“How you going?”

After living for the past decade in Portland, Oregon, I’ve moved with my husband Jeffrey to Sydney, Australia just about four months ago. I have lived abroad before — with my family in Beijing, China where I went through fifth & sixth grades at an international school, and then I spent about a year as a college student in Paris, France — but never before as a couple and not as a working adult. Now I’m an “expat”. I came here to take a dream job, and fortunately the professional side of life is not disappointing. My husband, who just celebrated his double-nickel birthday, has never lived anywhere but Portland, Oregon, though, and he’s going through significant culture shock.

Part of that shocking culture, from my perspective, is simply that of a big city: Australia is intensely urban, and Sydney holds about 4.2 million people within a 15km radius. Portland, by contrast, is a small city — more of a large town really, with few tall buildings and mostly residential neighborhoods even within its urban growth boundary. Sydney is dense and dusty, and in our rush to be settled we picked an apartment on a cross-town thoroughfare that’s never quiet, always whirling. The lace balcony overlooking the street casts beautiful shadows on our tall, moulded ceilings, but the light constantly shifts as cars zoom past below and refract the sunlight.

Another aspect of culture that’s come into focus for me is encapsulated in the most common of greeting idioms here in Australia: “How you going?” In America, the equivalent is: “How you doing?” (In all informal settings, people drop the “are”. )

In this rather subtle linguistic difference lies a world of meaning. The American asks: “How you doing?” and thereby expresses entrenched values regarding what you are achieving, what you are making, what you are doing. The Australian asks: “How you going?” and thereby looks to understand your state in terms of how you are flowing, how life is treating is you, how you’re getting along in the way of things. One is subject — one is object.

The typical American is baked hard in Puritanical clay, in the capitalistic expectation of production. We’re ever-validated in our making and striving and attempting. The native Australian is baked hard in sandy soils, with a fatalistic expectation of destiny received. Both cultures share a love of gambling, but the American proto gambling is the game of poker – the player winning by wits and hard face and cold math, while the Australian proto gambling is the horse race – the bettor feeling it by odds and gut and warm sense of a name.

I’m presently reading “Cloudstreet” by seminal Australian novelist Tim Winton, whose entire oeuvre J. is plowing his way through. Winton is deeply cavalier with his characters, sending the “shifty shadow” over their lives, shunting them from health to sickness and hope to hopelessness in the blink of a paragraph. I can barely breath in the speed at which fortunes move under the shuck and jive of backcountry pathois.

Neither approach towards life is fundamentally right; I hold no judgment either way. The American psyche is bound up in this striving, with massive parts of our people having lost their way in the world as the means of production shifts ever further from labor to intellect. The Australian psyche’s weaknesses under this laissez-faire mindset are less clear to me, but perhaps people are feeling adrift, eroding under the endless beating of waves on its dry, ancient shores.

I’ll just stay here awhile, and watch the varied scenes unfold.

Words of wisdom

Thus should you look upon this changing world:

All component things are impermanent. 

All component things are subject to dissolution.

See all of this world 

As a star at dawn, a bubble in a stream,

A flash of lightning in a summer cloud,

A flickering lamp, a phantom and a dream.





Spring Poem

Today, spring is hot and thick,
felt on the fingertips like oil
slick between your pads —
And promise blows through trees
drunk on new leaves and green,
green growth that almost glows—

We forget what year it is
and how old our bodies are,
remembering every other spring,
a bounty of birth potential
glimpsed in fluffy bunnies, fuzzy chicks
making us want to gambol & skip…

Flying down the freeway again,
the wind is no less harsh
but my mein is that much more mellow
My face heats and I am awash
in hope for a future more bright.



– April 24, 2013

Best run from my first autocross in a year

I’m back to autocrossing this year! The big development bringing me back is teaching Alexander, who is Jeffrey’s 15 1/3 year old, about this easy-to-access, affordable, and super-fun form of performance driving.

This is my sixth run of the day, my best by about a half second, although my standings among all competitors that day was nothing but mid-pack. (Sorry, that metallic clicking sound is a dangly thing bonking against on the rear view mirror.) We’re co-driving our daily-driver, a 2002 BMW 330i that’s bone stock premium package & equipped with new Continental ExtremeContact DW tires. For shits ‘n’ giggles, you can view Alexander’s face during his very first run here on Vimeo: http://vimeo.com/61073322

Voice of Trees (a poetic rebuttal)

Voice of Trees


The trees, I do not think,
they would not speak so prosaically
of boredom and visitations.
No, they stand serene and
always connected to the other
tree and bird and flower and
even a very few people, lucky
ones who feel their quiet power.
If trees could speak and show
their being to those of us
rushing around on human timescales,
it would sound like poetry,
like musical scales, like whale song,
like motes of dust in sunbeams,
like butterfly kisses on your brow,
like laughter of surf on sand,
like beads clicking in prayer,
like a chorus of frogs in a pond,
like the chimes of a fairy brigade,
and you would not even know,
much less remember, you heard it so.



– Feb 22, 2013
– A poetic rebuttal to one of Frog Design’s “8 Brilliant Concepts For The Future Of Wearable Tech”