I try to force making a decision on my life to the back of my mind, because any definite decision I make, and any course I choose to take on my life, is just that: a new course. I feel that the moment I make a decision for my life, I am chained to that decision, and I think that is why I take my time. However, I know I need to do something, and do it soon. People are telling me, I’m just letting my gifts and talents waste away, and I must say that I agree with them. But, let me ask you this: When you have several gifts and talents, how do you choose just one to focus on? I believe that is the main area where I get snagged on the thorns of indecision, and right now I am trying to break free. 

Oh, and FYI, writing Japanese is rather hard for a left-handed person, because the strokes are designed for it to be done with your right hand. 

Did I ever mention that I went to Sea World twice last year?  It took me over a year, but I finally uploaded the pictures to my flickr account. One of these days I’ll get up the ones I took at the San Diego Zoo and the San Diego Wild Animal Park. At the rate I am going, it might be another year or two before I do that. Can you feel the motivation just oozing out of me?

When we reached our room, not only did we not have an HDTV, we had a TV from the early 90’s (cheap bastards). This meant that nothing I had would work because all I had to work with on this old-school TV was an F-jack. On top of this, there was only one free outlet in the room for three women to fight over for hair-styling products, notebook power adapters, mobil-phone adapters etc. This of course would not do, so my sisters and I went out to find a place that sold what we needed. As luck would have it, I found what I needed at a Home Depot: a Video Converter RF modulator with S-video, two surge protectors, two coaxial cables, and an antenna diplexer. I would like to note that I still have no idea how the Hell I knew that was what I needed, but I did. Maybe it was my inner geek speaking to me, who knows? All I know is that it worked like a charm, and made my sisters and I all three very happy closet otaku. However, now I have all this extra gear at my flat, with no idea when I’ll have to use it again. 

My grandparents were thrilled, as were my parents, that I loved such an intellectual pastime. To further encourage this habit of mine, my grandparents constantly sent me books. I received novels in various languages, on different topics, with little notes from them on the inside cover for my birthday or Christmas. Over the years, they have remained the foundation for my book-collection, going with me wherever I moved.

The first time I stepped into a library, I didn’t know where to begin. My mother had a bag that I filled with the maximum number of books I was allotted. She eased my frustration when she told me that I could come back to the library when I finished the books I had. I think she underestimated how fast I could go through them, because we were back at the library in a matter of a couple days for more books. I was devouring every single page of text at a rapid rate, which caused my parents much disbelief. So as to verify I actually read a book, they flipped through a few pages, asking me questions about the book’s plot. The expression that was on their faces when I regurgitated it to them was priceless.

In secondary school, I raided the library on a daily basis. I would checkout my two allotted books for the day, returning them the following morning, checking out another two books. I was “that” kid who walked around school with her nose shoved in a book. I couldn’t help myself: I loved to read. The students hated me in my literature courses, because we’d be assigned a book to spend several weeks on, and I would come into class the following day having already read it. Then so as to add more salt to their wounds, I would reply to inquisitions about the book with a sly smile and a simple “Read the book.”

Of course, looking back on things, I realize that reading was my escape from life when things were hard. I survived my brother’s illness and subsequent death by daily escaping into another world for a few hours. My father’s affair and parents’ divorce was accompanied by several hundred pages, sometimes over a thousand a day. Even when I was without electricity last fall I passed the time by reading a book accompanied by lantern-light.

When I began college things changed and I realized just how stubborn I was. I didn’t like being forced to do what I had done for fun up until then: reading several hundred pages a night. I know people found it overwhelming to suddenly have that much “work”. For me, it wasn’t that it was difficult, but that it was “work.” The difficulty also arose that if I found a book that I liked, I couldn’t read it because I would deviate from my schoolwork. Read a novel, or read my textbooks? It was admittedly a decision I hated having to make. Was this a part of adulthood that I will always have to deal with:  to put real-life over a paged one? I was continually asking myself this.

Up until that point I was non-discriminatory in choosing the work of one author over another: I just read anything. Then, I fell into the group of people who will read a book, devouring it whole, and then wait for the next book by the author of the book they enjoyed. Of course after waiting for that book to come out, sometimes well over a year, they are finally at the midnight release for the book. They take the anticipated book home, create their ideal reading environment, and begin to engorge themselves upon the pages, the tapestry of the author. Before they know it, the experience of reading the book for the first time, something that cannot be replicated, has come to a close.

That was my routine the past few years. I knew my time for leisure reading was precious, as it something that I didn’t have much for anymore due to my studies. I got my copy of whichever Harry Potter book was out at the time, cracked it open, and before I knew it the moment I had waited so long for was over in a matter of a few hours. Of course once I finished the book, I would read it again, but anyone who has experienced what I’ve described can agree that nothing can compare to the first read-through.

Why am I writing all this now? Why am I taking the time to wander aimlessly through the pages of my memories in my mind? It is because for the first time I’ve done something new and I am trying to make sense of it. I waited months for “The Host” by Stephenie Meyer to come out. I’ve read all her other books, devouring them as soon as they’ve hit the shelves. When “The Host” came out a couple weeks ago, I bought it the day it was released. However, instead of devouring it the moment I got it through the door, I placed it on my bedside table, and there it has remained unread.

Why haven’t I read it yet? I’ve had opportunities to. I spent one weekend cleaning my flat, thinking oh, I’ll climb into bed and read it once I’ve a spotless flat. Instead of doing what I had planned, I found myself looking at it wistfully and going, not just yet. Not just yet? What am I waiting for? I can only postulate that I’ve finally grown to truly appreciate a good book. I no longer just appreciate the escape it provides, nor do I just appreciate reading it after much anticipation. No, now I appreciate that I can only savour a bottle of fine wine for the first time, once. Am I ready to pop the cork? No, not just yet.

It took it awhile, but it eventually went down for the count. I would’ve used my hairspray/lighter method, but I wanted to get my security deposit back for the flat at the end of my lease.

Oh yeah, I’m going to be checking my flat for these things for weeks now. Did I mention I’ve a bit of arachnophobia? I’m still waiting for the “flight” adrenaline response to subside: this shit is better than caffeine on a narcoleptic.