It's 3:30 in the morning. I'm reading Bret Easton Ellis' The Informers and working out while listening to Epik High. 2 more days. And I'll be in Toronto, seeing my mother. I'll be in the salon, getting my nails done by Chinese women that I want to talk to but I don't know how to. It's more then language - I lack the ability to understand their suffering. I was born into a blank life of privilege and know nothing of real hardship. I am... listless. Still. I'm praying this trip cures me. Saves me. I want to feel loved by someone. Not anyone. Someone who understands me. I feel blessed because J is just that, even if it's not the romantic kind of love: but having someone understand me is relieving.
GOD BLESS THE SOUL
I talk today with J. It's a good conversation, it flows nicely, and we talk about a variety of things. I'm happy. I tell her some things I haven't told other people before. I'm left thinking: I'm jealous she has a mother that's been there for her. My own was absent from a lot of the major things in my life. My life lessons were taught by a string of unrelated friends and women in my life who passed on the awkward advice of their mothers. Some of the advice, I was too young to understand. Too young to implement. I wonder if I'm the sum of those parts. I wonder if I've failed as a woman, because I lack the understanding of the word 'mother', or at least the function of one. I wonder if I've missed out. And so I continue with my resolution to tell my father everyday that I love him - because he served as both when I needed it, and he's given me everything that she couldn't.
LET THIS COLD RAINSTORM RESURRECT THE SOUL
I read these books from Ellis, and I'm reminded how my own writing seems to emulate his style. I'm both deflated and elated, because I admire him a lot. He's one of those writers that shock you with his absolute defiance of convention, and his shallow mirroring of real life. He dreams. He lets you know that. I wish I could meet him... I'm very excited for his next book, the Imperial Bedrooms, which will be out in a month. It's the sequel to Less Than Zero, which I read one weekend at the cottage and cried to, because I felt it was both good and it left me feeling emotionally violated. I think that was a weekend in which I was having problems with P, because he left me alone for hours and hours, and reading was a nice way to cope. Emotionally unsteady. I think that's a good way to describe the 'me' from then.
DANCE WITH THE INFERNAL ONE
I talk to J and she tells me she thinks I'm a 'nice' person. I wonder if this is true. Or if it's the me that works in accordance to what I feel is a good thing to do, a good way to act. What is 'nice' really? Hah... Is it how we chose to be, or the things we chose to believe? I feel resentment. I'm selfish. I'm cold. I use people. But it's human. I'm human. I don't really believe in 'nice' and 'mean'. I think you should only live the way you feel you should live. Maybe I'm nice by her standards. Maybe by society's standards. But I don't do it for society really... I'm just... living. Be positive. Be happy. Make others happy. Send your love. Be loving. Be graceful. Make errors. Be messy. Be you... just... be you.
COLD BLUE LIPS CONFESSING TO ME
For all those in my life I love...
