New York is desire.

And it hurts. It's all beauty and brazen savoir-faire; two young men kissing, or laughing, or talking without stammering; neither one looking in my direction.

Oh, I exaggerate. But it really has been a joyous horror to be back in the city. Once I was a denizen; now I'm a mere tourist, yet I can almost recognise each face in the street - the twisty-haired film students, the gangstas in sports coats, the mothers and nannies and daddies pushing strollers holding babies of another race. I step onto campus, and the kids don't know me; there's no-one in the middle of Low Plaza who waves to me until I wave back. It's like being transported to a parallel universe where you never happened.

My old lovers say it's good to see me and then they have no time to see me.

I go away and New York keeps on running. There is no Yish-shaped hole left when I disappeared. I missed New York but New York did not miss me. Not much, leastways.

I exaggerate. I spent some good times with some lovers and would-be-lovers. We observed 4-20 and ate Thai food and did organic shopping and in some cases fucked. We slept together and apart and in the same bed but in different universes. Victor demonstrated his mastery of the sai (spinning Japanese daggers) and told me how mad he remains at his parents for making him study martial arts. Johnny related how his family's O-negative blood-type on a shoe helped to convict his sister's murderer, and that he may or may not have slept with Jake Gyllenhall. Chuck bought me sticky rice flavoured with crushed cherry blossoms and wrapped in salty lotus leaves. Adam housed me for four days. Ryder stood me up.

The problem is, I realise that in the heat of the moment I still am the desperate, needy yet uncommitted overgrown adolescent that I was ten years ago. I mope in the 4 am subways and send people text messages composed largely of primal screams. Of course, I'm collected and mature when I'm sitting in front of the monitor, updating my blog, but when I leave the computer room despair can still hit me out of left field.

Jason pointed out to me three years ago that I had never had a lover who returned my love. The statement remains true today.

New York is clubs in Greenwich Village and orgies in Brooklyn and happiness ever after at a City Hall civil disobedience action and a Chelsea loft. It's the expanse of the piers and the power of the museums and the glow of the distant lamps in the darkness of the subway.

Unattainable. Which is why everyone's so amazed that I'm back with two published books and a sold-out play within two years of graduation. I suppose I knew it was a rather prodigious accomplishment in Singapore, but I was pretty surprised that even here my friends and profs can't quite believe it; it's the kind of product you're supposed to yield seven years after commencement and an MFA and a back-room job in a publishing company.

Of course, in America it's an uphill struggle to find a publisher who'll view your work as commercial enough for the press or a theatre company that's game enough to ride with a novice. In Singapore we're pretty desperate for new writers, and we've got passionate folks like Enoch and Keng Sen and Loretta and Ekachai who're willing to work from the ground up. Such blessings.

Much better to be home, where you're recognised and relevant and you're more than a drop in the ocean. Why live where everyone mispronounces your name and dumps you in a huge three hundred year-old melting pot controlled by morally bankrupt politicians who betray their ideology with every breath that escapes their recta?

The city of desire beats you up, like the inside of an egg or a sheet of copper.

It changes you. You burn. You suffer. You grow.

P.S. I've given away or sold all the books I brought, which is something. Photos forthcoming.