Tripping the Switch


by Patrick Fore, from Unsplash

18-19 July 2016


This morning, I yelled at the cat.

I lost my Opal card (used for public transport in Sydney). I tore the house apart looking for it. I was late for work. I had diffused an emotional bomb yesterday (and was conveniently working from home, which gave me the ability to level-up my self-care practices). I woke up early this morning, had a good breakfast. Actually sat down with time to spare before the commute.

But the clock ticked closer to leaving, and as I was gathering my things, I noticed what was missing. In running around looking for it, the cat either thought we were playing a game, or asking for more food. In any case, I exploded. I yelled at her to shut up.

I yelled in a way I haven’t yelled at anyone in years. Least of all toward a child or an animal (and yes, the cat fills both of these roles right now). The scary part was; realising that if A had been here, I might have taken out my frustration on him instead.


Something as small and insignificant as losing my Opal card shouldn’t have tripped me back into anxiety and frustration. But the trouble is, it’s the long-tail following on from the patterns of the last few days.

Some triggers I can recognise: I’ve been experiencing a slew of “ups” recently. Great things have been happening. Things have been busy, but not unmanageably so.

I say that, and what I mean is: I am good with all the things that are happening. I am handling workloads well. I am becoming more effective and refining my best practices as the days pass. Each day, I’m doing exponentially more and better than the day before.

The truth I’m avoiding is: I’ve put too much pressure on myself outside of work. I haven’t provided downtime to recover from all of the learning going on. I haven’t built in processing time.

As a result, I’ve been running on 15 consecutive days that have been filled with tasks, learning, activity, collaboration, and doing. I have had no weekend breaks from doing. With the influx of activity, things to process, and the general meeting and scaling of goal after goal after goal – I was expecting there to be a downswing in energy. I saw it coming. I was running through a lot of fuel – I even started an Open Projects notebook to try to sketch down all the skeletons of personal projects, so that I wouldn’t lose them if I needed to backburner them in order to prioritise work.

I was setting up new practices for how to filter these things through to the inevitable dip in energy, mood, and motivation that follows months of successes.

What I forgot to factor in was: how emotional circumstances can trip the switch and trigger a downturn where I’m not expecting it, no matter how fully stocked my bomb shelter might be.

B left this weekend, and I felt truly shattered.


When I first met the Irishman, we bonded a lot over books, ideas, and reading. We met at a conference (that was Day 1). Day 2 of our friendship was a week later when we met up for a book date at Ampersand (a combo café and bookstore). We didn’t plan it out in too much detail. Just a Sunday, a time, and a place with Cronuts.

We both showed up with almost identically tall towers of books to lend to the other person. A perfectly weighted, spontaneous bookswap.

One of the books B lent me was “Furiously Happy: a funny book about horrible things” by Jenny Lawson. He opened immediately to show me the Epilogue (um, spoilers!) called Deep in the Trenches. I’ve been searching for it online, but I’ll have to copy it out later when I’m back home with the book.

Needless to say, we engaged in a deep conversation about experiences of mental illness. Everything from depression, to anxiety, to mania, to things further afield from our own experiences.

He told me about a program in Sydney where individuals can get training to speak to high school students about their own journeys and experiences.

I said, “That’s cool. But it’s probably not for me. I wouldn’t have anything to share.”

B just looked at me. I think this look might have been from Day 4 or 5 of our friendship, but it still sears through me. It was the look that said, “Really? Are you sure?” The look that doubted the truth of what I just said.


Over the course of the past 5 or 6 years, I think I’ve gotten a lot more truthful with myself. I’ve recognised shortcomings. I’ve looked deeply into areas about myself and my relationships that I don’t understand. Yesterday, in the Creative Hive, I wrote: I also know: I never learned how to be a good friend. I think I am a good friend, but I’ve had to grow into it through a lot of trial and error.

That’s true of so many things.

In high school, I usually forgot to eat whenever I felt anxious, whenever I felt depressed. An awareness of food was the first thing to go.

In college, I learned more things to pile on top of unhappiness.

But by the end of college, I had started to show up at Adult Children of Alcoholics meetings. I learned more about the ways I hide from myself and the ways I doctor the truth of what’s happening. I learned about co-dependency.

I started learning how to show up, stay open, and be true to my own experience.


Living in Scotland, I recognised rises and dips in my seasonal moods. It’s hard to imagine any Scot would argue: the winters are long, and they are hard.

I started using a Philips full-spectrum light. Once, we used it from mid-winter onwards. The next year, we used it from August through to April.

The first year we were married, I thought I was broken.

Another year in Scotland, I thought I was cured.


Things are a lot different now. I have a stronger handle on my own abilities, of triggers, pattern-recognition, when I need to ask for help. To know when I need to let other people know I’m struggling.

I am stronger. Not just in what I’m capable of, but what I’m capable of bearing. I’m stronger by the manner in which I process, reflect, disseminate, and delegate. I’m stronger for the scrutiny and research I have put into the most effective self-care practices for me.

I have a community around me who will check in when my Grandfather dies, when all manner of travel plans fail, when obstacles and setbacks seem to pile up, and they suspect I might be faltering under the weight of them.

I have people who will send me photos of hamsters in blankets eating carrots. And dogs dragging teddy bears onto inflatable rafts.

I have a husband who – before departing for his road trip this weekend – looked at me and said, “I’m feeling like I don’t want to leave you.”

When I said I would be fine, he asked, “Will you make sure to eat vegetables?”

I have people who know that to check in with how I’m eating is sometimes the best indicator of support, of reminders, of what I need, of where I need to refocus.

Nonetheless, I’m having a hard week. And I’m focusing all of my self-care on getting to the other side of it.


Walking to the train station this morning, a little girl pushed her hands over her ears as she passed the cement mixer. She looked curious, but terrified. She wanted to block out the noise of what scared her.

Me too, little girl. Me too.


This post is going further away from what I thought I wanted to write about, which was: on top of my personal ebbs and flows, I’m feeling the weight of the world on me. I’m feeling crushed and truly, deeply thrown by global tragedy. I’m feeling heartbroken by 2016. There’s so much to unpack within that statement, and this post clearly wanted to go elsewhere.

I think I’ll have to write more about that next.

More soon.

But are they friends?


Dr. Neils Garden, Edinburgh 2016

9 June 2016
8:14 am


T. –

Sometimes I can’t distinguish Monet from Manet, but I know they both painted flowers. Georgia O’Keeffe painted flowers, too, and people said they were vaginas. I think it’s more than that, but once you’ve seen it, it’s difficult to unsee it. Van Gogh cut off his ear, and all they talk about now are his sunflowers and the starry night. I think of him and his letters to his brother, and I remember almond branches. (T., 2 November, 2013)

I have two types of married neural pathways.

  1. I mix up things (of the same general type) that begin with the same letter.
    1. (Meringue, marshmallow, marzipan was a classic triptych).
  2. I mix up people (in the same general area of knowledge) that I’ve learned about at approximately the same time.
    1. (Oscar Wilde, Mark Twain, and someone else I can never remember these days. That mix-up used to happen all the time.)

It’s currently happening to me with directors and sci-fi.

Last night, I asked A.: “Do you think Joss Whedon/Wheaton and Will Whedon/Wheaton are brothers? Do they even have the same last name? Is it Whedon or Wheaton? Or both?”

It’s confusing, because Joss is one of 5 brothers (Samuel, Matthew, Jed, and Zach). Surely one of them could have been Will Wheaton.

But, no. A.: “They’re definitely two separate people. As in, they don’t share DNA. And they have two different names.”

To which I replied my burning questions: “But… do you think they’re friends?”

In my mind, Joss Whedon, Will Wheaton, and J.J. Abrams are all friends. Joss and Will are probably married together in my mind because of neural pathway mixup category 1, while J.J. gets thrown in because of neural pathway mixup category 2.

Then, we have Stephen Dunn, Mark Strand, and Mark Doty. And yes, that’s how it maps out in my head when I think of similar words and sounds. I know these poets, distinctly. I’ve written letters with Stephen, and shared breakfast with Mark D.

And yet, almost every time I read a poem by one of these poets, the other two pop up into my consciousness like the angel and devil on my shoulders. They are all sewn together, because of how and when I learned of them.


10 June 2016
11:26 am



A letter within a letter, because my thoughts are not finished.

I had a big audition last night. I was nervous, not in the style of what if this doesn’t go well, and why is everyone looking at me? but more in the style of I really want this, and I also really want to be okay if I don’t get it. It was for a substantial role, in a new theatre company, for whom I’ve never auditioned before. Lots of material to memorise, lots of music to practice, lots of layers of character to try on, and lots of people to introduce myself to.

When I walked into the audition room, the director came out from behind the table and gave me a hug.

I’ve met him before, twice. He is friends with my friends. He has seen me sing in two shows, and he’s Irish (so I think I feel quite a kindred spirit in him, purely from the call of our respective Celtic homelands). He is lovely, and I respect him. I want to work with him, and I want to work for him. At the information night for this musical, he said: I value good work, and I will make you work hard. Through the rehearsal process, I look for the potential you have within you, and I promise I will bring you to that point by opening night. This is not verbatim. But it’s how his words translated in my head. It was about discipline, and work, and heart. And I enlisted on the spot.

When he came towards me, I thought we would shake hands. I thought this is a nice greeting. He didn’t need to stand up. I thought I don’t know the other two production team members. I’m nervous for them to get to know me. But I do know him, and he’s coming over to shake my hand, and that feels like a very nice acknowledgment.

And then he opened his arms, and then he hugged me.

It’s not a secret that my mind works through a million thoughts a minute. At our meditation group, our friends ask me to articulate my emotions, and laugh when it takes me a minute to think of them. I have to think about how I feel, I tell them. And they laugh, patiently, because they know me, and they know this to be true. I get to my heart through my head.

But he hugged me. And yes, my thoughts were cycling through — but louder than the thoughts, I felt… welcomed. It was an emotional moment, actually. It likely didn’t take much for him to think of standing up and giving me a hug. It’s the first night of auditions. They’re excited. He’s passionate. He saw me, and recognised me, and wanted to share the joy.

And I got the joy. I felt so grateful and so welcomed, and I got all the joy.


On the way home, I called his friend to tell her. If I don’t get a hug when I go and audition, he’s going to hear about it, she said. We talked about the show. We talked about the music. We talked about working with people who we know, and don’t know, who we like, and don’t like.

She said: when I first met you, I was really scared.

[Cue M into over-thinking]

No, not like that, she said. It wasn’t you. It was me. I get nervous around people. I’m not good at being in cliques.

I’m not either.

My favourite way to describe this is Stephen’s poem ‘Corners.’ I know you know it.


Corners by Stephen Dunn

It’s something I recognise almost immediately: someone with a corner person’s taste/for intimacy. It’s the League of Silent, Deadly, Overthinkers. It’s diving into something deeper than surface level conversation. It’s mutual respect for how the quietness of a person can hide the busy-ness of a mind. It’s even the loud, outgoing ones who soften their exchanges into confidential asides by the end of the evening. How the life of the party can show up in the kitchen.


I texted the Minstrel today, because I’ve been thinking about him a lot with all of the auditions and music and corner-talks. I think of him and how we met and when we dropped in deep, sitting in the hallway of the Howard Johnson hotel, hoping the buses would just leave without us. We had a corner person’s intimacy, from the beginning. And it shaped how I learned to recognise it in others.

I think of these moments and I taste apple cider, leaning against walls, confiding, allowing the edges and corners to bolster and shore us up.

Once you see it, it’s difficult to unsee it.


Every poem’s half-erased


Ampersand Bookstore and Café, Sydney

8 June 2016


T. –

As for writing, I probably started when I was in high school. Everybody was busy reading Harry Potter; I was busy writing pathetic and angsty poems in a small notebook, ha. It wasn’t anything serious.

I was more interested, too, in memorising them. (T., 6 November, 2013)

When I was in college, I took a poetry class with a teacher I didn’t totally love. (Which is rare of my poetry tutors/mentors. Sigh. Oh, Paul). He told us this anecdote: of sitting in a diner in PA, eating his dinner, overhearing a young man reciting an Edna St. Vincent Millay poem to the girl he was sharing a meal with.

Paul said: “I wasn’t sure whether he was showing off, or whether he really just loved poetry. But I thought: what a poem to win a girl.

I don’t think this was the first poem I memorised. It gets a bit cloudy going that far back in memory, but I’m sure there was a Shirley Hughes poem from Stories by Firelight (a collection of 6 poems and 3 stories) that I adored, and learned, and recited at school.

But “Love Is Not All” is different. It captivated me to think of this boy out of someone else’s story, reciting a poem late at night in the corner of a diner over a cold plate of fries. Even now, it makes me think of all of my late nights in college with my companions (LMM’s influence makes me want to say compatriots), crowded around some food source, lounging in leather booths at coffee shops and random spots on campus: the places where some idea or concept or author or theory was being picked apart, examined, held up to the light, tried on in new voices.

Love Is Not All (Sonnet XXX)
Edna St. Vincent Millay

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace.
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

I read it at an open mic night in Scotland, before I was comfortable in my own skin, before I had memorised my own poems (which, even still, I haven’t entirely). It was something I felt comfortable living in, offering up, sharing with others. It’s a heartbreaking sonnet, and a true sizing-up of love.

I recited it during a recent audition for a Shakespeare project, in which I wasn’t ultimately cast. It was the anchor I felt drawn back to. It sits in my bones.


Poetry is not a prize to be won. It’s a gift none of us really deserve. We don’t deserve to have it, we don’t deserve to write it, we don’t deserve to hear it because it is raw and honest and transparently better than us. All poetry surpasses the poet, and contributes to some larger Platonic sense of what-is-pointed-to.

Last night, I interrupted Andrew reading on his phone. “I’m reading a poem,” he said. “Don’t I get a kiss for that?”

He gets gratitude for that (he also got a kiss). He was reading Interrupted Meditation by Robert Hass, which I hadn’t even read yet.

Some of us whispered ‘art’,
he said. Some of us ‘truth.’ A debate with cut vocal chords.
You have to understand that, for all we knew, the Germans
would be there forever. And if not the Germans, the Russians.
Well, you don’t ‘have to’ understand anything, naturally.
No one knew which way to jump. What we had was language,
you see. Some said art, some said truth. Truth, of course,
was death.
What about being? I had asked him. Isn’t language responsible
to it, all of it, the texture of bread, the hairstyles
of the girls you knew in high school, shoelaces, sunsets,
the smell of tea? Ah, he said, you’ve been talking to Milosz.
To Czeslaw I say this: silence preceeds us. We are catching up.
For me there is no key, not even the sum total of our acts.
But you are a poet. You pretend to make poems. And?
Interrupted Meditation by Robert Hass


Before I moved from Edinburgh to Savannah, Andrew and I went on an international date.

We went out at the same time, then found each other online at the end of the day and told the other one all about what we did “together.”

M to A: “I took you to the park, and we drew sidewalk art, and you sat on the bench laughing while I taught a four-year-old named Mango how to ride a bike.”

A to M: “We went downtown to laugh at tourists, and went to the art shop, but you spilled a bag of papier mache mix just a little bit and then we had pizza at the best place and you watched me play video games with my aviators on… because everyone who wins high scores is allowed to wear aviators.”

I’ve been thinking about international dates again. Where would I take people in Sydney? Which friends would I go on a date with? And what would we do?

No matter what, I think it would be punctuated by sitting in a café with hot or cool drinks, in the sun or in a warm corner (or conversely, in a pub with a schooner or pint) – and reading. all. the. poetry.

“And, between these figuring lines,
white space, without which

who could read? Every poem’s
half erased. I’m not afraid;

it feels like home here,
held – like any line of text –

by the white margins
of a ghost’s embrace.”

– from Fog Suite by Mark Doty


Whatever Happens

Screen Shot 2016-06-07 at 12.32.14

Meredith, via sfp

7 June 2016
12:16 PM 
Sydney, Australia

T. —

I think traveling with someone is an exercise in loving and forgiving. (T., April 19th, 2016)

I met a man on a train once. I mean, I’ve met many people on many trains. But this was a different kind of story.

I met a man on a train once, and I wrote him a poem. I mean, I wrote a poem about him. I mean, a met a man on a train station platform once, in the middle of Scotland. I mean, it was the East Coast of Scotland, in the remote train station of a remote town, on the last train back to Edinburgh, on a cold March evening.

At the Leuchar’s train station, waiting for the late-night train back to Edinburgh, there is a man in an old tweed hat, possibly older than he is. He paces up the platform, has left his bike by the door to the waiting room, and stands with his toes on the overhand of the concrete above the track. He peers into the undiscernable; the darkness of fields and blackness of sky that looks like it yields nothing, could only yield nothing… the nothing that is left in silence when the day creeps closed. But he is standing there for a while, silent, frozen in stillness as though listening for something; a hum of something distant, some reason why he’s here. Minutes pass and he is alert, aware, and raises his hands to his eyes, cups the light away from his face; a pair of amateur binoculars made out of what we hold between our hands. And it is then I want to call to him, to offer, “What is it you have lost?”

But he moves a few moments later, goes back to his bench, by his bike, pulls out a book with some semblance of pages, cracks it open. And we board the train in different cabins, in different places. But I ride the journey backwards, facing where I have come from, what I have left, and I look over my shoulder every time the door clicks open.

Truth be told, a piece of me fell a little bit in love with him, out there, in the cold platform air, in the stillness of winter March. Tomorrow it will be Spring March, not today. Today I loved the way he uncuffed his trousers from his socks and rode his bike down the platform beside the approaching train. Tonight was winter March in thaw, with a tall, silent man whose green eyes measured both me and the silent darkness with a variant of wonder and care.

I met a man on a station platform once, and I sat on the train writing about him. And I took out a new piece of paper, copied it out from At the Leuchar’s train station, to … “What is it you have lost?”

And I walked down the train, and gave it to him. He told me later: I tried to keep reading the newspaper after you left, but all I kept thinking was: do these things really happen?

I mean, I had this moment once, where I was caught up in the story of a story of a moment that was happening. I could see it from the outside: a compelling story that actually happened. Do these things happen? All the time, and always.


T., what I’ve loved about reading your notes on travelling is your gesture toward observation. You are always watching, always noting, always sewing things together in your mind and with your ink and your fingers.

I listened to an interview with David Whyte this morning from On Being with Krista Tippett, while I was on the train. So much happens on trains, in those liminal spaces. He was talking about observation, but in the broader sense of letting the world filter in toward us:

I went back into poetry because I felt like scientific language wasn’t precise enough to describe the experiences that I had in Galapagos. Science, rightly, is always trying to remove the “I.” But I was really interested in the way that the “I” deepened the more you paid attention.

And in Galapagos, I began to realize that, because I was in deeply attentive states, hour after hour watching animals and birds and landscapes — and that’s all I did for almost two years — I began to realize that my identity depended not upon any beliefs I had, inherited beliefs or manufactured beliefs, but my identity actually depended on how much attention I was paying to things that were other than myself. And that as you deepen this intentionality and this attention, you started to broaden and deepen your own sense of presence. And I began to realize that the only place where things were actually real was at this frontier between what you think is you and what you think is not you. That whatever you desire of the world will not come to pass exactly as you will like it.

But the other mercy is that whatever the world desires of you will also not come to pass. And what actually occurs is this meeting, this frontier. But it’s astonishing how much time human beings spend away from that frontier, abstracting themselves out of their bodies, out of their direct experience, and out of a deeper, broader, and wider possible future that’s waiting for them if they hold the conversation at that frontier level.

Half of what’s about to occur is unknown, both inside you and outside you. John O’Donohue, a mutual friend of both of us, used to say that one of the necessary tasks is this radical letting alone of yourself in the world. Letting the world speak in its own voice and letting this deeper sense of yourself speak out.

Whatever occurs is this meeting, this frontier.


This is a story I’ve told and retold. It has become shaped by time and memory. It is reshaped by how I tell it from where I’m standing. I’ve even fictionalised it, though the fiction hasn’t gotten very far from the truth:

It is a Sunday, and obviously March. The world is strung between seasons, hanging in a crevice of winter before turning the corner on spring. We are near the solstice, but evenings this time of year are always cold, regardless.

There are few other patrons at the Leucher’s train station tonight: she is inside: it’s just her, and a one-man queue waiting to buy a ticket. The clerk is engrossed in a magazine, and the traveler is too polite to interrupt, standing a respectable distance from the ticket window. Two other silhouettes gather by a vending machine on the platform. He is, at this moment, riding his bike across the disabled ramp between the platforms, but M hasn’t seen him yet, so let’s ignore the sound of his tires scattering gravel. For now, he does not exist.

She sits on the hard, wooden benches of the Leuchar’s train station. They are obviously repurposed church pews, she thinks. It’s not the size or shape that gives them away, but the unforgiving pressure of the wood. Her back is not meant for this rigidity, so she stands and stoops to gather her bags around her like small children who may be tempted astray.

She passes the patron, still ticketless, and gropes her way out of the waiting room. The platform is not very large, but the night’s darkness is advancing at the edges. She steps towards the tracks, looking down them towards home, to where they are swallowed and disappear fifty feet away. She is accustoming herself to the twilight when his bike approaches behind her.

Turning to face the whir of wheels, she is afraid that he will run her over, even though she is nowhere near to being in the path of his trajectory. Mostly, her reaction is from surprise and slight annoyance at a man actively riding a bicycle down a train platform. This would never be allowed in the crowded London stations, but she reminds herself of the deserted Leucher’s station and tries to avoid calling out can’t you get off and walk it?! in admonishment. He is wearing a dark jacket and tweed hat. Despite being quite tall, she assumes he is old and therefore immune to corrections.

He drifts closer and she finds that she is incorrect. He is young, and quite handsome. Amused with her surprise, he winks. She is now even further taken aback.


Once, I literally ran into him in the middle of the park. I was sitting on a bench, and I look up, and there he is in the middle of a conversation with someone. And he sees me and does a double-take.

A little later, I turn to my right, and there he is sitting on the bench next to me.

He’s going on a bike trip with his girlfriend. He said he wonders how long it will go; it might be cut short if they’re not getting along. And he thinks it may not be what they need right now because they’re already going through a rough patch.

I hear you. But listen, travel brings attention to all the difficult fissures in a relationship that familiarity can gloss over. So maybe, even if it’s bad, this will end up being a good thing.

Either way, I think it’s exactly what you need. Because travelling with someone is an exercise in love and forgiveness.


There is so much more to the story. There always is. Fragmentary episodes, small connectors, doppelgangers, and actually passing each other on the street. Marriages. Drifting contexts. The threads get looser.

I go back to riding trains, but I don’t write letters to people on the platforms. I write them in my head. And then the moment passes, and the story is all that’s left.


Galway Kinnell

Whatever happens. Whatever
“what is” is is what
I want. Only that. But that.



Seeing and Retelling

New art at HoliCOW, Cebu

New art at HoliCOW, Cebu

2 May 2016
11:50 PM
Cebu, Philippines


Hopped on a plane again, and now I am here in Cebu. It’s a one-and-a-half-hour flight from Manila, and another place which has charmed me ever since I visited it for the first time last year. K. and M. live here, too. We all went to the same university together.

The first thing I did after checking in at the hotel was to get a cab that would take me to HoliCOW. A portmanteau for Holistic Coalition of the Willing, it is a group of furniture designers concerned with sustainability and innovation. Their art gallery/pop-up furniture store is one of my favourite spaces to date. K., my darling friend, is one of the founders. I was so excited to see new art; I just felt so warm inside. It’s about discovery, yes, but also that lovely feeling you have when you see creativity at work. There’s so much talent here in Cebu, and I guess you won’t be surprised when I tell you that I have thought about moving here, too. I wanted to be surrounded by this kind of energy; it makes your blood sing.

I told them all about my trip to Hanoi, but we haven’t even begun to scratch the surface. Then there’s the weaving of our stories and ideas, which somehow always end up about poetry and life and furniture design and art and the universe—you know how it is. K. is a poet, too, and M. is a graphic designer/illustrator. We were part of the same literary organisation back in college, that’s how we came to know one another. How fantastic that I am able to hold on to this friendship, after nearly destroying and/or abandoning everything else? I feel extremely lucky.

I brought a few books with me on this trip. It’s alright, I’m laughing along with you—fat chance of me being able to read them all, right? But it’s what we do! Ha.

One of them I’m rereading, which is Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s North to the Orient. (I think I’m on a travel-book-kind of bent for the next few months.) She talks about the act of writing about our lives, and it resonates so much with me at the moment:

There is, of course, always the personal satisfaction of writing down one’s own experiences so they may be saved, caught and pinned under glass, hoarded against the winter of forgetfulness. Time has been cheated a little, at least in one’s own life, and a personal, trivial immortality of an old self assured. And there is another personal satisfaction: that of the people who like to recount their adventures, the diary-keepers, the story-tellers, the letter-writers, a strange race of people who feel half cheated of an experience unless it is retold. It does not really exist until it is put into words. As though a little doubting or dull, they could not see it until it is repeated. For, paradoxically enough, the more unreal an experience becomes—translated from real action into unreal words, dead symbols for life itself—the more vivid it grows. Not only does it seem more vivid, but its essential core becomes clearer. One says excitedly to an audience, “Do you see—I can’t tell you how strange it was—we all of us felt…” although actually, at the time of the incident, one was not conscious of such feeling, and only become so in the retelling. It is an inexplicable as looking all afternoon at a gray stone on a beach, and not realizing, until one tries to put it on canvas, that is in reality bright blue.

And perhaps that is how it is with me—with us, and why we do this. I myself had been thinking these past two weeks: I feel split somehow. Not splintered, but more like I have strayed away from the center one too many times, in separate directions. Just thinking and feeling. Moving to keep things whole, says Mark Strand. But also writing to piece it all back together.


Slow to Process

27 April 2016
12:49 AM
Manila, Philippines


I got back last Friday but it seems like I’m in a trance ever since. There’s so much that happened in that week in Hanoi that it’s taking me some time to unpack everything. And here I am, asking again—how do you do it? I’m so slow to process. It feels like I’m never going to recover, and I’m not sure I want to.

The different parts of myself demand different kinds of unpacking, too. There’s the self that processes things through images and moments and poetry, thus my poetry journal, which remains incomplete and late as well. There’s the self that longs to tell you stories, which is what this place is for. There’s the self that wants to relive the days and revel through the photographs I’ve taken, the self that wants to share even just a fraction of the experience to friends and family, to spread that wonder and awe. That self is what I allow to upload photos on social media. (And the other self that observes this activity and has a separate commentary on how we enjoy things is another creature that I’ll have to entertain some other time.) There’s another self that longs to dissect the whole trip as an introvert and a discoverer at the same time, that I’ve toyed with the idea of creating another blog just to give in to that urge. All of this, and I arrive at the same question you had: what am I doing this for?

I smiled when I read about your desire to have more than one brain and two eyes. Yes please. And perhaps more than a set of limbs! Ah, to be able to halve our selves, and then halve these halves once more, so that pieces of our soul can scatter away to do everything all at once. Then, at the end of the day, for all of them to make a journey back home and return to one piece, and put together everything while we’re sleeping.

I would like to think, M., that it is something that we are destined to carry—to not just see things, but observe them. To contemplate constantly, to feel things deeply, and without remorse. It is more a gift than a burden, although the latter happens when we have nowhere to put all these thoughts down. I think this space we have carved for ourselves can be a safe place to leave everything that’s in our heads and hearts. Even if just temporarily. Or to exorcise a sentiment that has dogged us for so long that it needs to be spoken about, then filed away for good.


P.S. I think about death more often than I should. One of these days I’ll tell you about it.

P.P.S. Or: how do you feel about having a writing map again? We can start in June maybe.

P.P.P.S. I’ve been following your posts about Brooklyn actually. I have a draft of another letter in response that I wrote earlier but haven’t had a chance to finish yet. Will you go ahead with the blog series about books? Will it be a new blog? Apart from a travel blog, I also wanted a place where I can write about books I’ve read and films I’ve watched, which I kind of already started but has remained stagnant for a few years now. Ugh! Why can’t we have more time to do these things which fire up our soul instead of work?

P.P.P.P.S. Please bear with me as I backdate my letters to you from Hanoi. Next week I’ll be on a plane again, but will just be traveling within the country.

If I die too soon


Notes from “From the Heart” a collection from Women of Letters

26 April 2016

T. —

I’m being productive. Things are getting done. I’m currently going through all of my photos and rooting out the ones I need, the duplicates I can delete, the notes I can jot down, the photos that are unnecessary. I’ve taken a lot of photos of books. Covers of books: to read, to read, to remember to read. Pages of books: this poem. This quote. This photograph. This godly image.

So, today I’ve been a scribe. It’s one of my favourite jobs. Self-appointed, of course. Usually I take a book with post-it flags, flay it open with my bamboo book holder, and discern its inner-most parts. But sometimes I don’t have the luxury of time on my side. Some books need to go back to the library too soon. Some books are actually gifts — like this one. This was a Christmas gift for my aunt in California, and I read it on the plane out to visit her. I didn’t have time to notate the things I wanted to keep. So, snap- snap – click of the shutter, and these quotes end in a stockroom of an iPhoto folder until I remember to transcribe them.

Today, I thought, for the very first time: what am I doing this for? I enjoy keeping the parts of books that made me laugh, that made me think, or made me question. But I don’t often refer back to them. Only if someone I know is reading a book I’ve read, something I have notes on. And today, I thought: if I died, would any of this matter?

I don’t often think about death. That’s a lie I just told you to make you feel better. I think about it frequently, the way a philosopher turns a familiar problem around and around to look at it from new angles. My friend B is moving to Melbourne; he has a prospective new roommate who throws “Death Dinner Parties.” She invites all of her friends around to talk about Death.

I kind of love that. I want to go to one.


I’ve been stockpiling Brain Picking book recommendations to read. In light of what we’re talking about today, I really want to read this one:


Cry, Heart, But Never Break. Maria Popova describes it thus:

Now comes a fine addition to the most intelligent and imaginative children’s books about making sense of death — the crowning jewel of them all, even, and not only because it bears what might be the most beautiful children’s book title ever conceived: Cry, Heart, But Never Break (public library) by beloved Danish children’s book author Glenn Ringtved and illustrator Charlotte Pardi, translated into English by Robert Moulthrop.

Although Ringtved is celebrated for his humorous and mischievous stories, this contemplative tale sprang from the depths of his own experience — when his mother was dying and he struggled to explain what was happening to his young children, she offered some words of comfort: “Cry, Heart, but never break.” It was the grandmother’s way of assuring the children that the profound sadness of loss is to be allowed rather than resisted, then folded into the wholeness of life, which continues to unfold. — Brain Pickings.


I’ve been thinking about starting a blog series to document my attempt to read the whole way through my 1000+ to-read bookshelf on Goodreads. Some questions I have for myself: am I being fair to the books I live with, the ones sitting on my shelves that are asking for attention? Why do I only have two eyes and one brain? Why can’t I have four eyes and as many brains? If I die too soon, will this have been a life well-read? If I take notes and no one ever reads them, are they still a worthy cause?

The answer is: yes, yes, always yes.

Today I wrote postcards instead of buying new books. I mean, I bought new books, too. But they were for writing workshops. So, employment. I didn’t buy new books for myself today. I wrote instead. Just to clarify.


Always, this wanting


April 2016. Sydney Harbour: Rose Bay –> Circular Quay

22 April 2016
12:14 PM
Sydney, Australia


I have so much I want to say. Too much. I’ve been trying to write to you for ages. Email drafts. Bits of letters everywhere. I’m sorry I missed your birthday. I saw it coming, I kept writing. It passed. I tore up letters, misplaced others. The email drafts grow longer and longer. I watch time passing. It passes.

But you’re here. You found me again, and you have stories to share. And so do I, I suppose. Except the only way I can start to unpack those stories right now are holding them up against your words. Can I borrow some of yours for a while? To jumpstart my own?


What are your anchors now, I wonder. Has living in another country finally become another piece of your life falling into place, or is it still something you’re trying to figure out?

I’ve been asking myself the exact same thing. I went to go see Brooklyn with my friend G., and sat scribbling in my book the whole time. I’m not Irish. I haven’t moved to Brooklyn. I don’t have the same struggles as an immigrant unused to certain cultures, or being someone unable to go home again. I’m too able to go home again. And yet, I’ve been thinking: doesn’t the idea of being an ex-pat, an immigrant, require you to have a home you’ve departed from? I think I have many homes, and none, simultaneously. And I’m always leaving them.

We walked down the street last week and I said to A: “We fucking live here. Sometimes I forget to be amazed that we live at the bottom of the world, half a globe away from anything we’ve known.” Sometimes it gets too normal. I tell people we haven’t lived here long, but last night someone asked me when we arrived. “A year ago,” I said. He said, “Ah, so it’s not an entirely recent move then.”

I wanted to say: It is. It’s so recent. I don’t know anything about how to live here. There are seeds of familiarity and normality and everydayness, but they crop up where I don’t want them to be. And they don’t take root where I need them. And a year is never long enough to get over missing what we left. I wasn’t here for that entire year. Not really here. Sometimes I still don’t think I am.

I just nodded, “Yes, I guess you’re right.”

I don’t know whether anything is really falling into place right now. And at the same time, a lot of things are coming together. It’s like finding the right puzzle pieces, but not going so far as to connect them to each other.


We’ve been mostly quiet, too, and I am hoping, with all my heart, that your silence means you are having the time of your life, that you are outside and meeting the world.

Most of the time, my silence is a failure of finding the right words to say. I know this should make me more empathetic towards the other people in my life who are showing up like this, in silence. It’s not. Sometimes I think it’s making me less patient. If I’m struggling with this, I damn well want to see other people struggling with it too.


April 10th, a year ago. Still the same silence. Is it enough?


I have no idea how you do this—constantly pack your bags and decide what to take with you and what to leave behind.

How do I do this? Terribly. So ineffectively. We moved 25 boxes to Australia. Half of that stuff, we shouldn’t have paid to bring with us. It would have been cheaper to throw it out of the window, not pay to ship it, and just buy new things down under.

I asked A. what percentage of my books he thinks I’ve read. He answered with a question: “20%?” The truth is: I don’t know, but I want to count them. I want to make graphs with statistics, and I want to hold myself accountable. I want to use the things I have and give away the things I don’t use.

Always, this wanting. Looking around at the things surrounding me, and the wanting to purge. To let it all go. And then I start to sort, I start to hold these things in my hands again, and I’m reminded: I love them.

If I love them, why am I ignoring them? This question poses itself a lot these days. And not just in reference to me.


Off to another adventure it seems. Here’s to our attempts at making our world bigger.

I went back to Scotland in January because my grandfather died. The funeral was down south, in a village church outside of Bath in the town where he lived. But I wanted to get back to Scotland on that trip, and I had to make it by January 5th, which would have been his birthday. He hadn’t been back to Scotland in years, and I know it broke his heart. He talked about it a lot when we spoke on the phone in the last few months. He wrote about it after the Scottish referendum (in which I voted Yes, for him, and for myself):

“What I fear now is that, unless my health improves, I won’t see  and feel Scotland again. That thought makes me quite sad.

I just wanted to share that with you.”

I have a lot of emails from him in my inbox. I’ve wanted to read through them since he died. I haven’t been able to. It’s a place I’m having a hard time meeting myself.

When I went back to Scotland, I met up with a lot of friends. I obviously hadn’t seen any of them since we moved to Sydney. It was a complex week: to come to back in the middle of a Scottish winter. To allow the rain and desolate scenery to be a backdrop for my grief. To know my grief was not just for Granddad, but for all the people I’ve spent the better part of a year missing. To come back to all of them, and in my grief, to not be able to hold all of the feelings properly. To withdraw. To try to recenter. To try to make sense of what the fuck is holding my life together, when everything feels like it’s spinning apart.

I’ve had a certain journey with R. since I left. It’s been difficult for both of us, I think, for many distinct reasons. I don’t know why I thought coming back would make it better, but I was disappointed when it seemed to make it worse.

The day before I left Edinburgh, I went back to sing at St. Giles. R. asked me whether it was strange to be back in Scotland. I thought about saying, “No, I’ve missed it so much, it feels like coming back and regrowing my whole skeleton.” Which would have been true. But there are other things that are equally true, so I said: “Yes. It feels strange.”

He said, “I feel like your world is smaller than mine.” At face value, I almost took it like an insult, and I think he knew that. He added, “What I mean is: you know people all over the world, and you are used to travel, and you live in different places, and all of those connections shrink your world so that it’s easier to cross it. To bridge the distance. My world feels so vast. And really far away.”

I have been feeling so many things about this small and vast world. Like a microscope oscillating in and out of focus.

But I really understood what he meant. I think you’re making your world smaller. In a very good way. Strengthening the muscle tissue that bridges the distance.


More soon.


Digging A Path to Follow

Along Lý Quốc Sư Street

Along Lý Quốc Sư Street

18 April 2016
2:02 AM
Hanoi, Vietnam


I thought it was three in the morning, but I forget that Hanoi is one hour behind Manila. It is 19 degrees celsius and raining outside, quite a novelty. I keep wondering how hot it is back home, my thoughts returning to it again and again. Home, not the weather, I mean. Every new city I’ve been to, I seem to have Manila in my mind. Is that love or exasperation, I don’t really know right now.

Today my friend S. and I just walked and walked and walked. It’s all quite lovely, the charm of Old Quarters. You’re here and not here at the same time. And it’s not just the architecture where the old meets the new, where the lives of people go on ordinarily as they should amidst construction of more modern cafés and banks—it’s also about your place in the middle of all this. How you carve out space for yourself in an already busy street, just standing at a corner trying to take it all in.

S. and I talked about the seemingly non-identity of tourists. There’s that element of being able to do what you want to do, and who cares about all the rest. On the surface, you think you’re doing it because why not, and also, you’re not going to be meeting these people again. But upon further examination, I think it’s really this—every one of us here is a stranger. I am not a Tourist, I am a tourist. I am much a tourist as the next one, and he or she the same. I could be the guy lugging around a big hiking backpack. I could be the family being driven around in a bicycle cart. I could be the tall woman in a blue-striped dress holding a map, wondering where to next. I could be the old man down by Hoàn Kiếm Lake, smoking and sitting with his dog. And they could all be me. We are all existing and living in this place and nobody here would know us.

Emily Dickinson is suddenly in my head: I’m Nobody! Who are you? The non-identity comes first before the question, and in this moment, the question doesn’t really matter. I can do anything because I have lost who I am, if only temporarily. And this loss is such a gift.


Do not hurry; do not rest.

Two in the morning, passing through Cần Thơ Bridge in Hanoi, Vietnam

Two in the morning, passing through Cần Thơ Bridge in Hanoi, Vietnam

17 April 2016
2:45 AM
Hanoi, Vietnam


I brought Annie Dillard’s The Writing Life here in Hanoi. It was your birthday gift to me years ago. I packed it with my bags as some sort of talisman almost. I don’t really know what I was hoping to happen. I’m sure my decision was motivated by an unnamed desire.

Chapter one begins with an epigraph from Goethe: “Do not hurry; do not rest.” It speaks so much of how my trip has been so far, and I only landed about an hour and forty-five minutes ago.

My flight was delayed because of a previous flight. It was the kind of waiting that rips me apart after the day I’ve had (long story), but as always I took it as an opportunity to observe and think and write in my head. I would like to think that you do this, too—use the world as your canvas, and take in as much as you can. Of course there’s a part of me that longs to run away from all the unknown variables—everyone I don’t know who is within the vicinity of my personal space is a variable—but sitting for hours with all these stories around me, who am I to say no?

I’m exhausted though, and long for sleep. Another letter tomorrow. For now, some errant thoughts I scribbled in my journal:

1:00 AM thereabouts. Noi Bai Airport.

Marveled at the cleanliness and newness of being in another country again. Woman flustered, dropping booking ticket, spilling her bag. Thought, that’s me, in another lifetime. Perhaps any arbitrary turning along the way. Two teenage boys escorted all the way through everything since Manila. The privilege of being white, I mused. It only took me thirty years to get here. Guy stamping passports looks disgruntled. Probably by the fact that we’re about thirty minutes late. Asking why we’re here. Pleasure. Tourist. The longer and farther away from home I am, the more I am discovering and getting to know my body and who I am as a citizen and person. Got through. Luggage showed up right away for once. Airport transfer. All done without saying a word to each other. And here I thought the absence of language would be a disaster. But the body is a language, too.

Almost an hour to the hotel. The city is so quiet and beautiful like this. We passed by the Cần Thơ Bridge. Spectacular. The Mekong River beneath us. What have I done to be here, right now? Everything I can, I suppose. Lights everywhere. Bathing our faces before the distance returns us to the shadows.