I've been reading quiet a bit since we've settle down. Not the 2.3 books Phil reads a day but a decent amount. Mostly Japanese authors, Soseki Natsume and Haruki Murakami, hands down some of the best reading I've ever done. The day before last, I finished my last book of theirs and had to resort to the MIL library reserve. Last. Last. Last. So I'm reading The Diary of Anne Frank. Why such punishment, I don't know. It is like some kind of torture to read it and, like a squirming child trying to resist her spoonful of medicine, I read dutifully. If you've ever read the book, you can sympathize with me but I'm not sure why you would. The book makes me paranoid. Not just that I'm waiting for Anne to be taken away by her inevitable destiny but that her destiny was not a figment of some authors vivid imagination but instead a ...boulder lodged in the throat of humanity. Every turned paged leads me to the question: Why am I so damn lucky? I try to find a logical answer but I can't. Like a pachinko player who's bound to strike either gold or bankruptsy - I crank the handle on another day somewhat absent mindedly and hope for the best with waxy eyes and warm thoughts.
Last night, Phil came down with a fever. I think I was fretting more than a little over him, dosing him with potent ginger tea, two advils, cold compresses and the Sakura City brochure as a fan to cool him down. I was having a paranoia attack over his body, fanning frantically. I'm sure this overreaction was due to Ms. Frank. Phil's fever was a kind of tragedy about to unfurl around me and I was a young girl holed up in a dark room awaiting something terrible. Except that if I was more like her, I would lean over the body of my apparently dying boyfriend to look out the window and say something like..."My, what grand weather!" And by no means do I mean (mean. mean. mean.) to belittle Anne Frank's spirit with my earlier comment but instead only intend to highlight my own tendency towards pessimism. And what do I have to be pessimistic about in light of my life? Really, I should be spanked.
When I woke this morning to find Phil's fever broken I couldn't help but think: Lucky, Lucky me.
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3 comments:
Take Anne Frank with a grain of salt, my friend. While the overall events of her life were true, she fabricated a lot in the diary itself--I'm sure partialy for her own amusement. Or she somehow knew we were all going to read it some day...
I'm not sure it really matters to me...but I see what you are saying. If her diary was entirely fictional it would still be a record of someone's thoughts in one form or another, founded or unfounded in fact. Apparently, I have the abridged version too. I guess I wont be reading any colorful descriptions of her genitalia any time soon...? Nice to see you are torturing yourself with my harping again after all this time :)
I guess I should have also mentioned that I am glad to hear Phil is feeling better...because I am.
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