September 30, 2002
Food talk

It only occurred to me yesterday that I probably should have posted about the various eateries I've been "experiencing" here - a rather late thought, don't you think? I guess it finally hit me because we ended up at a rather weird Asian noodle place for lunch. The layout and decor of the premises seem to tend towards Japanese, but the menu consists of a little bit of Thai, Cantonese, Singaporean, Tonkinese and some standard Japanese noodle-fare. The use of inelegant and possibly inappropriate kanji floored me, and to top it all off, I was sitting in front of speakers blasting Indian fusion music. You could say I was somewhat culturally confused. Oh, the food isn't anything to write home about (I never had to pick ginger pieces out of noodles before) eventhough the place seems popular with non-Asian customers.

The name of the place is "Tampopo" (meaning "dandelion"), and I was wondering if it is related to the film of the same name. It would be a little ironic if it was, seeing as the movie is constructed as a series of episodes along the route to the perfect noodle restaurant. You could say the place is rather quaint and somewhat cute, but I doubt I would be visiting again anytime soon.

I'm sorry I've been silent lately, but the words just aren't coming and more often than not, I've been lured outside, rain or shine. Today, it was rain - the annoying kind of rain which isn't strong enough to deter one from walking in it, but with big enough drops to make sure one gets adequately wet. Spots were definitely in fashion today, what with the beads of water on coats, umbrellas, glasses, bags, clothes and windscreens.

I wandered into Chinatown for a few things, and noted with interest and amusement that two new bubble tea places have sprung up since the beginning of the semester, no doubt with the fresh influx of Asian students. Just as well really, I was kind of missing good bubble tea. I had known of at least one place in Montreal thus far, but the bubble tea it serves isn't quite of the same calibre that I've been used to. If you haven't had any before, it's something you should try at least once - something of a novelty, you might say.

Posted by sniffles at 11:05 PM | Comments (6)

September 25, 2002
Shout

I was in town for maybe about half an hour all up, and guess what happened?

"Excuse me, can you please tell me which way is St Hubert street?" She wore a grey suit and had red hair.

I am pretty sure I wasn't even remotely looking friendly - most likely a bit nervous and absorbed, definitely not "comfortable and confident" (what Bill said was a likely factor). I wish people would at least ask questions that I can confidently help them with, given that I don't know much of my way around here yet, truly.

Posted by sniffles at 08:08 PM | Comments (3)

September 24, 2002
Blue indian ink

When night falls it swallows you in blue indian ink, a swirling, silent tornado blinking out yellow window squares like sulphur flushed by moon. The fake saxophone plays and breathes shadows on brick walls, dropping notes like dripping fears.

Everyone asks, "What news?" What news ... what makes news? I've been reading a couple of Chekhov plays - I grabbed the three cheap slim volumes I could find, firstly "Uncle Vanya", now "The Cherry Orchard", as a result of a book called "Corfu", by Australian author Robert Dessiax. The more one reads, the more there is to read, if only to gain a more complete picture so that the world might make a bit more sense.

Magic is captured in failed whistling techniques, insane tongue twisters, walking the long way home or in noticing the colours of a bracelet on a beautiful girl. Magic breathes under streetlights with the discovery of secret hidden places and stolen joy.

On the grassy slope near the main road, I sat down with Chekhov in the sun whilst three boys rumbled down the hill at breakneck speed on their bicycles. Days torn between inside and out, feeling depths and shallows, living on borrowed time.

Posted by sniffles at 11:38 PM | Comments (0)

September 23, 2002
Senses scream emergency

We seem to be back online, hurrah! Apologies if you've been trying to reach this site and haven't been able to connect. You haven't really been missing out on anything - I haven't been able to post.

Rain which has been threatening for a day or two has just begun to fall. I should sleep; the urge to make up for lost time is great, but all that can wait.

Posted by sniffles at 12:10 AM | Comments (0)

September 20, 2002
Frail

Nowadays British Rail call me 'You the Customer' but I prefer my old-fashioned appellant, 'Passenger'. Don't you think 'I glanced at my fellow passengers' has a more romantic and promising air to it than 'I glanced at the other customers on the train'? Customers buy cheese, loofahs and condoms. Passengers may have all these in their luggage but it is not the thought of their purchases that makes them interesting. A fellow passenger might be an adventure. All I have in common with a fellow customer is my wallet.

-- "Written on the Body", Jeanette Winterson.

I really have to learn not to keep kicking myself to the ground when I have already fallen.

Incidentally, Ann Elizabeth has beautiful pictures. And this is a bit old, but care to know the top 10 foods that lead to accidents while driving?

Posted by sniffles at 06:39 PM | Comments (2)

September 19, 2002
Churn

I have to say, I'm tired of seeing any more reports on blogs, such as this one: A weblog can be as trivial as a list of favourite CDs, and as rich as any creative work can be. That's why blogging is a revolution. I mean, what about a bit of originality? (On the flip side, it does give me a kick to see a friend quoted.)

When Oliver wrote to me and said, Tell me all about what you've been up to, well at the very least in point form ... I had trouble trying to condense my days into sensible paragraphs.

I have been away from Melbourne for a whole month now, and the milestone comes as a bit of a shock. Time does fly if you look at it backwards, eventhough you know at any given point, it might seem like a whole empty vat to fill with something better than daily-churned oil. I haven't written the last couple of days because, as usual, I got caught in wondering if I have been doing worthwhile things, from which I would give up and immerse myself in reading (or buying other books like Chekhov plays) and wandering out in the sun, making the watch-band anti-tan on my wrist worse - I'm quite a few shades darker since a month ago.

Truth is, I have been spending time. I'm not sure how one would go about spending time wisely, but I have been enjoying it a lot, and I guess that is probably as good as it gets. I haven't been writing like I'd hope - perhaps there comes a time one needs to absorb rather than create, so I've been reading, walking, taming my cameras and smiling at people. (It's strange the number of occasions people have picked me out from street-crowd to ask for directions in a place where I barely know my way, I think I'm averaging 1.5 a week.) I have been picking random sequences on the guitar, sounding very minimalist. I have only been at the computer to talk to people, I haven't been reading websites much at all (note the severe lack of links), I have barely made a dint in my mail backlog.

I got geeky yesterday and played with generating simple SVG. Last night we saw Atom Egoyan's "Out of Use" installation which feature old open-real tape recorders at Musée d'art contemporain de Montréal. And I think that's it, really. I have been spending time, not merely watching it pass.

Posted by sniffles at 09:51 AM | Comments (4)

September 17, 2002
Temporary

The day being bright, the shadows short as if at noon, but perhaps it is all a trick of light and arbitrary time. The fence makes stripes on his shoes and on the half-emptied coffee glasses. Everytime I glance up I get an eyeful of a backwheel, hanging off a rusty red bicycle. I'd forgotten the memory card for the camera and have kicked myself a few times over it.

I dislike it when my body tries to shut down on me. It could be due to the half-flu, or that my body is finally getting back at me for depriving it of restful sleep for so long.

Posted by sniffles at 05:48 PM | Comments (1)

September 15, 2002
Wild

No silent films were shot in colour but the pictures through a window are that. Everything moves in curious clockwork animation. Why is that man throwing up his arms? The girl's hands move soundlessly over the piano. Only half an inch of glass separates me from the silent world where I do not exist. They don't know I'm here but I have begun to be as intimate with them as any other member of the family. More so, since as their lips move with goldfish bowl pouts, I am the scriptwriter and I can put words in their mouths.

-- "Written on the Body", Jeanette Winterson.

Posted by sniffles at 05:47 PM | Comments (0)

September 14, 2002
Streetwise

Happy Birthday Bill!

The first time I saw this animal, the closest name I had for it was a bandicoot before I learned it is actually a chipmunk. I'm starting to think I might be more Australian than I realised ...

Rather than waking up with a sore throat as I have done in the past couple of days, I woke up with an entire novel in my head, which felt just as bad. A perfect Saturday is made up of a second-hand book sale (dangerous events, don't go alone), a stroll down to a fresh food market, an impromptu picnic lunch which included a brave cheese experience. Some days are made for walking and kaleidoscopic conversations.

And of all things to remember, I suddenly recalled that an ex-boyfriend used to say I sneeze like a cat.

Posted by sniffles at 10:57 PM | Comments (3)

September 12, 2002
Gentle days

Somewhere between Ottawa and Montreal.

The train ride from Montreal was made several times more jovial by a new-found friend who was also making her way down to Ottawa. It never ceases to amaze me how conversations sometimes sprout on their own accord, as if the seeds are already there and paying them the slightest attention allows words to flow and grow like wildfire.

The countryside was flat and wide, I could almost feel at home save for the small differences between shades of colours and shapes of leaves. The cows swished their tails at the afternoon sun, the red barns stood still and solid, seemingly untouched by summers and winters gone by. One looks at a distance, at towns and dainty wooden houses, hearing imagined stories of lives too far out of one's reach, riding on the back of the breeze.

A beautiful couple of days with friends and away from urban living - talking, eating just about the best of Thai food, walking in the woods and doing very little otherwise. I'm learning that paradise on earth exists in small doses - part of experiencing it is the ability to leave it behind and keep going in the faith that you have been there and that days like these come around if you let them.

Posted by sniffles at 02:04 PM | Comments (0)

September 09, 2002
Contact

We got a bit drunk on sangria (or at least I did), the waiter was lovely and constantly grinning from ear to ear. I felt as if I haven't spoken so much English in a long time, though in truth it's really only been a matter of days. Maybe it's because I felt as if I haven't really spoken much at all lately - realising that I could still speak was such a relief.

I love when night stretches out towards infinity, when the time between taking one foot off the ground and placing it just a step in front unfolds from half a second into a full experience of being alive. It has been an extremely hot day, and for me, a slight disappointment that probably does not matter much in the long run, but for which I have temporarily exchanged for the ability to breathe each blade of grass, each grain of sand tucked between the gap in the paving.

The girl on the bus had blue hair plaited closely to her scalp. She jigged in rhythm to music plugged into her ears and her earrings jangled in time. She danced her way down and out of the bus two stops before mine, taking a string of stares with her.

In a sense, I want to feel like this forever, breathing deeply, being completely unanchored. Though in a sense too, I know it can't always be this way. For now, the freedom lies in the luxury of time, and to an extent, that I might have a choice in deciding when and how to clip my own wings.

Thank you, Tina - it was fantastic to finally meet you in person. Hope to see you again soon ;)

Posted by sniffles at 11:36 PM | Comments (3)

September 08, 2002
Domesticity

On the phone, I said, "I bought a mop."
"You bought a mop? I have one."
"You did? I didn't see it ..."
"It's in the kitchen in the bucket."
At this point, I thought I must be really blind. Brain switched gear. "The white bucket? There is a cloth in it."
"Hm I think we have a cultural issue with mops," he said.
"Hehehe I think so."

The cloth is supposed to go around the broom, you see. Very practical, but I've never seen my mother nor my grandmother do it that way. Did you ever think you'd have a cultural issues with mops? Me neither, but it's funny the kind of surprises you run into.

I had a similar experience ten years ago when I shifted countries - with brooms made of plastic. Brooms of my childhood have soft bristles teased from natural materials, and sweeping is a gesture of art.

Oh yeah, I didn't know that people would actually write reviews on kettles, but it comes it useful to know which kettle not to buy ;)

Posted by sniffles at 12:29 PM | Comments (2)

Music on the sill

When the curtains are not drawn in the apartment on the top floor across the back street, I can see a large book standing upright, flushed flat open in a familiar manner that could only be a book of music. The first time I noticed it, I thought it must be on a piano, but I am pretty certain that I would have heard it if it was. And how painful it would have been to move a piano up three floors? So I guess the book is really only on a music stand.

I told Barnaby that apartment buildings here remind me of blocks of chocolate. Beautiful enough to eat. Somewhere nearby, there is a guitarist, maybe two - real ones, not like me. I have heard a trumpet too, but given how unsoundproof and resonant these places are, I have no idea which chocolate block it's being piped from - it tends to sing jazz.

I spent yesterday being very ungeeky and ultra-domesticated. Today, precious sunshine calls.

Posted by sniffles at 10:22 AM | Comments (1)

September 06, 2002
Abort, Retry, Fail?

Montreal, Canada.

The restaurant where we had lunch was full. People came in, people ate, people went, and more people poured in to flood freshly vacated spaces. A production line of stomachs being filled.

What I found disturbing however, were the banners of Chinese words which were hanging from the ceiling. Every time I looked up from my scrumptious soup, my eyes were naturally drawn to these, presumably because I could read them. So everytime I glanced up, the sign towards my left announced in big, black, broad strokes: NOODLES. That was quite okay, it was just that next to NOODLES, another sign said, very seriously: HARMONIOUS ATMOSPHERE, or something to that effect. Harmonious noodles just make me think twice about eating ...

The fortune cookie I got was cool though: Your future is as boundless as the lofty sky. Howzat, hmm?

Oh, I forgot to mention that I met some of the very cool YULBloggers on Wednesday night, and inevitably, a bunch of cameras. Completely uncharacteristic of me, I took no photos. Must've been something in the beer.

Posted by sniffles at 11:51 PM | Comments (4)

September 05, 2002
Dissolving

Montreal, Canada.

The man in the guitar shop was very tense, somewhat agitated, as he showed me two very different folk guitars. Someone spoke to him from the back of the shop, and he yelled back, "Not now! I'm serving three people at the same time!" I had seen only one other customer.

Then a black van swerved wildly onto the sidewalk, missing the front window by mere inches, the men shouted and in a panic-stricken moment, I saw the glass implode, flying with it, guitars of all colours and makes. But none of that happened outside my head, and the guitar man took some deep breaths and stuffed a generous number of picks into the gig bag. As an afterthought, he picked a red and white strap off the rack and stuffed that in too.

So that was how I ended up walking around town for half the day with a precious instrument strapped to my back.

At the canal, the water was a profound blue. Some men were tossing a football about on the embankment opposite. The guard at the dam with a shock of carrot hair gave me a curt nod and a hint of a smile. Trying to find my way back to a familiar main street, I wandered through forgotten, deserted places, where the people wore boredom on their faces as they puffed on their stuffy cigarettes. The unpretty parts of this city, dormant as a discarded cigarette butt. A couple of workmen were negotiating a big machine for some purpose or other, and they smiled at me as I wandered past, but I do not know if they were smiling merely because of me, or because I was wearing a guitar.

Posted by sniffles at 03:20 PM | Comments (0)

September 04, 2002
Carved in Stone

Montreal, Canada.

I meant to write yesterday, but instead I have been battling network problems, and shivering at the chill invited by lightning.

Would you believe me if I told you we spent a good part of two days walking through the Notre-Dame-des-Neiges Cemetery, looking for a particular tombstone? Why is it special? Have a look at the vertical pattern formed by the first letter of each line on the inscription. On the second occasion, we were better equipped, with the lot number, a map of the cemetery, a bottle of water, an apple, and a squashed banana.

There's something amusing about a cemetery this size (i.e. huge) - it's somewhat like a city, you have regions for the Italians, the Chinese, the Koreans, the French, the English, the Russians ... and that's not all. If you are rich, you can afford a massive tombstone, complete with statues and filigree, in a lot a great deal more spacious than the average fellow's, right at the top of a hill, so you can have a good view of the city of tombstones below you even if you're dead.

Most of the previous days have been spent filing in and out of cinemas. Movies seen include: Go (Japan/South Korea), The Quality of Mercy (short film, US), Heavenly Grassland (China), Kitty (short film, New Zealand) Leaving Metropolis (Canada), Erotic Tales: An Erotic Tale (Georgia); porn.com (Germany); On Top Down Under (Iceland), Cold Summer (Australia). Awards have been handed out too. Needless to say, I'm all movied-out.

Posted by sniffles at 05:50 PM | Comments (0)

September 01, 2002
Two

Montreal, Canada.

On the long haul flight, the sweet Japanese girl sitting to my left was going to study somewhere in New York. Mark the air steward stopped by my seat a couple of times and we discussed about holiday destinations and Japan. I fell asleep for four hours straight - I must have been exhausted. On the short haul from New York, the pharmacist didn't believe I have been travelling for more than 24 hours, given that I was still smiling.

Jetlag. Bad, bad jetlag. Not that it has stopped me from absorbed into light, sound and rhythm of Montreal, and in particular, into The World Film Festival. I'm just lacking sleep ...

Two films and a walk in a park lined up for today. Two second-hand CD shops in two days is not a bad effort in a city whose streets are still foreign to me, not that I have bought anything yet.

Posted by sniffles at 10:58 AM | Comments (4)