Whether or not a text really is a universe unto itself,
... it can only ever be as rich as its most sensitive interpreter.
- Thomas Chatterton Williams, "The Foreigner"
Tips for Finding Happiness in Your Daily Life
11 years ago
Tuesday, July 30, 2019
Grasp
I'm going to be rambling.
Vacations are always too short. Even pseudo vacations when you are just visiting your aging parents and not going somewhere exotic.
When I had just arrived, we all thought, Oooh, three weeks! We have all the time in the world!
Before I know it, the cousins have come and gone. My brother has come and is leaving tomorrow. I am already sad. The big reunion is over. And we didn't take a family portrait.
Four years ago, the last time my parents came to visit us in the States, we failed to take a family photo, the three generations of us. The next spring, my mother was diagnosed with lymphoma. She's been treated and has survived. But I have never lived down the fact that, that summer, while she was cancer-free and relatively vibrant, we did NOT take a family photo, just the seven of us.
And here we've done it again. Or, NOT done it again.
Life is full of regrets if you let it.
Visiting my childhood town always leaves me ambivalent. How my life would have differed had I never left (not that it was my choice back then). It has only been twelve days, and I fear that my mind has already slowly been morphing into another vinyl record: tracks have changed in the name of adapting to a different society, a different world. I fear that I am "forgetting" RJ. I don't remember how it feels to be in love.
It is alarming. It is disturbing.
This morning, I shared with RJ that I have been having bad dreams, to the extent that I dread going to sleep. The other night (or morning) I dreamt that I was in love with Jane Lynch and she plotted to murder me. Had an accomplice who I reckoned was my rival in the romance. Even after awakening, the sting of betrayal felt so real. I could taste the torment.
In my dreams I often still cannot distinguish between husband and foul, love and acrimony, devotion and acquiescence. One person will turn into another in the same story. I mean their face can literally change in front of my eyes. I yearn for a lover. There is implied incest. Even in my dreams, I am still dying to please. I must please in order to deserve to be loved. In the process, I hurt others, and they hurt me.
So convoluted and perturbing, I wake up asking myself, "What is wrong with you?!"
This morning, RJ said, "Embrace the weirdness." (I hadn't shared details of my mind's "movies".) How could I?!
Half-jokingly I had said, "Perhaps not drinking is not the answer." When I drink, I still have bad dreams. I just don't remember them.
When I visit my parents I teetotal. Cold turkey. It is not as difficult as one might think. But when I go wandering in a store I do wind up in the wine and liquor section. I don't stay long. I kind of glance and don't buy anything. I guess it's comforting to know that I could, but I don't need to.
During my brother's short stay, one afternoon we went walking around town, trekking old streets where we used to frequent, just the two of us. Can't tell you how long it'd been since we'd gone strolling just the two of us. It was therapeutic. For years I could not bear to intentionally return to our childhood home. So many memories, so many lost mementos. Just too painful. This time though, we just came upon it. And because my brother was with me, it was just like coming home in the old days. It was NOT painful. It was nice to look up to the floor where our flat was. Could not see inside, obviously, but it helped. Somehow a part of me was healed.
It was not my home anymore. But that place, that space - will always be mine. I will zip it up and take it with me, that window in time, that square inch of the blue sky with a wisp of vapor, a peek of green on the lattice.
Too many wounds. Having holes means one never feels complete.
This morning RJ suggested that I see a counselor to maybe get to the bottom of my recurring awful dreams. "I'm not sure I wanna go there," I said.
When I was young I was fascinated by The Interpretation of Dreams. I thought Freud was the shits. I did a term paper on the subject and, you know, flying colors. Never thought that someday I would not want to face what was hiding behind, buried in my subconscious.
It could be that I don't have faith in most men and most things now.
Even now, I can't believe someone could truly love me if they knew everything that's going on in my head.
Most of my dreams don't have happy endings probably because in life there is no happy ending.
And there is no sensical ending to this post. ("Sensical" is not a word. But it should be.)
Vacations are always too short. Even pseudo vacations when you are just visiting your aging parents and not going somewhere exotic.
When I had just arrived, we all thought, Oooh, three weeks! We have all the time in the world!
Before I know it, the cousins have come and gone. My brother has come and is leaving tomorrow. I am already sad. The big reunion is over. And we didn't take a family portrait.
Four years ago, the last time my parents came to visit us in the States, we failed to take a family photo, the three generations of us. The next spring, my mother was diagnosed with lymphoma. She's been treated and has survived. But I have never lived down the fact that, that summer, while she was cancer-free and relatively vibrant, we did NOT take a family photo, just the seven of us.
And here we've done it again. Or, NOT done it again.
Life is full of regrets if you let it.
Visiting my childhood town always leaves me ambivalent. How my life would have differed had I never left (not that it was my choice back then). It has only been twelve days, and I fear that my mind has already slowly been morphing into another vinyl record: tracks have changed in the name of adapting to a different society, a different world. I fear that I am "forgetting" RJ. I don't remember how it feels to be in love.
It is alarming. It is disturbing.
This morning, I shared with RJ that I have been having bad dreams, to the extent that I dread going to sleep. The other night (or morning) I dreamt that I was in love with Jane Lynch and she plotted to murder me. Had an accomplice who I reckoned was my rival in the romance. Even after awakening, the sting of betrayal felt so real. I could taste the torment.
In my dreams I often still cannot distinguish between husband and foul, love and acrimony, devotion and acquiescence. One person will turn into another in the same story. I mean their face can literally change in front of my eyes. I yearn for a lover. There is implied incest. Even in my dreams, I am still dying to please. I must please in order to deserve to be loved. In the process, I hurt others, and they hurt me.
So convoluted and perturbing, I wake up asking myself, "What is wrong with you?!"
This morning, RJ said, "Embrace the weirdness." (I hadn't shared details of my mind's "movies".) How could I?!
Half-jokingly I had said, "Perhaps not drinking is not the answer." When I drink, I still have bad dreams. I just don't remember them.
When I visit my parents I teetotal. Cold turkey. It is not as difficult as one might think. But when I go wandering in a store I do wind up in the wine and liquor section. I don't stay long. I kind of glance and don't buy anything. I guess it's comforting to know that I could, but I don't need to.
During my brother's short stay, one afternoon we went walking around town, trekking old streets where we used to frequent, just the two of us. Can't tell you how long it'd been since we'd gone strolling just the two of us. It was therapeutic. For years I could not bear to intentionally return to our childhood home. So many memories, so many lost mementos. Just too painful. This time though, we just came upon it. And because my brother was with me, it was just like coming home in the old days. It was NOT painful. It was nice to look up to the floor where our flat was. Could not see inside, obviously, but it helped. Somehow a part of me was healed.
It was not my home anymore. But that place, that space - will always be mine. I will zip it up and take it with me, that window in time, that square inch of the blue sky with a wisp of vapor, a peek of green on the lattice.
Too many wounds. Having holes means one never feels complete.
This morning RJ suggested that I see a counselor to maybe get to the bottom of my recurring awful dreams. "I'm not sure I wanna go there," I said.
When I was young I was fascinated by The Interpretation of Dreams. I thought Freud was the shits. I did a term paper on the subject and, you know, flying colors. Never thought that someday I would not want to face what was hiding behind, buried in my subconscious.
It could be that I don't have faith in most men and most things now.
Even now, I can't believe someone could truly love me if they knew everything that's going on in my head.
Most of my dreams don't have happy endings probably because in life there is no happy ending.
And there is no sensical ending to this post. ("Sensical" is not a word. But it should be.)
