by Exasperated

1/1/2002…
It's a new year and what not. At least on this side of the Atlantic. Who knows what's happening on the other.

Last night was interesting. I was flipping channels on the TV, and "Basquait" was playing on HBO. I caught the tail end of it. The last couple of minutes. And the main character was telling a story his father had told him once.

A boy prince was kidnapped by rogues and held hostage in a cramped room in the mountains. His only contact with the outside world was this tiny hole in the wall, with wrought iron bars. In hopes of being rescued, the little prince started to bang his shiny, lustrous crown against the bars on the window. Maybe someone will follow the constant clangs and come to his rescue. He banged his crowned head against the bars for days and days. The people in the village down below heard this clanging all day and all night. They were puzzled by it, then came to love this intriguing sound. It was hypnotizing, yet comforting. They would stop and listen in a trance. They enjoyed this pleasurable sound for weeks … then months … then years. The prince was never rescued.

1/3/2002…
Redemption is a funny thing. Second chances are even funnier. I think I have secondchancesophobia. I never understood why people jumped at second chances so readily. So confidently. What's so different this time around? Second chances should be more petrifying than they are redeeming.

1/14/2002…
I haven't written in a while. School had me stressed for a while. What's that little thing they sell you to relieve your stress? It's kind of like silly putty in a balloon. (What is its name?!) And you squeeze on them, I think. I have a couple of those. Sometimes I feel like I am one of those things, though. My breath getting squeezed out of me from 'external pressures.' Exasperated from deforming myself to fit the folds of these hands, just to save myself from rupturing into a mess of cruddy silly putty that once used to be my sanity.
Disinterest is one of my flaws. A long time ago, I used to be able to do things even if I didn't like doing them. My parents called it discipline and diligence. Well, some of it was, I suppose. It does take some discipline to wade through waters that aren't quite to one's liking. It's different now, though. I have stopped doing anything that disinterests me. It's cost me a lot though. Sometimes it's worth it. Almost redeeming.

1/28/2002…
I lost everything. Three years worth of material gone. My wretched computer crashed earlier today. Totally wiped. And I hadn't backed anything up. Min yishaleNal zendiro bakachihu.

2/20/2002…
Not knowing is like death in disguise. I'm not too fond of death. That's why I'm plowing through medical school. I turned 24 last week. It was a small party. Me, a cheap cigar, and eight chapters of assigned reading on cardiac malfunctions. Nobody called. My parents called the next day and apologized for forgetting. I forgave them.

But yeah, not knowing is really a terrible thing. We only technically use a minute percentage of our brain in the entirety of our lifetimes. Add to that the little that we are allowed to know because it has been pre-ordained by some other entity … well, it's not very pretty. So what am I doing dragging my limp ass through medical school? I've asked myself that many times. Initially, I wanted to help people. Maybe do volunteer services treating children somewhere in the middle of nowhere where the doctor-to-patient ration was 1:200,000 or less. Idealism is like a pair of shoes you buy at the store without trying it on, and it ends up not fitting you. At the end of my undergrad years, I wanted a comfortable wallet to sit on more than anything else ….

Shit, I'm late for a date. She's 18. An undergrad freshman. What the hell does she see in me?

2/21/2002...
The date didn't go so well. She was too happy, and ended up calling me a bore, after talking about her plans of going back home and starting up an NGO. I was quiet for most of dinner, and when she didn't return 45 minutes after she left for the ladies room, I wasn't surprised one bit. I paid for the dinner and left. At least the walk home was nice. There was a cute Abesha couple playing gebeTa on a table outside a chic café. What was my last entry about?

Yeah … the med school prerogative. Well, hopes of a good salary was a good and attractive enough of a reason to keep me in one of the country's best med schools. After a while, that wasn't good enough of a reason either. So why am I still here? I'm convinced it's too late to change. I'm disinterested, and I don't want to go on doing this. I need a vacation. Maybe I need to go back home to Nazret. It's been a long time.

3/12/2002...
Museums are great places to nurture solitude. I think they're more fun that way. When you go alone. By yourself. Just take it all in … accept or reject … understand or ignore. I thought it was extremely cathartic today. One of the security guards stared at me indiscreetly with an odd frown as I spent a good half hour in front of a piece that seemed like the painter just ran about splashing colors on canvas. It's not that I understood. But it just kept me there. Maybe that's what the whole hoopla is when it comes to contemporary art. Right now, I couldn't be bothered.

I haven't written in more than two weeks and I can't find much to say. I think that's sad. I keep to myself more than anything, though. So I suppose that could be a reasonable explanation. Nothing dramatic ever happens in my life. Not yet, at least. Maybe a movie or two that manage to raise an eyebrow.

I don't know. I've run out of things to say. Maybe in another two weeks …

3/13/2002...
That girl from that miserable date three weeks ago called at 5am. I would have been aggravated if I were sleeping, but I was up … insomniac … squeezing the living hell out of the stress balloons.
Hey … I'm so sorry I called this late.
It's ok. Dehna nesh?
No.
What happened?
I put my silly putty stress balloon things aside. I need to find out what they're really called really soon.
I'm going back to Addis tomorrow.
Lucky you. Can I come?
It was hard not to be cynical. Besides, I really was nostalgic.
My father died today.
Oh.
I didn't know what more to say. I didn't have to, because she readily burst into tears over the phone and did not stop for a good twenty minutes. I sat there in silence, not knowing why the hell I was fighting back tears. It's very weird how everything seems to work. Or not work. I was on the phone, crying, with the same girl that ran out on me on a date three weeks ago. I pulled back a sackful of nifT and blinked wide-eyed so as not to echo her bawling.
Were you serious about wanting to come?
Uhm, how do I answer that?
Uhm
Well, I was just wondering …
Yes?
…if it's ok with you … to … accompany me back home. I have no family who lives here, and I don't think I want to take this trip alone.
I kept quiet. I stared at the sillyputtyballoonstressballs. They stared back blankly, seemed to shrug helplessly. I picked them up again with an anxious adrenaline rush. They exploded into a sick mess of silly putty all over me with a muted pop!
Uhm … Yes, I'll go with you.