Cirrus@Austlit

'Noise is the sticky buzz to which most images of my childhood cling. I'll walk past a pair of gossiping Viet aunties, and suddenly I'm in the kitchen with my Ma Hai and mum. They're arguing over the latest family drama-faces contorted in melodramatic animation like in a telenovela. I stand quietly in the kitchen, placing each hand-wrapped spring roll into hot spitting oil which puckers its skin before removing it once the colour is golden brown. Or I'll hear the heartfelt wail of one of Khanh Ly's ballads and feel the cool night breeze of the tropics dry the sweat on the backs of my knees. The night of my cousin's wedding, my family rented a karaoke machine, sitting it out the front of their house with the footpath as a makeshift stage. Relatives who fancied themselves crooners or divas stepped up to the microphone and had their drunken moment. I laid wide awake and sweaty in my bed upstairs, their warbled voices drifting skywards with the breeze.' (Introduction)