Ah. The furious cycle of August. Not over! Not over. But what feels like soon, and what is soon. In the beginning of it all I had made a trip to the library, and came out with two books from Chinese Non-Fiction. The smaller one was a a truly small one, the type with the cover-jacket-flap-in-one that purported to concisely summarize the Cultural Revolution (Oxford). The second was a wider, longer hardcover, pink on the cover with forest green lettering, which spelled out “Written on Water”, by Eileen Chang (Columbia University Press). I didn’t touch them, for I was reading “Lands of Lost Borders” by Kate Harris, and “The Grapes of Wrath” by Steinbeck. These two books both deserve a post on their own. However, I won’t be able to accomplish that if I only allow myself to write here in the fleeting pattern that I am now.

Anyways, as I quickly blurted to my friend S through my phone typing, reading Eileen Chang has felt like a literary awakening to me. And I suppose feeling, in the literary realm, is being. She feels (IS) like a friend, a strong woman, a lost woman, a highest intellectual, a natural soul. I am furiously writing passages from her book on the white half-piece of paper I carry between the pages. I wanted to cry when she wrote,

“China is a nation of words… An excessive faith in the power of words is our most distinctive characteristic.” (38)

and also when she wrote,

“What a shame that we occupy ourselves instead searching for shadows of ourselves in the shop windows that flit so quickly by – we see only our own faces, pallid and trivial. In our selfishness and emptiness, in our smug and shameless ignorance, everyone of us is like all the others. And each of us is alone.” (52)

and definitely cried when she wrote,

“When sitting in a tram, I sometimes happen to glance up at a gentleman standing in front of me, looking as grand as could possibly be, elegantly attired, refined, clearly a breed apart. But only seldom are such men’s nostrils clean. Thus the phrase: “No man can be a hero in the eyes of those below.” (10)

I am currently only on page 60. I want to quote everything. I’ve been finding myself in a sort of finding-people-to-admire-and-to-guide-me phase. I wonder if it’s an effect of all this resume-writing and “career”-building, attempting to latch on more concretely to ideologies and people whom you have confidence in, given their ideal success – in your mind, that is. Perhaps also an effect of Fleabag’s incredible speech/revelation to Hot Priest. (“Just fucking tell me what to do, Father!” and the ensuing “Kneel.”) Anyways, as long as I do not systematically worship. Emotionally, I’ll have to accept, I think.

Tonight I revisited Susanne Sundfør’s “Music for People in Trouble” and I listened in awe to this once-in-a-light-year artistry. For a brief moment the setting sun peaked from the heavy, lightening gray clouds (which had been spewing life all day) and the road glistened with yellow. There was a rainbow, east. I thought about how much I will miss my room come Toronto. Very much a materialist thought, given the generous size, the comfort, and overflowing books of my room. One of sentiment too.

Summer fruit is meeting its end. The cherries and strawberries my mom bought from Costco were partially rotten, and not nearly as juicy, plump as a few weeks ago (cherries, especially). The watermelon is still divine, however. I can’t believe I have one week to get my shit together for Toronto. I need Casy’s or Hot Priest’s guidance.