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Friday, September 09, 2005

My summer's been great, but arriving back my mother and I fractured our relationship. I'm not grateful enough; she has a different persona for each different guest. Which leads to me ignoring her: if she's not going to play at being a mother, I won't bother with being a son.

I don't like how she sees America: a bastion of friendliness. Homely. She still thinks England is how it was back in the 70s, when she arrived. Grey, dismal.

To me London is everything. I don't care for pretty buildings, or for order and cleanliness. I like the ramshackle, organic feeling. To navigate the spindly streets is enjoyable. Crossing when it feels good, taking back alleyways with friends in close tow. Surrounded by history that makes everything seem... Washed out?

These aren't only English things, just like her virtues aren't solely American. I thought I was past teenage stage, and could relax at home, but obviously not. What she thinks is being generous is just reasonable to me.

Hm. Maybe it's because she went back to work, and when she's home she expects everything to be the same. Even though I've come home to a horribly empty, large house, spectres hanging in the rooms, unobserved. Until I check every room I can't even tell who's home.

But yeah, there's a feeling building. I'm burned out at the end of every day, which makes Fridays doubly dead. I don't think she's realising how hard I'm working. Maybe because she works just as hard, if not harder. I can't wait to be in university. She knows it, and it hurts her. Within three years she'll have no kids at home. 20 years of parenting, and we're gone.
The ironic purpose of every nest - no matter how well constructed, how comfortable, how warm and secure - is to be a platform from which the hatchlings must fly or fall. Its height, the very thing that gives it its safety, is what makes its leaving so necessary and so dangerous.

The unusually philosophical OAO
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