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I dream of visiting Hong Kong because I am afraid of aeroplanes. Not afraid of crashing and dying in the Kazakh steppe, much rather afraid of: We are now flying eleven kilometres above sea level. Afraid of unfastening my seatbelt and asking the stewardess for a glass of water, a sleeping pill or two.
I dream of visiting Hong Kong to thank Wong Kar-wai for teaching me about love. My favourite film, which he directed based on unfinished scriptures, as is the Artist's detour, shows two men trapped in one abusive relationship, trapped in the presence of the other, another fear of mine. And their tragedy doesn't actually unfold in deserted Hong Kong, but in Technicolour Argentina, a single collective eye drifting farther away, farther into the seafoam galaxy of The Iguazú Falls.
I dream of visiting Hong Kong because I Am An Artist and writers, too, work with colour. Or have to. Because I want to understand why Red smiles in the presence of Green and screams at the fine-boned fragility of Rose, or the unflinching boldness of Pink. I dream of visiting Hong Kong because it is a city awash in neon lights. It offers all of them, all colours: primary, secondary, tertiary, smiling and screaming alike. Because one loses the ability to see colour in the dark and I am tired. Tired of glasses of water and a sleeping pill or two.
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