I would really, really love

to be in love.

Solitariness

I am alone, but not lonely. Some people were made to be solitary. I did not realise this before. I never knew, before, how lovely it would be to walk by yourself, to watch an entire movie in the darkness of a theater without someone at your side, or how fulfilling it could be just to live this life alone- without someone trying to control, or influence, or change what you want and how you feel. It is so wonderful- so joyous- so liberating. Why do so many people want to be with so many people?

When people ask me how I can endure being alone so much, I want to ask them, "How can you endure, not being alone?" And I do not know why, or how; I only know that I have never been this content, I have never felt this safe. And I need this feeling of safety- I need it like so few people do. Why? I only know that deep within me is a mad compulsion to be safe, to stay at a distance, to keep my secrets. Nothing is more important than this need to be safe- nothing.

Work anxiety

I attended an interview today for a post as a trainee cook at a restaurant. I passed, and was hired, though the owner of the place -a rather stern-looking middle-aged man- seemed dubious at my ability. "Well," he said, "You're enthusiastic enough, but you're quite small, and kitchen work is really heavy. You don't want to be a waitress?" I was quite emphatic in assuring him that no, I had no intention of being a waitress. 

And just for note- I am about five feet four and weigh 104 pounds. I used to be exactly ninety-nine pounds, a nice pretty number that I wholly intend to return to. Yes, I have weight problems. And I am quite aware that a hundred and four pounds is already a weight most teenage girls would kill to be at, but as far as I am concerned this is more of a personal achievement than for any beauty purpose. As far as I can tell, I don't look any different now that I am five pounds heavier than I was two years ago. 

I will be working nine hours a day, six days a week, for slightly less than $250 a month. I am doing fifteen days as a trial, after which... is to be seen. For fifteen days, I will only be paid half of the amount above. In contrast, my sibling worked as an English tutor teaching for about two to four hours a week and earned about $80 a month. So while I am earning quite a bit more, I am working about four times as much as she did. Including Saturday, Sunday and Christmas, unless I should be so lucky as to have that day off- doubtful.

It is not the thought of so much work that troubles me. I am quite happy to be working, although it does seem quite a lot of work. But I know people who work twice as hard for half as much because they have no other opportunities. My only worry is caused by the fact that I am not independently mobile- I am not yet able to drive, something which distresses me greatly. It is the only thing that I am not yet able to achieve and the only thing that stops me from being completely independent.

When I pointed out the hectic schedule to my father he seemed completely unperturbed and said, "That is quite normal. It is normal working hours." Which it is quite, Father. Though I recall that you, in your office hours, didn't work Saturdays, Sundays and public holidays. So he said, "Think of it as a prelude of what is to come."

Old habits die hard. Unfortunate but true. After nearly a year of ascetic frugality, it seems almost bewildering to have so much money. This excess comes from the fact that the schooling year is over and I no longer need to pay for tuition, books, etc... at least until next year.

After deductions, I used to have about twenty dollars to spend a month however I liked. This deduction does not count food.  Basically, I never had any spare money to throw around, not if I was interested in eating in school anyway. Which I wasn't. But money will run away, somehow, if it can. I usually skipped meals in school three days out of five- a habit severely disapproved of by my family, or at least they would greatly disapprove of it if they knew.

However, as Aristotle said, if you pretend something long enough, you become it. There is also the (dubious) saying that if you practice something for more than 21 days straight it will become a habit. Consequently this self-starvation has, basically, given me the eating habits that, no doubt, are highly coveted by teenage girls desperate to lose weight. Although now I have more money that I can shake a fist at, I still eat only two meals a day -lunch and dinner- and I eat as little as I can get away with, usually one small soup bowl of whatever. I favour vegetables. I drink constantly- coffee, tea, water. These habits came about because a) Small meals can be eaten quicker: more time to study, and b) Liquids can be taken without interrupting study.

I cannot contemplate spending money either. I still refuse to buy clothes, and I feel slightly disturbed at the thought of watching a movie in a theater because I will have to pay for it. I don't eat fast food. I only make an exception for books, which are my sole desire.

This habits have all combined to make me feel both deeply austere and deeply disturbed. There is nothing wrong with this way of life, I know- it is just that everyone I know pressures me about it. My frugality was a sore point with a friend whose family is part of the nouveau riche: she once commented, rather darkly, about how self-denying I was. And of course there are all the people concerned by my eating habits. Too deep a reluctance to spend money, apparently, is as grave a worry as a tendency to be too fond of spending.

Whenever I am tempted by anything, however, I just have to think about the dreaded future and it is enough to keep my wallet safely in my pocket, where it belongs. (?)

Amor fati

Among other things I enjoy brief forays into the world of philosophy; I go in knowing nothing, I come out knowing little, but it is always fun and a little knowledge is always enlightening. The internet misleads us often, but I have no closer resource to call upon and so I shall have to believe what it says. For now.

When I was younger (although to be honest I am not so very old now) I was quite fond of Machiavelli. I don't know why. There just seemed to be a moment where I saw that everything he wrote had some sort of truth in it, even if it was quite grim and unsavoury, but then again I was at a stage where I made manipulation my game and enjoyed the titillating effects of a little counter-psychology. The only difference between then and now is that I used to consciously dig under the skin of people I didn't like -and sometimes people I liked- whereas now I just get under everyone's skin whether I like to or not. Habits are hard to break.

And then after that was a period where I toyed with Plato. For some reason Republic amused me immensely; I enjoyed the way he tied everything into neat little knots and made conclusions through deductions. For example there was an argument about honour; his companion argued that honour is not necessary, but Plato pointed out that even thieves have honour (hence the quote 'honour among thieves') and that a society without honour is pretty much one that would fail to function. Although I wasn't very sure- it was very nice and neat, of course, but can you really say that since this is A, that will be B and next is C? It was a bit muddling.

Of course, bear in mind that I was just about fourteen or fifteen when I began speculating about Machiavelli, and maybe sixteen when I began on Plato. I always had the vague feeling that I was only pretending- pretending to understand, when I don't really, because I do know that without the proper research I am missing all the wonderful subtleties and small details that make up the true masterpiece. But I have time, I think, to discover all those things. Everything in their own time.

One thing, though, that I am quite good in, is the concept of amor fati, which I did not know I believed in until I found it. Why, I've been doing it all my life! Accepting your fate- I have accepted and accepted and accepted, up to the point where I was called a defeatist and a fatalist. But I am going to change that, I think- I no longer desire to sit and allow fate to make me. If there is such a thing as fate. And if you ever watched Terminator, you may have seen them say repeatedly:

There's no fate but what we make for ourselves.

Shooting blanks

The gun was small, a revolver, with the normal six-bullet capacity. It seemed old and worn, the silver tarnished and scratched, but well cared for. For a moment my eye was on this tarnished firearm, and I speculated on whether it was a standard death-inducing weapon or a specialized gun meant for the purpose it was now being put to. Then my eyes fell on the small silver bullets, glinting wickedly under the sun, shiny and new, each roughly the size of my thumbnail.

"Is that a real gun?"

For a moment he continued cleaning the gun slowly, wiping it down carefully, and I wondered if he didn't hear me and at the same time realized he couldn't have not because we were too near together to pretend we couldn't hear each other. I briefly experienced the devastating humiliation of being pointedly ignored before he turned and looked at me with an odd, almost stern expression on his face, as if reproving me for asking such a question. He spoke very slowly, carefully enunciating each word. He didn't answer me directly, simply asking, "Does it look like a real gun to you?" 


"I don't know," I answered back just as simply. "I've never seen a real gun before."

His face twisted briefly, almost into an expression of amusement, before he turned back to his work. It was very curious: he was not ignoring me out of spite or malice, but seemed rather to be patiently enduring me as if I were a curious child. He said nothing else, but opened the part of the gun where bullets were inserted before wiping it meticulously with a cloth. I waited just as patiently for an answer that did not seem to be forthcoming. My eyes lingered again on the bullets. Blank, they must be, but I wished I could pick them up and examine them closely, to gauge their weigh and contents more accurately.

Silently, he began loading the gun, sliding each bullet home and rotating the barrel with a series of clicks to insert the rest of them.

A passer by known to me inquired humorously, "Why are you looking so closely? Do you want to buy one?" He laughed.

My name was called. I turned away and left the man and his gun.

After showers

It smells like rain now, a clean, metallic smell that I find pleasantly soporific. The rain itself is constant and soothing, a calm counterpoint. The heavier the rain gets the happier I am, for when the wind screams and the waters lash ceaselessly and pound against the walls in its rage, the safer I am in this room, my cocoon, alone in quiet.

(And of course after the rain everything is cool and washed clean, and it is almost a new world outside, wet and damp and shiny and glorious. Just as when you left the womb and everything was fluid, so it is after the showers.)