Thursday, August 9, 2007

7.9.07

I’ve recently been treating myself to some fantastic books. I don’t know why I don’t read for myself more often. Oh, that’s right, school.

The past few weeks have been me taking time to do things for myself. Which believe me, is rare – I live my life to do what others want from me. But! I’ve been taking time for myself (rare) and doing what I want to do (even rarer). I can only hope this is a more mature stage of life for young Kyla. I’m almost 17! It’s time to act like I’ll be able to live, responsibly, by myself in a year. Make less stupid, immature decisions – my resolution. I guess I’m not following it that well though, since I’m still picking dumb fights with Adam.

Funny, how I’m both so happy for you and so jealous at the same time. And only half the time is it a possessive jealousy, the other half of the time is a whole other monster entirely. Do you know what I’m talking about? No. But does it matter? You can relate without even knowing where this is coming from.

Anyways, how ‘bout them books, eh? I read another Jodi Picoult book, Mercy. After 3 novels, I find she writes very formulaic-ly, not unlike – dare I make the comparison? – Nicholas Sparks. Then I read Oh the Glory of It All, which was vaguely reminiscent of Girl, Interrupted. Only set in San Francisco and with a male lead character. And now, for the greatest summer reading of all time – One Hundred Years of Solitude! No, just kidding. Seriously, no. Middlesex, by Jeffrey Eugenides is probably one of the most amazing books I’ve read. And I’m only half way through! Luxuriate in this quote, won’t you?

“Emotions, in my experience, aren’t covered by single words. I don’t believe in “sadness”, “joy”, or “regret”. Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I’d like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train-car constructions like, say, “the happiness that attends disaster.” Or: “the disappointment of sleeping with one’s fantasy.” I’d like to show how “intimations of mortality brought on by aging family members” connects with “the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age.” I’d like to have a word for “the sadness inspired by failing restaurants” as well as for “the excitement of getting a room with a minibar.” I’ve never had the right words to describe my life, and now that I’ve entered my story, I need them more than ever. You can’t just sit back and watch from a distance anymore. From here on in, everything I’ll tell you is colored by the subjective experience of being part of events. Here’s where my story splits, divides, undergoes meiosis. Already the world feels heavier, now I’m a part of it. I’m talking about bandages and sopped cotton, the smell of mildew in movie theaters, and of all the lousy cats and their stinking litter boxes, or rain on city streets when the dust comes up and the old Italian men take their folding chairs inside. Up until now it hasn’t been my world. Not my America. But here we are, at last.”

I am in love with his writing.

I just poured my heart out
there's bits of it on the floor
And I take what's left of it
and rinse it under cold water
And call him up for more
And I say baby, yes I feel stupid to call you,
but I'm lonely
And I don't think you meant it
when you said you couldn't love me
And I thought maybe if I kissed the way you do,
you'd feel it too
He said I'm sorry
so sorry
He grabs my wrist
as my fingers turn into angry fists
and I whisper why can't you love me,
I'll change for you
I'll play the part

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