I like to travel, read, write, dance and pretend. At the moment I am suffering an insufferable phase of self-aggrandizement, premature maturity and lack of wit.
If you think you can help me out of this funk, write me at idaman.z@gmail.com
A hundred thousand untold stories play hide and seek in my mind, but I am too tired to go search for these unborn (demons) children.
I might have overworked myself. Attempting a full course load in seven weeks has taken a toll on me.
I feel less intelligent than I was at the beginning of summer.
Hmm.
My mother writes me emails, in that semi-formal language of hers, of how she thinks of me.
Hers is a culture of restraint, of half-said emotions, and my eyes burn with tears as I read my mother’s sparse but sweet words.
I miss her.
I have been renewing Garcia-Marquez’s “Autumn of the Patriarch” and Rushdie’s “Satanic Verses” for more than 4 weeks. I have yet to touch Satan and the Patriarch lies undisturbed on my desk. This summer has yet to prove its badge of leisureliness to me.
I work out like a maniac these days. I’ll run until I feel like puking. I know I shouldn’t really be doing that, since I still feel twinges of glass-like pain in my ankle. But I can’t help it. I need to prove myself to them, but I don’t know who “they” are. I run and run and run, like Death is on my heels, and then I run some more.
You could probably analyze this with some pop psychology. She runs from something she’s scared of. (Duh.)
She runs because it’s her only escape. She runs to feel superior.
She runs because that’s the only thing she seems to be good at. Woops, too much information Ms. Man. Nah, I’m also good at baking, fighting, reverse psychology and biting.
My summer plans are in disarray. My dreams of Rome and Mexico have been set ablaze by mundane reality. I have no money. I am a child of the middle-class bracket, but I have big dreams.
As of this moment my immediate plans include the gym and checking out books from the library. Since the car has been totaled I am now under involuntary house arrest. Oh woe is me.
Tommy Guerrero’s Soul Food Taqueria is nourishment for the melancholy. His guitar riffs just make you want to kill yourself in insanely beautiful ways, like drowning. Insanely insane, but still, it’s beautiful, in its own crazy way.
I wish I could see stars here in Los Angeles. But the sky is a heartbreaking red at night, and there is no beauty the eyes could latch on in moments of solitary
.
Will write more, in a coherent, more organized way later. I can’t be bothered with mechanics right now – I need to go drown myself. In diet soda. Screw Paris Hilton.
