2023, october 18

talking with t. and k., we often get into how society usually doesn’t see children as beings, but rather as becomings. when something awful happens to a child, the concern leans less towards their current being and more towards the grown-up they will become. will they be permanently damaged? or will this experience forge them into a stronger, more resilient person? these are the kinds of questions that frame children as becomings, not beings. this was a major mindblow for me a few years back in our discussions about concepts of childhood and such. there is this incredible shift that happens when we start seeing children as beings from the very start. or as both beings and becomings, just like we can view ourselves as both. more on this some other time.

right now, i want to capture another thought. i’ve just finished liane moriarty’s ‘nine perfect strangers’ and something struck me about the middle-aged characters. they’re so wrapped up in what they used to be. this past self is a constant theme, both in their minds and in how others see them. after becoming and being, they’ve now entered the stage of what I’d call once-been. (actually, i would like to call it has-been, but that is already a standing term for people who were once successful and glamorous and are now dusty and bloated) anyway, it seems to me that upper-middle-aged people both in moriarty’s novel and in real life are depicted as if their original persona is obscured by age. as if their core appearance is buried under layers of age-chubbiness and sagging skin. they define themselves by what they once used to be, not by their current being. when they assess each other’s attractiveness, they’re not looking at the present face, but trying to see behind it: was this an attractive person back in the day?

in societies that value age, it seems different. at mamas birthday party, her seventieth year was celebrated in a big way. her korean friends hung up banners: ‘life begins at seventy!’ from this perspective, it appears that older people are seen as embodying the richness of their lived life. it’s the abundant life that’s living inside the seventy-year-old and not a buried statue from their heyday.

2023, october 10

inside my novel.

[mia] mia. whenever the mess flooded her apartment, mia would turn to painting. not because the chaos itself was inspiring – far from it. but because painting was her way of justifying this excessive clutter. seeing it as the mess of a forty-year-old made her feel incapable of life. but viewing it as the chaos of an artist she felt her genius underpinned.

2023, september 23, cammeraygal (sydney)

chinese place in chatswood. we're sitting in semi-private dining booths. the tables have these built-in hot pot baisins, ours is bubling with extra spicy broth. i'm dipping in beef, tofu and massive glass noodles. the server hands us hair ties and red aprons – a shield against splatters. every corner has someone celebrating their birthday – with birthday banners and sparkling balloons decorating the table. a robot glides around serving dishes to tables, dropping off dumplings and enoki mushrooms for us. another robot parades around with a shockingly pink birthday cake. two servers carry a massive blinking sign, going from one birthday group to another. the sign is flashing with birthday wishes, hearts, what have you. they swing it around, performing songs for every birthday table. they are wearing these headbands with tiny ears — maybe mouse ears or rabbit ears. makes sense, it's the year of the rabbit after all. 

it strikes me that asian spots here, unlike berlin or new york, don‘t seem to be part of a hipster foodie culture but instead inhabit their own self-immersive parallel universe. a world seemingly hidden from many white sydneysiders. for moments, i forget i'm in sydney. and the sichuan pepper leaves a numbing tingle on my tongue and a delightful dizziness in my head.

2023, september 21

message to a friend.

you asked me why u. never holds grudges. how does she manage to let go of fights and hurt feelings? i think the difference between u. and people who hold grudges ist that she sees the fights and hurt feelings as single dots and doesn‘t connect the dots with a line. she can still feel and relate to the pain from each single dot, but she doesn‘t draw a line from one dot to the next and to the present.

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, september 9

note on the barbie movie

when ken steps into the human world, someone casually asks him the time addressing him as “sir” (according to my memory). it blows his mind — that simple act feels monumentally respectful to him. this took me back to a moment at prinzenbad when an elderly white lady approached me, wondering if i could help straighten out the back of her swimsuit. a part of it had gotten all crumpled up. that caught me off guard. i suddenly realized that i’m not used to white grandmas in germany asking me for such a favor. usually, i sense a certain distance, some kind of hesitation, or fear, towards people who look ‘foreign’ to them. sometimes it can manifest as outright hostility — like that time a grandma at oranienplatz verbally attacked me, accusing me of shoplifting “like a typical foreigner” — but more often it seems like they simply wouldn‘t consider someone who doesn’t look ‘white german’ as a person who could help with mundane things like de-crumpling a swimsuit strap. not necessarily out of malice, but maybe rather because, in their eyes, we seem to inhabit a completely different universe, too alien to request earthly favors from. 

so when she asked me without a second thought, i was stunned. and then, i was stunned by my own surprise, showing me how i’m not used to this kind of interaction. that’s how the ken scene resonates with me; it highlights how ‘being seen’ often manifests in the most ordinary moments.

2023, august 28, cammeraygal (sydney)

german day-to-day communication often seems so trapped in a never ending spiral of blame and premature defence. i‘m so used to this guilt-soaked language that it always catches me off guard when i‘m out and about in kinder corners of the world. here in oz, it never ceases to surprise me when the house manager, bus driver or doctor’s receptionist doesn’t bite my head off. what are they waiting for?! i’m standing here, ready to be snapped at, but it‘s just not happening. it‘s like when you have the hiccups and they suddenly stop, but you‘re still bracing for the next one.

2023, august 11

message to a friend.

taejongdae is a park right by the sea. my mom grew up there and it’s her favorite place. you can walk up the hill and if you know the secret spot, you’ll end up walking down steep steps. down and down and down, until you reach cliffs right by the water. there’re all these old, tough, badass korean ladies selling super fresh fish. they have all these plastic bowls filled with water and fish swimming in them. you pick your fish and they will, super fast and without mercy, transform them from being alive to edible. you can buy soju and beer and there are big plates on the cliffs, to sit down with your tray full of tasty stuff. in my profile pic, you see me holding a tray with super fresh raw fish, with chillies, garlic, soy sauce, and wasabi and you wrap it all up in tasty lettuce leaves and pop it in your mouth, while the waves crash against the cliffs right next to you and in the distance you can faintly see japan and the sea is turquoise and breathtaking and the waves are wild and rough and white. and it’s one of the most beautiful places in the world and i explode with happiness every time i sit there eating fish and drinking beer and soju and looking at the sea.

2023, august 7, cammeraygal (sydney)

sydney: the sky is so dazzlingly blue it seems endless, sea-turquoise and harbour-turquoise mingling, a thousand shades of green in wendy whiteley‘s secret garden, gigantic fairy-tale trees at every street corner, and birds displaying a palette of candyland colours. the soundscape melds ocean murmurs, the hum of the highway, korean chatter, birds sounding like laughing monkeys, shrieking cockatoos, and the constant backdrop of waves splashing and pools splattering. and in summer, purple trees and a whiff of lemon tree scent everywhere. it smells of clean streets and tamed people and asian grocery stores. sea-salty pool water on my lips. and spicy korean chicken. the sun wakes me up every morning, immersing the entire bedroom in an incredible orange light.

2023, july 27, saigon/ho chi minh city

still in transit. here at the airport, i‘ve spotted signs saying “well-wishers gallery”. i guess, they mark the spots where people say their heartfelt goodbyes before boarding their flights. in the u.s., i‘ve come across similar signs, mostly in parking areas, dubbed “kiss and ride”. spots designated for quick stops to pick up or wish farewell. i wish we had signs like that in germany. signs that spread more wonderland vibes. 

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, berlin

when i arrived in berlin, i had thirty-six hours of plane and train rides in my body, along with tons of booze. the air was a scorcher and it felt like my greasy clothes and hair were melting in the sun. when i entered my apartment, the entire vibe of my altbauwohnung surged into me. the feel of high ceilings and sun warmed wooden floors and my rosé-colored walls, i could sense it with every millimeter of my body, with my little toenail and with the tip of my tongue. and it felt like every single one of my moves was charged with that delicious feel, every micro-second of making coffee has that feel of wooden floors and high ceilings and sun flooding the rooms. making coffee here feels so different from making coffee in sydney or atlanta. it feels like all the oldtown buildings of europe and mozart’s piano plays are living in the coffee foam that emerges when i press down the french press.

on my walk to our family welcome dinner, every single person i saw struck me as a piece of art. i had never realized this before. you see, it used to be that when i returned from korea, people in berlin (especially myself) seemed somehow clumsier, more coarse-faced, and neglected. and when i once came back from toronto, everyone looked somewhat mopey and grey-mooded to me. and that one time coming back from atlanta, the people-scape of berlin seemed tame, slightly provincial and starkly white. but now, returning from sydney, everyone just looks incredibly charismatic to me. all the street dirt, all the exhaustion etched into people’s faces, it all looks like art. the landwehrkanal morphs into an avant-garde street fashion catwalk. everyone looks so casually hot and cinegenic, their eyes and nostrils revealing yummy and edgy thoughts without any apparent intention. people look like they’re unaware of their existence as subversively famous stars. i wanted to scream at them: do you know how incredibly charismatic you are? they are the stars in this cinematic performance, called the kreuzberg kanal. or katti’s seven weeks of berlin summer.

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.