control

There is an exchange in one of my favorite movies of all time and echoed into another

Chow Mo-wan: In the old days, if someone had a secret they didn't want to share... you know what they did?
Ah Ping: Have no idea.
Chow Mo-wan: They went up a mountain, found a tree, carved a hole in it, and whispered the secret into the hole. Then they covered it with mud. And leave the secret there forever.

Lately I feel like this is my personal metaphor, I am that tree and I am a hollowed out woman.

Sometimes I am bogged down by other people's secrets, sometimes people do not have an inner monologue, sometimes people just want to share a lot, with me.

At times, this becomes too much. All these secrets I can't share floating around and staying my body. The only thing that I have felt that makes a difference in filling in my mud covered hollowness is this

Sometimes you need to figure things out without talking, sometimes you need someone there to keep you in the moment and to derail my propensity to wander off, and just when my mind goes to

unpaid bills..there is a hand on my forehead
the fear of a foster child taken away....there is a hand on my hand
the revealing of favoritism in a job consistently done wrong.. .there is a hand on my stomach
and the words of cesar moro playing over again...there is a hand on my knee

And at the end it is exactly what I needed. Visit her, she works wonders and one of the last people to make me feel unbridled joy.

(I also feel like the android hostess who has been at it too long and now has delayed emotion, but that is a story I know too well and is for another time.)

sometimes wherever you go, it is right in front of you

It is strange the way when I start reading something, all of what I do coincidentally relates to it. I hear people at dinner parties talking about it, I see it written in the margins of notebooks, it is mentioned in international symposiums I attend (that last part makes me sound really smart, doesn't it?) It is a name I have heard uttered so many times over the past month and a half.

Roberto Bolaño

The book everyone is reading is the Savage Detectives.

Why now, why is everyone reading this book? Is it because we have this strange obsession with Visceral Realism?

I think it is because this book makes anyone's life story interesting. We all just want to tell our stories right? To have meaning, make an impact on the world, isn’t this why we tweet, blog, let out our inner monologues out on facebook, without regard that it is insanely immature or an invitation to stalk.

It is just about these kids running around town, telling you what they did, who they have unrequited love for, what cafes they have gone to, which of their friends are full of crap, how many orgasms they have had, time spent interviewing each other and writing sub-par poetry.

Hidden in there though is a list of the who’s who of counter-tradition literature, surrealist authors, that some times sounds a bit name-droppy, but is really a primer of who you should be reading. (according to him at least, an original hipster of sorts)

The overall consensus being, I might bore you, but you will learn something.

I guess the same is true, for me, I might bore you, but you will learn something.

"Unrequited love is the only love I know, the other doesn't belong to me"- Cesar Moro