2024, january 8

inside my novel

mia is sitting in sydney, immersed in the heat of the new year, and her star lights dance on the ceiling, casting water-like reflections, and outside, the jungle garden is thriving with lush greenery, and her cat sprawls in her lap making the keyboard wobble, and through the window, mia sees people braving the morning heat, and the sunlight flashes into her room as cars pass by, reflecting the intense australian sun, and it’s seven in the morning, and she's sipping hot coffee from her tiny mug from saigon, and the freshness of a recent shower lingers on her, and her pajamas are crisp and new, and she’s wearing her black history shirt with the aboriginal flag, and, on her screen, a zoom connection bridges the miles to her friend in berlin, and her friend is enveloped in the winter coziness of her room, and it’s dark and snowy out there, and the berlin winter cold cools her, as if the chill seeps through the screen, offering respite from sydney’s summer. and her thoughts flow rapidly as she types, seeing her reflection in the dark tv screen, noticing how her hands swiftly move across the keyboard, and mia feels remnants of her recent illness lingering in her body, and even through the freshness of the shower, traces of the past days’ lethargy remain, and as she types, she’s sweating out the last of her illness, detoxifying as she writes, and her mind delves into dreamscapes, blending her sydney monday morning with her friend's berlin sunday evening.

2023, december 22, berlin

sparkles and flashes everywhere when the sky is blue, as the water reflects so light so loudly and the brightness of the white swans is dazzling, and the trees’ nakedness feels resolved and radical. there is no hesitation in their bareness.

2023, december 5, cammeraygal (sydney)

i walk through the morning heat, heading to the doctor‘s. later, I sprawl in my ocean-hued bed, slipping on a sleeping mask, a touch of wellness. in the afternoon, i stroll among towering palms at the petite harbor. among them, there is this short palm, not slim and elegant like the others, but wrapped in a leafy fur, like it’s wearing a winter coat. compact and squat it stands, clumsy but confident. the sun lotions my skin. come evening, i drop into my chair in the coaching atelier, my tunis towel blazing pink beside me. as after-work hour strikes at midnight, i tiptoe to the stairwell, leaving german nikolaus candy at neighbor‘s thresholds. then, i read in the dark, thrillingly spooked, munching on pasta, sipping red wine, the day’s coaching marathon a satisfyingly resonating in my bones.

2023, november 30, cammeraygal (sydney)

a shadow from a coconut tree flickers on the door, surrounded by gentle white-yellow light, then quickly disappears. i wonder why these subtly spectacular light shows are so fleeting. then i realize it’s the cars outside casting these flashingly bright reflections. my place, surrounded by palms, jacarandas, and paperbarks, captures these moments for a micro-second.

the fleetingness reminds me of the little bright red flame angelfish in hawaii. our divemaster mentioned, the moment our eye catches this fish, it will disappear again. he suggested that we simply enjoy the rare sight for a second, rather than pointing it out to our co-divers because we might miss the moment ourselves.

the extreme fleetingness of the flame angelfish and the flickering palm tree shadow force me into soaking in the micro-second instead of trying to capture, share, or prolong it.

2023, september 17, gadigal (sydney)

the day is a scorcher. though it’s supposed to be only spring, the air is burning. we‘re marching from redfern park to victoria park, the blacktop beneath us radiates an unforgiving heat. the streets are buzzing with banners and ‚yes‘ signs. i spot a woman with a white sun umbrella; she has pinned handwritten signs on the brolly, announcing: ‚i‘ve got sunscreen. i‘ve got masks.‘, an oasis of care. we keep marching, and every few meters, neon-vested volunteers appear, holding up water spray bottles to sprinkle your face if you like. marchers willingly pause, present their heat glowing faces to the volunteers, to be cooled by the gentle drizzle. a momentary relief in the blazing sun. as we enter victoria park, guides direct us to a water bar, a place where water is handed out like tequila shots at a party, providing quick hydration. collective heat management at its best. every gear is in sync. 

2023, september 11, gadigal (sydney)

shanty bar night in redfern. props scattering the ceiling, a pink phone, a tiny table football, some kind of retro toy car, an aboriginal flag. the air red with dimmed bar light, the crowd a deep, deep a cappella choir, singing and humming. it smells pre-pandemic, of gleefully innocent aerosols. fresh, cool beer in my mouth, the heat of wild abandon in my shoulders. later, m. sends me a text: you looked happy like a kid.

2023, july, 27, saigon/ho chi minh city

as soon as i've landed, the air coats me like lotion. at the market, everyone thinks i'm vietnamese. they say i look like one of them. they even talk to me in vietnamese and react surprised when i don't understand. at a market stall brimming with buddha statues and mobiles, the market lady tells me the only german phrase she knows is “langsam, langsam!” it’s funny because u. told me just yesterday that “langsam, langsam” were her first words she learned in indonesian when she lived in bali, so she could tell the moped taxi driver to slow down. from the market, i head to another part of the city, a neighborhood i heard was very palm-green and vacationy with “bali vibes”. i’m peering out of the cab window. by the road, a man is selling goldfish. his motorbike is loaded with transparent bags filled with water, where the goldfish are swimming. i’m not really sure if they are goldfish, but from a distance, they look like the typical fish you would see in a goldfish bowl. under a bridge, someone has set up a space with a mattress and colorful blankets. above their sleeping space they had pinned a yellow poster on a pillar, saying “you can’t copyright vibe”.

2023, june 27, berlin

in the early morning, i step into the indoor pool, the sun pouring in through the windows from every angle, illuminating the space. it‘s bright like an open-air pool and as serene as a church. by midday, i‘m walking past water lilies in the intermittent sunshine. later, in the coziness of our home cinema, k. is filling a coconut shell with pistachios for me. on our evening walk we pass a pile of rain-soaked posters, a mushy, sludgy mess, and k. asks me if i see art in it. when we come home, m. an t. settle in their chairs against the stark dark blue wall, munching on chips that seem to glow in contrast to the dark backdrop.

2023, june 8, frankfurt-berlin

on the train. a slouchy woman in black sighs as she sits down. people sighing when sitting always makes me happy; it sounds like they’re having a deep, fulfilling ‘feierabend‘. a sulky girl in a jeans jacket is dozing, almost as if she’s napping away her mood. her dark purple sunnies add a touch of glamour to her moody face, as if she’s a star sheltering herself from daylight and people. another girl has been nibbling her pretzel for two whole hours; she’s turned a tiny snack into an enduring meal by taking such tiny bites. two girls are whispering in the corner, confessing their newfound love for chat gpt, their voices lowered as though expecting to be shamed, akin to flight-shaming.

2023, may 12, cammeraygal (sydney)

when a. talks about ocean swimming, i feel every bit of it on my skin – the cold pinpricks, the muscles burning, the intense salt, and that incredible awe-striking moment of having conquered something intense. i can feel that after-swim moment when my skin, spurred by the sheer coldness, starts to warm up. it’s as if the cold itself ignites the warmth, making each tiny goosebump glow.

2023, february 19, cammeraygal (sydney)

in the morning, i'm in bed, writing, blue sky crashing through the window, and the coffee‘s hotness seeping into every corner of my mouth. later, i squat down on the hiking trail, spread out my pink tunisian towel, and set up a quickie picnic on it. taking a bite from my grain-explosion bread, i see the hazelnut in it, cleanly sliced, looking professional and fitting effortlessly into the grain scene, its cut surface mirror-smooth. later, i run into a cave with lines of sandy hues, i caress them with my eyes. i step on climbing hooks on the rock, and z. extends his hand, pulling me up. i feel a burst of pink and bright blue, as my bikini and the sky shine into my eyes. in the evening, i'm in bed with happily sore feet, the hiking day lingering in my limbs, a yummily greasy pizza box on top of me, with a jalapeno peperoni pizza inside, my belly committed to a glorious feast of overeating. z. is doing stretching exercises, and on netflix, a documentary is playing, about indian americans being masters of spelling bees.