Monthly Archives: August 2006

There's Never Enough Time

New lay­out. Back to my old grayscale style, because that’s how I’ve been feel­ing late­ly. Neutral. Took me about three days, most­ly from scratch. I was sat­is­fied with the old one, until two months ago, when I began read­ing sev­er­al design/typography/colour books at work. The pow­ers that be let me spend around $300 on edu­ca­tion­al mate­r­i­al, and as I explored each one with fer­vor and thirst, I began to notice all the fun­da­men­tal design mis­takes I made. Ignorance is bliss.

It’s Friday night, and with my legs curled under me, Dolly sniffs at my feet, look­ing for an oppor­tune space on my lap. Fall is approach­ing. The win­dow in my room remains open as soon as the sun sets. I’ve been over­whelm­ing­ly busy, and as a result, I haven’t quite caught up on any sleep in the last two weeks.

What Can I Say?

Things have changed.

I don’t write the same any­more, or about the same things. I’ve lost my fer­vent ver­bosi­ty. Every time I sit at my com­put­er, my mind blanks. Writing has become a chore. Even this entry has tak­en me days to think through. I find myself writ­ing and rewrit­ing every point, every para­graph.

In the begin­ning, blog­ging was a form of cathar­sis. Developing cog­ni­tive­ly beyond my ado­les­cence was an emo­tion­al peri­od, filled with con­fu­sion and grow­ing pains. The only way I could make sense of it all was to write out my thoughts, forc­ing myself to reflect and learn from every chal­lenge.

It was also a use­ful tool in fig­ur­ing myself out, as a part of my life where I could approach things with the con­vic­tion that I lacked in the rest of my life. Now that I’ve gained enough con­fi­dence, it does­n’t seem so nec­es­sary to prove myself with words any­more. It would seem that I’ve become a vic­tim of my own self-assured­ness.

I could fill this blog with entries, find­ing solace in the writ­ten word, when I was going through some­thing as sim­ple as a bad day. As time has passed, I’ve elim­i­nat­ed most of the things that both­er me enough to turn to this medi­um. It was a slow and sys­tem­at­ic process, both inter­nal and exter­nal. My new-found seren­i­ty has left me with lit­tle rage. I’m hap­pi­er now, and hap­pi­ness is too hard to write.

It would seem that I’ve run out of things to say.

There have been few epipha­nies, and even less inspi­ra­tion, in the last while. Maybe it’s because I’m in the mid­dle of a tran­si­tion. It takes a foun­da­tion of sta­bil­i­ty, some­thing I haven’t had in months, to grow. My life has­n’t quite set­tled yet.

Writer’s block is a sign that I’ve stopped grow­ing, a tes­ta­ment to what and how much I’ve been through.

But more impor­tant­ly, it’s a sign that I’m approach­ing where I want to go in my life.

The Maternal Grudge

Under the guise of some trou­ble with her iPod, the old sec­ond gen­er­a­tion clunk­er that I gave her last Christmas, my moth­er calls me on Saturday, close to mid­night.

I can hear the con­ges­tion in her nose. She’s been cry­ing. It gets lone­ly when you’re alone in the house on a Saturday night, the same house you’ve inhab­it­ed for the last 15 years of your life with your façade of a fam­i­ly, and the façade is torn down.

Our last phone-call did­n’t end well. She want­ed to know why we weren’t as close as oth­er sons with their moth­ers.

How can we be close”, I told her, “You go crazy every time I tell you some­thing impor­tant. You’re sti­fling. Overprotective. Growing up, it made my life a night­mare.” For the first time in my life, I revealed a glimpse of how she had wronged me, not even bring­ing up the mem­o­ries of men­tal abuse I keep buried in my chest for times like this, like an ember ready to be stoked into a fire.

It’s because you’re my only son, and the only thing I have left now.” Saying these words, spark­ing a sud­den real­iza­tion, makes her sob more. She tells me that she wants to start over. It’s nev­er too late. She wants to be stronger so she can sur­vive this divorce, and close to me so she’s isn’t left with­out an emo­tion­al bond.

I can only say that I’ll have to for­give her first. Up to then, she did­n’t even know that there was any­thing to for­give.

Unfortunately, for­give­ness isn’t some­thing that’s in my pow­er. I have no pity for her. Knowing how vul­ner­a­ble, weak, and depressed she is just a reminder of my own child­hood, and only time has a chance at edul­co­rat­ing the bit­ter taste in my mouth.

So she calls me on Saturday, pre­tend­ing to need some help with her iPod, to see if I’ve for­giv­en her yet. If I ignore her, I become as ter­ri­ble a per­son as she was. I only wish I could believe that she did­n’t deserve it.

But I can’t.