Is it October already...

I was scolded by a dear friend recently. I had so wanted to leave, and now that I have left, why am I wasting time, getingt bothered by what's going on miles and mile away, when Melbourne is right at my doorstep? And he's right. Why not use the time to walk the parks in the morning, read in the cafes... and ... write my thesis? There're only 18 months left. There should only be me, my thesis, the occasional indulgence of Melbourne. Isn't that what I've been wishing for - doing what I'm doing and being where I am?

I haven't been reading a lot of novels of late, initially I was quite up to speed with my writing, then I got distracted (by you know what) and lost that momentum. For a good month or so I didn't touch a novel. And then Coetzee's new novel came out and I bought a copy, and I thought, 'Gosh, how I miss reading novels.' Coetzee is brilliant. So very brilliant. There's a Melburnian connection too - I first read him when I was here a few years ago. Read his Elizabeth Costello, and then borrowed his Youth from the library. Didn't like him at first, found him dreary and his constant stream of rhetorical questions irritating. Of course that was before my literary turn. . . And when that turn occurred, Coetzee appeared to me a great writer, exquisitely so, remarkable, given that his style is so understated, pared down, and yet, each word, cadence, sentence strikes right into your heart. You see his words there on the page but they seem to hover beyond the page too, in a luminous kind of way. Lambent, I think is the better word. I suppose great writing is transcendent that way. Anyhow, his novel-memoir Summertime is really good, not just the writing but also how he subverts genre and plays with structure and form. Any publication by Coetzee is really quite an occasion in itself.

Then, a few months ago, I chanced upon an article written by the Australian cartoonist Michael Leunig. He was writing about the bush fires that had just ravaged country Victoria, and somehow that article - the writing - struck me. Light, poised, and very touching. But there was something else and I didn't know what exactly was it. I sent some of his articles to a friend, who after one look, said, 'I like how he reaches into the sublime.' And that was what it was - he would talk about his childhood, write about nature and the birds and mornings, and then his words would rise ever so often, so effortlessly towards the sublime. He's like a modern-day Blake who writes in prose. I now look forward to his fortnightly column, and I just bought his collected essays. All very, very, good. Here's one of my favourite articles of his: Gently Downstream.

I remember spending an entire summer here alone that few years ago. Three months of hot days and lazy afternoons, it was a book and a different cafe everyday. I had just bought Faye Wong's album then, and simply couldn't stop listening to it, so much that the songs in that album now never fail to remind me of those days, of Melbourne. I was listening to it earlier on the way to the gym, and the familiar streets, the sunny weather, the music, just brought me back to that few years ago. Those were really quite happy days.

I didn't plan on writing so much, just wanted to talk about novels, and what my dear friend said. I guess it's a timely scolding. It's October already. I have to buck up. There's only gonna be me, my thesis, and the occasional indulgence of Melbourne. I've decided to not do any work on Sunday. So tomorrow I'm gonna wake up early and head to the Botanic Gardens, read in the cafes, visit the galleries, bookshops, generally wander about the city.

Gosh this is starting to sound like a confessional, or one of those shuddery self-help books (that don't help anyone at all). But there've been some bad times, times I felt alone, afraid, doubtful, felt like packing my backs and going back to Sydney, or even Singapore (the horror). But I'll always remind myself of this one particular afternoon, where I had just bought myself a takeaway latte and was walking home and was feeling miserable and having these thoughts of giving up and going home when I took my first sip of that latte, and, gosh, what a revelation that sip was! The latte was absolutely divine! And I thought, *this* is why I'll never leave this place.