Apart from the heart-wrenching beauty of Jeanette Winterson and low-maintenance, unconditional, long-term friendship, the best friend has also introduced me to Astor Piazzolla. I urge all of you to go listen. Suggested:
Volume - Loud
Lighting - Dim sienna orange
Company - None
Condiment - A good red-wine induced drunkenness
Prose - The sort you write when you're drunk, with a black felt-tip pen, in barely-readable cursive.
**********
Reading Murakami always gives me strange dreams.
2 nights ago I dreamt I was in a tiny Japanese flat [Scene 1], kneeling by a square cherrywood table, talking.
For once we talked away from the cigarette smoke and curious eyes,
Voices muted and clean.
I don't remember what we talked about,
But it must have been nice,
I woke up with an unusual fondness.
It could be the book, or my recent passionate hunt for the soundtrack to Lost in Translation.
Next thing I recall I was driving down what looked like Bridge Road (Richmond), but in New York [Scene 2],
Speeding down the centre fairway, tyres sliding off the tram tracks.
I came to a sudden stop outside a jewellery shop.
Skipping inside, I spot the best friend and yell out 'Surprise! I'm in New York for 2 weeks!'.
We go shopping in SoHo [Scene 3], with an ex-SCGS classmate, turning corner after corner, where all the shops look the same, where I once sighed at the thought of living in one of the apartments.
I was manic with happiness.

I sense it's all saying something.
Need
to
get
off
the
arse
and
do
something
about
what
I
Want.

I felt the need to catch up on music and book shopping.
Today's lucky catches:

A Day in New York - Morelenbaum2/Sakamoto (I also recommend Casa)
Beauty - Ryuichi Sakamoto
The Soul of Tango - Astor Piazzolla (For years I've been looking for a copy of the soundtrack to Wong Kar Wai's Happy Together, of which is mostly Piazzolla)
Hero - Original Soundtrack
Elephant - The White Stripes (about bloody time I think)
Norwegian Wood - Murakami
Where I'm Calling From (The Selected Stories) - Raymond Carver
Great Apes - Will Self

I predict there'll be many nights in.

Fortune cookie for the new year said
"Confucious says: Your face is your fortune- have a good stiff drink."

What the hell???

I was tired last night. So tired in fact, that I fell asleep while watching a documentary about Elena Gala. Along with the TV, I switched off the control freak in me, and settled into bed. I hardly ever allow myself more than 8 hours of sleep. Of course the mobile rings the second I slip into a comfortable state of unconsciousness. Grunt, sigh, grunt, click. 30 seconds later I'm lying face up, then on my right, then left, up again. I can almost hear the minutes tiptoe past. I try to think about sheep, work, vacation, and what to wear to work the next day. And I'm filled with evil thoughts about the untimely caller. God damn it. More tossing, kicking at the quilt, plans to work overseas. I wake up this morning, still thinking evil thoughts. I snooze the alarm, steal someone else's 15 minutes - the very golden pulses stolen from me the night before. I brace myself for a busy day. One of linking cells to endless spreadsheets, snapping at the new girl, and looking forward to morning tea, then lunch, and idle mid-afternoon chats. I had agedashi tofu for lunch (I'm attempting a Eugenie-first: carb-free lunch). There were no bonito flakes in sight, and to make matters worse, the dish was garnished with capsicum, button mushrooms, and a starchy sauce (squirm now). I flogged half of it off to my vegetarian lunchmate, and had 2 cigarettes instead. We talked about plans and fulfilling hopes, about travelling, buying land, and making money. I am beginning to feel an urgent need to whip up a goal. Something short-term, something to look forward to, work towards, feel excited about, save money for, make come true. I need to get off my inertia-ed arse and make semi grownup plans. I need to find what I want for myself, and make it happen. I've never craved for much - because things always seemed to just fall into place. Or I somehow stumbled into the right spot. I need to feel passionate enough about something. Enough that it hurts if I can't have it. New York. It certainly felt right. Walking down Fifth Ave alone, in my pink Kid Robot T shirt and big earrings, I remember thinking that I hadn't been this happy (that Alex, was plenary happiness) in a long time. I am rarely happy when alone. Content maybe, but seldom skippy-lala happy. I don't care that I'll not be able to afford a car (I could probably afford the car, but not the parking fees, nor the patience). I could forsake the fortnightly shopping and live with a monthly H&M spree. Live away from home? That I'm not sure. I don't know how I did it when I first left Singapore for Melbourne. I was so unafraid, so sublimely ignorant. Having endured the lonliness, occasional helplessness, not to mention the dusty carpets, I find it hard to marshal enough courage to do it all over again. I know it's what I'll be thinking about in bed tonight.

When she was born
Times were changing.
There were Sundays at the beach-
Scooped balls of melon, hard boiled eggs,
Cartwheels in the sand.

What I'd give
To laugh like I did,
Wake up happy,
Twinkle in eye and heart,
With you, with you.

She must have been happy as a child.
She remembers laughing wildly.
She remembers that people always laughed with her.

Yoked together by time,
What you like to have happened and your memory of what did happen are no longer separable.

I would take that look on your face
And carry it with me
For years after.
I was so brave, unafraid, perhaps, for
I cried for days after.

She grew a personality as others earned inches.
She loathed running, adapted to independence
Wore no pink, hated garnet.
And she learnt to be resentful of injustice.

Does the ascending number in age nullify the intensity of plenary happiness?
Or perhaps, the parameters change-
Bliss becomes increasingly attached to strings of buts and only ifs;
Forget the unfledged Bambi exuberance.

Happy moments:
When 5 - leading the pack to steal freshly ripened chillies off the neighbour's plants
When 10 - marching with the pack, frangipanni in hair, to archery lessons in Club Med
When 15 - sushi lunches and cab rides with the best friend
When 18 - Christmas eve party. With boyfriend, good friends, cigarettes and beer.
When 24 - discovering Paddington market, empty beaches, cookie recipes.

Time intermittently erases only the unsavoury.
And in effect plays up what is left.

When she was born things changed.
There were no more drawings on the wall.

Alex, I hope this answers your question...

The perfect down and self-destructive moment:
-Roads- Portishead

The perfect 30+, skinny, ra-ra skirt, skipping, summer's day moment:
-this is...- Beaumont

The perfect Sunday driving moment:
-Sunday Morning- Aluminium Group

The perfect letter-writing moment:
-1996- Ryuichi Sakamoto

The perfect journal-writing moment:
-In the Mood for Love (The Soundtrack)

The perfect lonely night freeway driving moment:
-Asphalt World- Suede

The perfect GnT, cushions, and fine company moment:
-Fly me to the Moon- Julie London

The perfect 9.13am crisp winter moment:
-Intermezzo in A Major Op.118 (for piano)- Brahms

The perfect cooking, sangria, dinner-party preparation moment:
-Corcovado- Antonio Carlos Jobim (vocals by Astrud of course)

The perfect moping moment:
Cat Power (duh), although -Time after Time- covered by Everything But The Girl comes very close

The perfect dump-him moment:
-Let's Pretend- Cinerama

The perfect gutsy tell-your-boss-to-fuck-off moment:
-Like a Friend- Pulp

Cheap chardonnay is no good on work days.
A 3 hour-long Friday lunch later,
I'm bright red,
Incapable of working out margins on spreadsheets,
Reeking of cheap wine and cigarettes,
And thinking of my next holiday.

To the naked eye,
I must have a kick-ass job.
Sandwiched by glossy magazines, lollies, pretty underwear, and a boss who rocks up to work an hour late everyday.
Why bother looking elsewhere!

Today's top 10 I-wants:

(1) Be at the beach, napping
(2) Ice kachang
(3) Water
(4) Plans for the weekend
(5) Real summer, not some half-fucked windy & overcast day
(6) More wine
(7) Pink bathers
(8) Trip to the Maldives
(9) Japanese for dinner tonight - made only by Akira
(10) More Fridays

Recommended film feed : Lost in Translation
This is only my opinion - for what others think, click here.

Most films are forgettable - the distinction between good, bad and blah lies in how quickly I forget.
For me, The Professional, Betty Blue, Breaking the Waves, and 25th Hour lingered for a long time. You know, when scenes are replayed in the head, compunction and empathy hit the heart, and other possible (happier) endings pondered.
Lost in Translation was a little like Punch Drunk Love. It loiters, in a nice, muted way, quite pleasant. I rather liked the colours - fragile and makeupey for the jejune female protagonist, and mostly black for the experienced, established male. Apart from neon signs that line Tokyo's streets and the unfortunate orange camouflage t-shirt Bill Murray wears at one point, the film exudes comfortably inoffensive tones. It's a delicate experience, with a non-jarring balance between valuable laughs at Japanese sub-culture frivolities, and soothing ikebana; love and friendship; marriage - old and new.

I give: 3-and 3/4 gold nuggets

Not-so recommended film feed: The Spanish Apartment

A few unimaginative laughs, some sex, too long (122 minutes). Don't watch it - just go listen to a colleague's Europe travel tales.

I give: 2 gold nuggets

What I'd planned to be a girlie retreat turned out quite different.
Mum packed almost all the pantry's contents,
Second-IC matriarch packed her son along,
And I-
Well, I forgot the beer, camera, and ear plugs.

Day 1
We set off at 11am.
As we enter the South Gippsland Highway I realise that I've forgotten to take the camera. What a fucking idiot- because it was the one thing I was told to be responsible for.
Shit. And the beer. I could almost get by without cigarettes at the beach, but beer?
We arrive a little more than 2 hours later.
A slight no-child policy mishap later,
I'm at the beach, entertaining my 3-year old nephew for a good three hours.
Dinner:
After walking out of two fish-and-chips shops in utter disgust-
"It'll be at least an hour-and half wait for ONE fisherman's basket",
We settle on charcoal chicken and potato salad.

Day 2
We are awakened by hay-fever symptoms at 1.30am.
They all mutter 'Happy Birthday'.
We do the breakfast thing - in a nice place on the esplanade, complete with screaming children and typically country-slow service.
They decide to go to a wildlife park,
I decline.
I nap, then decide that the if-ey sun is good enough for me.
It must be my lucky day-
As I begin the 30 minute walk to the beach
They drive right past and so I get a ride (on condition that I take my nephew along).
My birthday:
I get to spend the afternoon with a three-year old,
Building sand castles, swatting off flies, chasing the waves, and playing mum.
The sun, when kind enough,
Blessed button noses, tanned shoulder blades, and sandfly-bitten feet.
We have dinner at a cute little French bistro.
The night ends with an excursion to the penguin parade.
As the pink sky darkens and wild winds blow from Bass Strait
I think that this would have been a perfect birthday had I been five.
The penguins are little, but fascinating (no, really!).