Friday, January 06, 2006


Chinks are the new Jews -- a gem of an article, 10 years on. I'm so not looking forward to playing forward.


Nothing substantial ever happens in my life. Not that it did in the past, though I feel Lucci-esque drama should at least appear once in awhile. Not so much comprised of boredom than incompetence, student living is often inane (and inebriated, though my neighbours pass that for fun). No rigidity, transparent disorder, I live in the perpetual aesthetics of a home video -- that is to say, session after session of purposeless mobility. Eat (rarely), drink (never), enthusiasm has dissolved into char: a passing reminder of a once organic matter.

It's the new semester blues.


I've been carrying on a friendship with Francois Truffaut. Every week or so, I pop in another one of his films into my DVD player. First came Jules et Jim (1962), followed successively by Tirez sur le pianiste (1960), Antoine et Colette (1962), and inevitably Les quatres cents coups (1959). I realise I'm approaching them in an anti-directional way and that's okay, because he and I have an understanding that as long as I sit glued to his vision, I have an excuse to stay in.

I am still mending the remnants of my heart. Sometimes, I want to leap inside my mind to rearrange those excruciating conversations, reverse the dialogues of action. I feel as though I was convinced to row farther and farther into an impossibly deep sea, then left to fend for myself at the first sight of an ocean liner -- all pomp and circumstance, a brittle show of restraint. "Trust me," I'd hear and comply. "I would never lie to you," but did. The boat was made of lead from the start made worse by the holes in my head.

Still an idealist at 19: sensible, one it does not make.

I'm relatively content, not ungrateful and far from urban decay. I don't know. I've never been not single, I can't see it being otherwise. I flee from aggressive attention, yet bathe in the passive kind. It's depressing to acknowledge that my conscious decision to stay unattached (for whatever reason) is seen pitifully. "Don't worry." Who's worrying? "It'll come." But why? Whereas the parallel judgments of my coupled-up self would probably never need justifying. Being in a relationship is associated with more positive connotations: maturity, stability, ambition, a lovely disposition. Already, one's personal character passes the unspoken test of society. Now for myself, how I choose to think and what I choose to do is consistently evaluated. One assumes this also doubles as an assessment of my character (because bureaucrazy exists for the needy and disenchanted). I'm "stubborn", he's "determined". And while I'm painfully "naive", they're playfully "childlike".

Steve -- whom, might I add, has never been without a steady -- thinks I'm being irrational (and probably more than a little paranoid, but too nice to say it outright). So what if I'm finding causal links where there is none? I'm cruel and embittered, the tremors of yore still scaring the bejeezus out of me. Likewise, I'm also tired of not being able to say "my ex" like everyone else, though I'd be lying to everyone else if I did. However, "unofficiated intimate relations in a previously ambiguous, emotionally incestuous, slightly masochistic affair" doesn't exactly roll off the tongue either.

But I know being single isn't all sisyphusian toil: at least the prospect of marriage becomes obsolete.

"You'll change your mind."

That's not what my mama said.

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