Previous Current Older Next Contact

2002-03-27 7:30 p.m.

the wooler's daughter

Hmm. I've been prolific recently. The last three entries have been really long- sorry about that. I know it's short attention span theater around here...

I feel like saying that the blossoming love between these two really warms my heart. Beautiful.

I felt like that once... I remember someone telling me in high school, "You and Duchess are so cute together! I hope you don't end up hating each other." Well, we didn't. I don't think.

I wish I felt like that with Junko, but the truth is I really don't... It's my main worry about the relationship- it just doesn't feel passionate the way I think it should... There are moments, I suppose...

This is my 152nd entry. That seems like a lot. Two years. An eleventh of my life. My life around the time of my first entries seems so long ago now...

(And now for something completely different...) I've been thinking about my first memory of racism lately. I was probably 6 or 7. My mother was working on an art degree at the time, specializing in weaving (I've done some weaving myself over the years, but that's another topic). There was some local wool producer (I think that's what she did) who my mother bought wool from, and I would often go with her when she went to make a purchase. One time, while my mother and the wooler (or whatever they're called) were conducting their business, me and the wooler's daughter (who was about my age) wandered off to play or something. We were walking through a trailer park, if I remember, and we encountered a pair of Native American kids about our age sitting on the front steps of a trailer. I attempted to talk to them- maybe get them to play with us- but they wouldn't respond. I tried again, but the wooler's daughter interrupted me by saying, "Whaddya wanna talk to them for? They're just a coupl'a dumb Indian kids!" I was smart enough even then to be confused and even slightly offended by that... Of course, the wooler's daughter and I did not become friends. (Though doesn't that sound like a great name for a play or a book? "The Wooler's Daughter" Yeah.)

Resolved: I shall not feel guilty for time spent playing musical intruments.

Sometimes people translate my entries into other languages, like this one. Someone once translated my "classic" projectile vomit entry into Spanish, too, but I haven't bothered to reproduce that one.


only the weak are sent on paths without perils,