Note #20
This is my neighbour
His goal is to have big open grass
One day he said something about trees
He just thought they were in the way
It really is so safe in the forest
But I have a very irrational fear of kangaroos
They are very big and very strong
And they won't move
They just stand there
And stare at you
They have no interest in you
90 percent they are safe
But if you get between a male and his partner with a kid, you don’t know what they will do
And you don't know what they are protecting
The males fight to be part of a group and the one that loses goes off and comes back to fight again
So you never know what part of the cycle they are in
And they won't back away
They just stand there
And stare at you
There were two flat screen tvs that got dumped next to this fallen tree
Then one of them got moved on top of the tree
I couldn't believe how funny I found it
Do the kangaroos hunt in the forest?
I mean gather?
Like do they eat berries?
But they are not like cows?
Do they eat bugs?
You ok?
Is this kangaroo poop?
Oh no, that’s is wombat poop, its square
So many around at the moment
Wombats. Are they mostly in trees or on the ground?
Oh no, the ground, in tunnels
They can make the most amazing tunnels, like full networks
There is a network underneath Mum and Dad’s
And our house
They go down this side of the road and come out the other
It's so amazing
I'll take you down the back here
A couple of months ago there was a wallaby that was old
We didn't know what was wrong with it
It was always standing in the yard
In Mum’s yard
On the road
Then we realised it was blind
Really sad
It just kept hopping wherever it could hop
We called the wildlife people and they came and put it down
They were so nice about it
They just said she got old
I'll try and find the video of what it was like when the storm hit
Biggest in 150 years
It was really wild actually
These giant trees all across the road
They are 400 years old
But the wind was so fierce it was like a wind tunnel and just flattened everything
And now everyone has softcore storm ptsd
Whenever there is a strong wind inevitably there are trees that had been uprooted
But not fallen yet
And they fall on the roads
We were in the Trentham house the night of the storm
An all electric house
It was mid-winter
No heat
Nothing to cook with
Nothing worked
We thought it was very fun and adventurous for the first 6 hours
And went wandering around the streets
Then by 3 pm I poured wine and was like
This is the end
Oh that's a wombat hole
33 minutes
Note #19
“Hi, are you alright? Got a bit worried with the police the other night.”
I had returned to Australia after three years away, a confusing return laced with sadness and defeat. Noone was at the airport when I got there and I realised that there were certain things I would have to relearn.
“Hi, oh yes everything's fine thanks! Sorry for the worry, my name is Elise, I’m K’s daughter just back from overseas.”
When I stepped into the family home it was empty, and as soon as I had left the country mum had gutted my room. I did not recognise the polished floorboards or pastel walls that had replaced my adolescent landscape.
“Oh right! Nice to meet you, she has told us you were coming back. Can I ask what happened? Do you need any help?”
I hadn't told any of my friends I was back. I wasn’t quite ready for anything and the summer sun sucked life from all pores.
“Oh no it’s fine really! Just a bit of a problem with someone throwing a bin through the window. But it's all sorted now, sorry again for the noise!”
K had moved to a share-house around the corner and a few days earlier we celebrated our reunion with a few games of pool at the local pub.
“Oh my gosh! Do you know who it was?”
It was nice to see him again. Shame about the window.
Note #18
I had finally found a motorbike. Months of renting, weeks of meeting dodgy Win dealers, internet ads, millions poured into Uber and I had had enough.
Her name was Betsy.
She was the one.
Hanoi has some dark alleys but Betsy my dear, you were found down one of the darkest.
Take a stool, let me find the papers.
I have other bikes you know, whatever you want.
This one is old, but runs ok. It’s a Thai Dream.
Man hits dog, dog barks, man hits dog, baby cries, baby cries, woman picks up baby while deep frying dinner at the same time as washing something in a bucket, cussing her cousin and kicking the dog.
Do you want to try it?
It’s fine, thank you (No I want to leave)
5mil
4mil
…
Fine. 4.5
And Betsy was mine.
Note #17
a lively conversation from the street below
shadows tickle the metal bars
7:31 - do dodo do do diiiiii do dodo do diiiii
sharp inhale
oh, I feel ok
warmth is steadfast
slippers (yellow dogs)
but what are you doing?
I was going to get up
I just wanted to say happy birthday
ok, ten more minutes
…
did you fall asleep?
…
Note #16
Every day, as far as I can remember, my mother has worn perfume. Her fridge door is filled with the stuff (that gets damaged in the high temperatures of the desert where she lives) and she knows everyone’s scent by heart. My aunt, in her feisty days swore by Poison. My grandmother, though she claimed she wore Chanel, had a secret love for Eau De Rochas.
After my father left, so did Angel. Mum attempted to find a replacement, but years of Eternity, l'Occitane, even some Boss never felt right. Test tubes, strange mixes and half-empty commitments, unknown brands and peculiar packaging cover an abundance of doubt.
Strange how long these scents linger.
Note #15
It was a hot summer's day in Melbourne as my family awaited the arrival of M, our live-in exchange student for the next 6 months. M was the eldest of an upper class German family. She was to become an engineer and eventually inherit her family’s business. Her father was escorting her in his rental Mercedes, a quick errand that seemed to fit gracefully into his schedule of business meetings. Expecting a formal encounter, he had M to wear her private-school uniform, buttoned to the collar and visibly inappropriate for a southern hemisphere 37-degree day. She uncomfortably clasped an oversized bouquet of flowers, that my mother proceeded to plop into the kitchen sink while turning down The Bangles blaring on the radio.
Static at the kitchen table, M’s pristine poise fascinated me as I licked my new braces and adjusted my purple fisherman’s pants. They spoke of aeroplanes and hotel lounges, Christmas in the snow and I noticed how large M’s father looked in front of our faded curtains.
Looking back, I feel that we pulled off the meeting quite well. Mother had preemptively lit an incense stick to cover the wafts of weed coming from my brother’s room, I politely feigned attention to things that did not interest me, and M did not bother to hide her relief as her father pulled out of the drive.
Note #14
APERO
December, 2020
My grandmother, like many of her generation, held high regard for first impressions. Although a tomboy at heart, she celebrated the feminine and her version of “l’art de recevoire”. Through decades of practice her apero was infamous in the family, and a sacred space not to be reckoned with. Her full bar was found under her kitchen sink and surprisingly she could accommodate anything from a lady’s tipple to a sailor’s thirst.
But it was her buffet that would go down in history. 3D chips for the children (oval dish), dried fruit and nut mix (smaller round dish), cheese sticks (again for the children, the adults would say, as crumbs tumbled down their shirts), cornichons, petit onions, carrot (for when someone declared an unwelcome diet), saucisson from the morning market, cherry tomatoes, Bellini bacon chips...and for special occasions (also known as Sunday) perfectly rolled smoked salmon could be found flowering on one plate as thinly spread foie gras was delicately draped on round toasted canapes.
As my grandmother grew tired of her years she passed the baton, and I was allowed to enter the kitchen during the preparations as she entertained her guests. With my mother and my aunts, the kitchen became solace for secret conversations, a sacred space for honest truths and respite from family woes. Many a hurried whisper was shared, a giggle hidden from view, rollings of eyes and silent exclamations of joy.
For years this theatre went on, the dance to find the matching wine glasses, the secret cleaning of the fridge, cries of horror at the non-chilled beer. And when Bonne Mamman could no longer chew nuts, when the children outgrow their pain-de-mie sandwich, we in the kitchen also learnt not to throw out the packets.
Because no one cared if it was the same cheese as last month, as long as it was on the right plate.
Note #13
I’ve fallen in love with my tap’s drip.
The first time I noticed it I was annoyed
I resisted to fight
I figured it would get the message that it had never been invited into my life
Surely it would fix itself and move on?
I didn’t want to seem ridiculous and call for help
So I waited
But slowly it grew stronger, more sure of itself, more secure
I started to care
And so we fought
Through manipulation and confusion, tension and sadness
It was always there
Today I realised
I’ve fallen in love with my tap’s drip
I was lying in my kitchen-cum-lounge room, reading an article on Orientalism, sweating, the hum of motorbikes lulling to my right, music jarring from my shitty computer, the PSA loudspeakers in the courtyard blaring words I didn’t want to hear
And there it was
I closed my eyes as the layers of sound intermingled, out of reach and conflicting, a vertigo of noise, spaces of discomfort broken
Steadily
Drip by drip
In the most comforting of constants my love was there as reference
My metronome
My drip
I love you
Note#12
I got stuck on this one.
Mimi had sent her contribution to the Collab with three beautifully rendered portraits of us.
Our Artist - Curator team poised in minimal brushstrokes.
A handful of simple lines that exuded the generosity, honesty and care that we have too easily accustomed to receiving from her.
I saw the images enter our conversation and I thought fuck.
FUCK!
What do I say to beauty, to simplicity, to honesty and care when I can’t even see my toes shine through the bile of my thoughts right now?
fuck.
A challenge.
Attempting to channel my storm I began to think of us.
US
With shoulders melting, I remembered ice-cream and all the different words for green.
I pictured headphones and mangoes.
Walks in the park and many talks on the balcony at home.
Toby had told us once that there was strength in the triangle.
He said “Anyway you turn it, it never falls down.”
So I started to think about triangles.
I googled “What’s interesting about triangles?”
Turns out, a lot, but not so much for people who have no affection for geometry.
I gave up.
Or maybe, I just got hungry.
Then I started thinking about food.
Which led me to triangle sandwiches.
Which led me to google “Why do people cut sandwiches in triangles?”
And this is what I learnt:
1: It gives the illusion of less crust.
2: It’s easier to access a crust-less bite. The hypotenuse gives you a very ample entrance into the softer, meatier part of the sandwich.
3: It’s a more intuitive way to eat a sandwich. The triangle structure creates an obvious grab zone and the acute corners allow for four perfect initial sandwich bites.
4: It looks better. The human eye is always searching for symmetry and it's a lot easier to find fault with a four-sided shape like a rectangle than it is with a three-sided shape.
5: The diagonal cut creates the illusion that your sandwich is bigger.
6: In a more philosophical thematic: Three is mother, father and child. Three is the beginning, middle and end. Three is birth, life and death. Without three, there could not be a best — only a good and a better.
7: The diagonally sliced half is optimised for dipping in a variety of soup containers.
8: Mutual support in a vertical setting maintains overall structural integrity in the hours leading up to lunch. Basically, the sandwich doesn’t sag in your lunch bag.
I was amazed to find this mass of elaborate articles on triangle sandwiches. I was equally amazed at my own patience at reading them all. I hope you also have learnt something from this and I will close with a final and favourite research quote: “If you are primarily concerned with optimising your exposure to all of the flavours and each ingredient in every bite, you should throw the sandwich in a blender and drink it.”
Note #11
No other witness’ account, and still you watched.
A presence unnoticed.
And still you watched.
Some days ago, strolling by your sides.
I came with questions.
Why do we do it?
What makes it good?
Eyes gaze from bellybutton to internet, staring at the plants can help, lie flat, read books, ask me.
Why do we do it?
What makes it good?
Maybe I need a coffee, a swim could help, if only...
Why do we do it?
What makes it good?
Keep your questions close you said.
Do not lose them.
But try.
Note #10
I’m on the last third of the North-South train. Mountains, mountains, clouds and pretty things. The father in front of me is doting on his baby daughter. The elder son has devoured a Red Bull concentrate and is now scoring his dad’s iPhone with fierce fingers. The mother, in a transparent lace-diamante shirt, is nibbling on wet sweetcorn from the train snack cart. The baby looks like an Asian marshmallow. It can barely hold its head up and needs changing every half-hour.
I only noticed this morning the mother’s black eye. Discreet but present, definitely recent. A tiny stain moves over the image.
Note #9
I want to wake up on a Sunday morning, have sex on white sheets, drink coffee and shower, laze on croissants and cold fruit. Spend the day in sunshine, cry, read, hug, laugh and hold a gentle smile for no particular reason. Walk around topless and feel good about that. Sweat, nap, curl up around a nipple and proudly declare that I have just spent the most perfect day of my life.
Note #8
Seven balls of Turkish bread in a plastic bag. A half empty jar of jam, red fruit of some kind. A bowl with three small flowers, draped and drooping. One knife. A third of a punnet of small Belgian strawberries. Five cents. A silver Zippo lighter. A strawberry stem. A blue mug with dregs of coffee and bread. A 28g packet of red Pall Mall tobacco. A glass of Jupiler holding some water. A white Ikea mug with the remains of a strong black coffee. Tigra tobacco. A half smoked cigarette. An empty chair to my left. Sunshine.
///
Saturday of a long weekend. A small alleyway not far from the train station. 27 degrees. Clouds. Yoghurt coffee and strong tea. Some kind of vegetable in a green bag. A scooter that won’t start. Short shorts and leg tattoos. One big fake gold watch and sadness. Green bananas hang off a motorbike handle. Sandals that never seem to be the right size.
///
Bread, bananas, vegan gummies, sunlight, wilting basil & coriander. Chairs in an awkward positions. Only practical when one small person must put their feet under the crotch of one big person. Thoughts on a shaded tree. A tall man wearing black. The smell of trash burning. Cars honk. Post-it notes and lists. Glue, ice, candles. A static mouse on the window ledge.
Note #7
B stood about two metres tall, an elevation buried by a demure of timid shame. He hid his shaved head under the veil of a black hoodie. His curved, skinny shoulders leaned towards silence unless spoken to.
When I met him, B was having trouble finding an apartment. It seemed no one would trust a man whose self-proclaimed interests were MDMA and Berghain…
When I chose him as my apartment tenant for a whole year he didn't open the curtains for fear of damaging them. I had come to visit one winter, speaking quietly in the living room I watched his neck tattoos reach up towards each ears as he stuffed pills into his socks. Floating into the club B could feel me take distance at the security check, pupils-wide he turned to say “It’s ok. They know me here.”
It was the first time I saw him smile.
Note #6
We all have questions. Sometimes they lead us down a path to nowhere, frustrating celebrations of ambiguity. At other moments, they conclude with an unequivocal dead-end fact. Either route, if being explored by the interested, unearths more and more curiosities. Discovering a fanfare of predicaments, parades of inquisitions, and sashaying shuffles of question friends.
And so, not long ago, we gathered for a question party. With titbits of ponderings and small offerings of answers we partied until the wee hours. Our exhausted words and worn out neurons were in need of more celebration when the idea of a coffee in Poland arose.
In minutes we found ourselves on fuel-thirsty motorbikes, through dark fields and dirt-road shortcuts on the way to Indomaret. I felt sorry for my driver, who at the best of times was bashful, and was most likely in a panic to be found in-between the legs of this stranger-woman. But the skies were clear and no pothole screamed us heavy as we flew through the awkward warmth of thigh-on-thigh.
We conquered an orgy of junk food and dispenser coffee. Egg centred peanuts, meat-laden frozen pizza and sour gummy worms. We spoke of land rights and contemporary art. We laughed at the changing Indonesia where young men hurry, with anger in their eyes, in order to arrive, placid and immobile, to their couches. A hurry to do nothing they said, twinkles pouring from their eyes.
Poland is nice if you would like to know, maybe I will go back one day.
Note #5
Elise Luong’s Travel. Diary
23 July ‘94
This morning I woke up at 8:00 am because we had to be at the airport at 9:30. On the way to the airport we got held up by a crash. At the airport the Ridings were there to say good-bye. Our plane was leaving at 11:00. So after saying goodbye to Dad and everyone we went through the gates. First we had to show our passport and stuff tickets.
In the plane we were given all these things like cards, colouring books and drinks and they let us see where the piloes were and what it looks like when the plane was turning. And We watched Philadelphia and Four weddings and a funeral. We listened to take 40. When we arrived in Hong Kong we went on a little bus wich toke us in the airport. Then we just showed stuff got our luggage exchanged some money got a taxi. The taxi was very reckless they donet stop when they turn and they didnt have any seat belts.
Note #4
After two hours of time-killing conversation and shared-space manipulation we had both morphed into the least uncomfortable positions possible.
F in a nose-to-armpit hold. Me a horizontal squat, as if meditating through childbirth.
I imagined the child. Born with skin of crimson red that match the air stewardess’ cheap mini-skirts. The colour of family reunions and carbon emissions. This child of globalisation, born to a mixed-nation mother, would be blessed with an International-Air Passport. Conspicuous among his earth-coloured playmates, he would never sleep nor taste extremes, and innately understand all languages.
One day, he would ask me what I was doing on that flight. I guess, maybe, I would smile and pass the details. I would say I did not really know.
But I had been invited by friends who lived far away, and they had many stories to tell. I had filled my suitcase, red like his skin, with coffee and tea. We were on our way to listen.
Note #3
In my early twenties my father drunkenly rambled through his story of immigration. Alone he had taken the train from Hanoi to the South, eventually boarding a boat that took many weeks to arrive to the shores of Hong Kong. I was thankful for the wine with which to drown my stomach as I listened, patient and empty. It was a story I had longed to hear many years before, and now felt distant, numb, images meant for another.
A handful of times, when I was younger and more generous with the world, I had convinced myself to board planes headed to Saigon, unsure if I would find my father and be relieved of the questions I had for him. Each time refused, through excuses or silence, I had nowhere else to go and would leave Saigon by train travelling North.
The irony of time travel never hit me at the time.
Note #2
13/10
A horse race with two teams, in the bush, maybe like a showjumping circuit? If the betters guess the leader’s rate they kill them. I am first in my team. The betters discover they can calculate our rates by looking at our horses. They watch my race, knowing they will be able to kill the rest of my team. My horse is big and white, one of the best…
14/10
I accidentally make Joy a cup of tea with cold water. She gets annoyed.
22/12
I am dating a dog. He is a drug dealer. He is being betrayed by his right hand man. I have been living in a hostel and its nearly time to leave for my exam. I’ve lost my room keys and to get out of the hostel you have to take the elevator that goes through the fruit basket next to the fridge.
I would like to have sex with him but we are not allowed into the rooms before nighttime. He's lost a few things from his toolbox which makes him unhappy.
3/10
A graduation show and end of year party. It is a dark warehouse and we are packing up. No emotion from this. I am not sure if I was one of the students. I am looking for an empty glass to pour champagne. They have filled them all with candy.
7/11
I am sitting in a car in Melton. The sky is very blue and there is a futuristic white jeep to my right. I am sitting in a traffic jam. Someone else is driving. I receive a phone call from my aunt, she says my cousin wants to talk to me. She wants to bring her children to the beach house but she can’t find the keys. She says she called my father but he did not understand.
I can’t help her.
Note #1
All her life she only wore gumboots.
There was no need. She had always lived in the same apartment in the centre of town.
Early, she started to wear long dresses to hide them from the malicious, bashful even of the curious.
When alone, she grew free of care, and often at night would walk her favourite alleys. Those quiet and dark crevasses full of the city’s liquid.
There she could hide for some time.
Happy in her puddles.
NOTES
by Elise Luong
Written since 1994
Published from October, 2021