True Blue

I've been reading Virginia Woolf. and i just finished watching The Hours. she lays down on the ground and looks into the eye of a dead or dying bird. i dont think that i could ever commit suicide because i could never write last words that would suit. i would always think of something better, or something i forgot. i could spend my whole life until natural death writing a suicide note, and i would live forever with dissatisfaction with it. isnt that how we all live though. trying to do something significant, permanent, appropriate, True. i havnt written anything in a year and a half. its like i didnt exsist for that whole time. i did. i did exsist. it is strange that today i also had tea and cookies. strange strange, but wholly apt somehow. i've been thinking about coming of age. how it is decided when a child is an adult. or when the child decides it is an adult. we dont have any rituals or ceremonies. i think that is tragic. it is unfair, we are given no guidepost by our culture about how we are to act. when is it? 18th birthday, when we are age of majority? when we graduate high school or university? are we not adults until we have children of our own? until our parents die? there are so many coming of age indie movies. i watched igby goes down yesterday, its one of my favorites. so honestly truely self indulgent and childish. unpretensious. it doesnt even matter probably, whether one is a child or an adult, or feels as though one is a child or an adult, or feels anything. probably best not to try. i went through all my pictures today and catagorized them. there are huge chunks of my life missing, when i didnt have my camera, or didnt think to take pictures. i will forget these times, i think. am forgetting already. of little consequence, as i forget things that i do have pictures of, until my memories are not memories at all but just the image in my head of the picture. and it is gone, lost forever, how i felt or what i thought of or what i was doing, an hour before the picture was taken, or what i did immediately after, because nobody else was there, in my head, in my body, except me, and i cannot remember. until we just become charicatures of our self, because a character in our own novel. in our own epic poem. childe rolande. it is unjust that one can forget ones own life. who else would remember. who else would know what is or is not important. how can i be myself if i cannot remember how i have become myself. i guess its best kid, to be true blue.