2046 is fucking brilliant.
Cast: Stellar.
Plot: Bloody clever. The story-within-story counterpoint works without confusing. The 1224-1225 concept made me gape in reverence.
Set & Cinematography: Like in In the Mood for Love, the right mix of texture and colour makes me wish I lived through the 60s.
Soundtrack: Perfect, and a seamless continuation from the prequel, again by Shigeru Umebayashi

Yes. Do watch it. Like, now. For a piece of genius five years in the making. In celebration of the best female cast that has ever graced Hong Kong arthouse.

*

Nouvelle Vague
What: A collection of mod covers (think The Cure, The Clash) stripped bare, and prettied up with bossa nova beats. A project by French producers Marc Collin and Olivier Libaux.
Nice with: Tea, notebook & pencil, Murakami, delicate mornings, or drizzling evenings.
Why: Because it'll make you smile, but only if you chuck purist scepticism out first.

Yesterday. Dream of Atlantis and hotel room keycards. Of best friend, rising waters, shutting windows. I'm not sure if the water rose to touch the sky, or the sky came down upon the sea. I only remember the merging of blues.Then I tried clipping the curtains together to keep out the sight of disaster. I thought it might keep the water out.

Early this morning I was watching another movie in my dream. A couple of weeks ago Dennis Hopper was hunting down Clive Owen from LA to Paris. I squirmed as he shot my brooding (and so beautiful) Clive in the head. I felt the life draining out as he lay dying, blood flushing out. This morning pitbulls were fighting. No. Before the pitbulls I was playing tourguide to random guai lows. I took them to Ladyhill hotel, but it was different. Fresh coat of pink paint, and nothing like what I'd remembered it to look like. I was talking about the great ice-kachangs, and how it would make a fantastic boutique hotel. We jumped in the car again because it wasn't quite the place we were hoping it would be. We drove over the Nicoll Highway, and there were buildings in the water. Tall, fluorescent-lit protrusions scattered across the Marina Bay. Then the alarm went off and I snoozed it. There was Clive again, this time with his white pitbull. Logical progressions escape me in dreams, but a pack of pitbulls appeared, and mulled the white one to death. I watched while the dog owner cradled his lifeless pet, took a look at its mangled neck, shook his head, tears dribbling down, and tossed its carcass out of the window and into the sea. I woke in shock. It was bloody 7, and I hate waking in the middle of REM. Still reeling from the awful dream, eyes still so unwilling to grant access to morning light.

The Conde Nast (UK) travel magazine voted Singapore as the world's best city to visit. This surprised people. Particularly Singaporeans. Why would anyone want to make a holiday out of a trip to a copycat, characterless, humid and super-rigid city-state? Sure, it's clean and green (read: sterile); safe (nanny state); home of the Singapore girl (the sort you see at Chijmes dressed in their best animal prints); diversed (wanting to be everything, without any real soul, like the Uniquely Singapore campaign); and boasts a kick-ass transport system (pity about poo-faced people who charge at you when you're trying to get out of the MRT).
I'd been away for over six years. In that time I grew a relationship made of waiting for spring, macchiatos, second-hand record shops, Victorian architecture, g&ts on Sunday afternoons, and bubblegum summers. Absence propagates romanticised memories. I dreamt of old HDB estates, hawker food, cheap travels, cheaper shoes, tropical fruit, and quaint shophouses.
It's really not that bad. Disney-type shophouses and lacklustre nightlife aside, I'm getting used to it. I've realised that it's not the lack of options, it's more like the lack of creativity, spontaneity. Singapore isn't boring. Singaporeans are.

The early starts I can bear. And Spinnelli's coffee too. The work is new, there're lots of Google searches. And I'm not bored. No, not yet. There is no room for wardrobe malfunction/crisis in my life. Not when morning minutes are precious. So I fixed the problem, for a week, at least. I went shopping alone, early on Saturday. I shopped until I couldn't bring myself to browse through another rack of black skirts. I stopped for an ice-tea here, then went on looking for sensible, but not boring (lord, no) tops. I carefully steered away from from shoes. Difficult indeed. For three skirts, three pairs of pants, and two tops. I'm sorted for this week.
~
I'm rather affected by cyclical moodswings at present. Slightly snappy. Also highly volatile. I'd recommend all talk of frizzy hair, splitting seams, and adult responsibility be delayed until further notice.
~
Later.