I have a sudden urge to sign up for myspace.com. I don’t even know what it’s all about, what the appeal really is. But dammit, everyone’s doing, I want to jump off a cliff, too.
You are currently browsing the monthly archive for April 2006.
…my traveling companions
Are ghosts and empty sockets.
I’m looking at ghosts and empties,
But I’ve reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland……In Graceland, in Graceland,
I’m going to Graceland.
For reasons I cannot explain,
There’s some part of me wants to see Graceland.
And I may be obliged to defend
Every love, every ending,
Or maybe there’s no obligations now.
Maybe I’ve a reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland.– Paul Simon, Graceland
I’m not a bad person. That is to say, I’ve definately seen worse. I’ve tried so hard, so hard, to please so many people. And for the first time in my life, I look at myself and ask Why? My mom, she asked me why I couldn’t see her world and understand where she is coming from. I wanted to ask her why she couldn’t see mine—but I couldn’t. I cannot find my words anymore. They’ve abandoned me, and the only replies I had were stiffled tears. I hated how I could never say a thing. Every part of me hurts afterwards.
I just want to be accepted for who I am. To make my own decisions. To be my own person. I try to do what is right. It is just so easy to give up and give in. But I can’t. Not this time. I want to do what is right.
I have these fancy notions about how leaving will free me, and I will find my place somewhere anew. Find my own Graceland. My heart is tired of crying, and I just want to lay down my head and sleep and dream again. But that phone will ring, and I will say hello.
I found it amid a tornado and a storm of a different kind. I love this boy man.
We had gone to a bank to ask about home loans. See, most banks usually have a sweet deal for doctors because they know we’re good for it. It’s like free money to them. So the first thing I let slip is that we want to know the particulars about their special doctor loans.
The residental loan officer wasn’t at that branch that day, so the clerk we met with called him to explain the situation. Then he adds the special condition. “Steve here is a physician.”
We looked at each other. “No, Diana is the physician.”
For a moment there, the clerk looked completely confused. His eyes bounced back and forth between us, the taller Asian male and the petite little Asian girl. Steve laughed. I smiled. I don’t think he believed us.
At heart, I’m a baker. He’s a cook. That’s not to say that I don’t cook or that he doesn’t bake. Just that our styles are different. I like to measure things out. Set the timers. Cook at so many degrees. Chemistry, chemistry, chemistry. He, on the other hand, has this spontaneity about him. A bit of salt, a dash of curry powder, a handful of scallions. He throws it together, and the kitchen’s like a battleground. The victor emerges with a pot of homemade soup or a wok tossing of stirfry. Dinnertime.
It comes out in our personalities, I think. I schedule things. Print out addresses and maps. He just needs the gist of it. So there you go. You either bake or cook.
But oddly enough, I read fiction. He reads nonfiction. There is order in leveling tablespoon but not in the truth. For him, there is play and give in putting together dinner but not in a story. There is no time for make-believe and dreams. I remember them. He forgets. Or perhaps he doesn’t sleep to dream, only to fulfill a daily requirement of sorts. 1000 milligram of calcium and so on.
At least we are both dog people. Loyal. Unconditional. To a fault, if not just a bit plain stupid. But I can’t help it. Not that cats don’t love you. They’re just smart enough to know better.
I dance, and he sings. The night is still young—we will find time to do both yet.
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