more more quick random thoughts

It's 10:30 pm. Time to go to sleep. I want to wake up at 2 this morning to give me enough time to work on an art project before I have to start my day job at 3:30 or 4. The art project is a 20 page comic story about my sister. I've been subconsciously avoiding starting any real concrete work on this thing. Not good when I have a September commitment to have this thing published in an upcoming Filipino literary anthology.

Why the reticence? Why the delay? I guess I'm afraid. I'm afraid of telling my side of the story without giving my sister her fair chance to rebut. I'm afraid of saying things that would hurt the wrong people. I'm afraid of being exploitative of my sister's memory. There's a scene in that Bette Midler movie "Beaches" where she sits by her friend (played by Barbara Hershey) as that friend slowly passes away. Is the attention on her dying friend? No. It's on the heavily filtered Bette angelicly smiling her ass off as Barbara croaks OFF CAMERA slumping on a beach chair. That scene pissed me off. Can you say the words "ego project?" So Bette's reaction to her friend dying is SO MUCH more important than the fact her friend is DYING????

I so do not want to be like Bette Midler in "Beaches".

I think about Kim every day. I want people to know how much of a annoying/resilient/needy/amazing person she was. I want to keep her memory alive, but I feel like I'm doing a poor job of it. My life is such that if I pay attention to one thing, another thing that also needs attention suffers. It could be housework. It could be my wife, son and goddaughter. It could be my dayjob. It could be the stack of dvds and comics collecting dust in my room. It could be my art. It could be the update for my website. It could be the 3 emails from old friends I'd love to respond to but don't have the energy.

I feel more like an adult than ever before. Perhaps it's just that I feel more comfortable with my age than ever before. I constantly think of myself as "40" and publicly call myself an "old" man. I remember how disappointed Kim was with the decisions I made. Settling down for a steady corporate wage and a nice family life in the suburbs. Turning my back on my wildest dreams and aspirations. I remember the subtle look of disdain when I showed her my cubicle or changed my son's diapers. Maybe she was envious. Maybe she wasn't. I do know she commented to more than one person about my lack of ambition. I wished I could have been more like her, but I know there really was no way that would ever happen. I acknowldeged my limits, perhaps a little too well. My sister never did. Her drive left her with an amazing life, but it also lead to her premature death. She could have slowed down, take a break, but there was too much to do and see. She took a bus she shouldn't have. She received several warnings from different sources (human, biological and supernatural) not to do so, but she wouldn't listen. She had to see the rest of Ghana before the end of her vacation. Now she's dead. Kim died being Kim.