, but the names on the
Stars are mysterious. Signs of a parallel culture: same format,
Different planet. As the planet changes, perhaps these names
Will acquire the same allure as Clark Gable, Victor Mature or
Jean Harlow. The clouds buckled and the rain descended.
It shrouded the island in mist. Buildings vanished like part
Of a magic trick. Two minutes later they were back. One day,
Maybe, we’ll turn round and our LA dreams will be but a
Trick of the mind. We’ll inherit new dreams, which will have been
Made in China.
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