You're just going to have to forgive the excessive posting for a while, little darlin's. I'm getting ready to write something, and it's all coming out here in a big incohesive jumble. 'Incohesive' isn't a word, by the way -- I'm aware of that. But I don't see why it shouldn't be, so I'm using it anyway. Feel free to leave your suggestions for a better alternative in the comment space below.

Woke up at a not-obscene time this morning, but didn't go very far -- just to the kitchen to put the kettle on, settle onto the floor in front of the computer screen with an ashtray and a cup of coffee. Informed Mike that I could still be coming over, but wasn't feeling too optimistic about that possibility. Did some reading about the sex industry, got the family on the skype. Caught up with everyone and, later, when it was just my ma, had an entirely too frank conversation about the sex industry and my current growing fascination with it, why I'm fascinated, how it relates to my personal life. Which segwayed into my personal life, at which point the conversation became even more preposterously inappropriate for a mother-daughter situation. I think the woman is genuinely fascinated by me turning out the way I have, despite her best efforts (at least in the beginning) to raise a nice, marriable Southern Baptist young lady. She doesn't judge me at all -- wouldn't have the conversations I do with her, if she did. She's just genuinely confused.

Not that I'm not a nice girl. She insists that I am. As she put it, I'm just a "good girl, with a bit of color around the edges." Nice one, Ma.

She even apologized, of all things, to me today for some of the things she put into my head when she was raising me, or that she felt like she had put into my head. I won't go into the specifics, but it relates to being female, and the things we are and are not supposed to feel. I wasn't on the subject to make her feel guilty in any way -- simply explaining some things I had realized, come to terms with, and started working on changing. She didn't know any better, at the time (when she was raising me), and even now, when I talk about it, it seems as though a lot of things have never even occurred to her. I told her it wasn't her who has put them into my head, but everything, everyone. It's just the way things are, when you're a girl -- especially in that environment. And anyway, it doesn't matter. Because I'm one of the lucky ones, who has come to know better, before it's too late. She wasn't so lucky.

She chose today, and this conversation, to reveal to me that she wasn't at all surprised when I first mentioned moving to Korea to her, because several years back, she had a dream that I had returned from somewhere far away, after having been gone a long time, with a Korean husband and two little Korean babies.

I told her, dream or no dream, she could hang the baby thing right up. I've come around to the possibility of marrying someday, but I'm still not anywhere near caving in on the giving-birth/being-pregnant front. If men were capable of bearing children, I wouldn't have a problem in the world with the idea of biological kids. But, unfortunately, this is not an area modern conveniences and technology have made much progress in yet.

It's like that scene in one of the new episodes of The L Word (look out, now) where Dana and Tasha are sitting at The Planet with the rest of the crew, and Tasha's dressed to the nines, looking hot as fuck in a gender-ambiguous suit. Dana says something about the Dolce & Gabana, or the Prada or some such other brand I've no idea about, and one of the other women asks why Tasha didn't go with that. Dana rolls her eyes and shoots Tasha a look: "She said it made her look like a girl." I can't tell you how many times that exchange happened between me and K, when I recruited her into forcing me to find sensible attire for a job interview in New York. And nothing makes you look more like a girl than being fucking pregnant. It's just unnatural.

I did admit to her, rather sheepishly, though (and I'll admit it here, again, now) that the idea of having little mixed babies does quite appeal to me for some reason. I guess because, in a very tangible way, the thought made it finally occur to me that kids are half you, half your partner -- something you make together. Sounds obvious, but I'd never thought of it before. She told me then that the way she knew my father was the right man was when she thought about having children with him, and it didn't terrify her. She said, granted, the marriage thing didn't work out too well in the end, but that they sure had made two incredible people.

I told her to stop right there. That was just a fucking step too far. I was speaking on a purely hypothetic level. No babies, no way. Hang. It. Up.

She responded, curtly, that she hadn't uttered a word about me giving birth to them -- simply that they were there, and Korean.

My fucking mother. 'Hope springs eternal' was a phrase coined for her.

Sent her The Great Happiness Space to watch, so that she can better understand what I've been rambling senselessly on about, and bid her goodnight, as it was growing close to one a.m., Central Standard.

Returned to the research, via the lovely, fascinating, and well-written Belle de Jour, a fantastic example of the kind of personality I'm captivated by. Had small panic attack involving an extra pack of cigarettes I knew I had purchased on the walk home last night, in case the very real possibility of not being bothered with showering, dressing and leaving the apartment presented itself, which was nowhere to be found.

I went to Homeplus last night, after returning on a late train from Mike's, to wander around aimlessly, not quite ready to return home. The place is open 24 hours and oddly comforting in that way. I contemplated the possibility of buying a bookshelf (running out of places to put the damn things, as usual), a reading lamp, a candle. It's weird being able, technically, to buy things, these days. Mostly still can't be bothered with it though, and my bank account thanks me, as things like last minute trips to Europe don't come cheap. Anyway, it turns out the pack of cigarettes had made its way into the trash inside the empty Homeplus bag, which had originally contained four new, crisp white undershirts (giving in, left and right) and a few new notebooks (more than little hopeful).

Disaster averted. Won't have to crawl down The Hill with my hood up to the corner shop, after all. Getting dressed is bothersome, on Sundays.

Think I'll make it an early one, tonight. Make a mutant vegetarian version of deonjang jjigae, have a couple of soft drinks (as in, not too hard -- not of the Coca-Cola variety) and listen obsessively to the new old Richard Hawley album I picked up last weekend.

PS -- Forgot to mention (As Friends) canceled yesterday, effectively moving himself from the not-that-interesting-and-a-bit-odd-but-tolerable category, to the not-that-interesting-and-also-tedious-in-way-of-behavior category. Tonight?


Add to that, sends-excessively-long-text-messages-in-all-caps-for-no-apparent-reason category. Ugh. Why am I incapable of ignoring?


MikejGrey said...

We shud meet up for an asskicking. My foot and yer face. I've got cinderblock shoes buddy. How does that grab ya?

I'm no Picasso said...

I dunno. Why don't we grab the train? Or I could grab the bartender....

Ho ho!

I'm no Picasso said...

Dear friend.

My name is Erksine. I am John Erksine. Can you be trusted? This is Kofi Anan. Be the master of the bedroom. Quality pill service. Embarassed of your body fat? Every woman wants her man big.

(I've got seven minutes to go. The VP is standing in front of my cubicle, giving me a curious look. And everyone speaks Korean to me now.)

Kel said...

anyone who texts in all caps should immediately be dismissed from your radar.

I'm no Picasso said...

Thank you. That's what I'm saying.