Ashamed to be white?

I don't know if I'm racist. I think I am ashamed to be white?? I don't know. The way we treated the Aboriginals was disgusting - IS disgusting and how many years did it take the prime minster to apologize? And why didn't John Howard want to? Because he was afraid of having to pay all this money?
It literally makes me feel sick. I see racism everywhere. At my work the old boss refused to hire Indians because...?? I don't know. The cook and one of the managers are always making racial slurs to Africans and Indians and I am filled with dread and pain every time I hear them speak. They talk about 'reserve racism', what the FUCK is that? That racism only belongs to black people???
Hell, I sound so politically incorrect but I feel so messed up. I feel ashamed to be white. I am ashamed of where I come from. I'm ashamed of my colour. It hurts.  
You may have heard of, read the book or seen the movie 'Precious' which is based on the book Push by Sapphire...and I'm reading all these articles about how 'white people'v.fvsdfvnsdvfsd
fuvk
i dont kjow

 

"But Charlie don't forget what happened to the man who got everything he always wanted..."

"What happened?"


"He lived happily ever after"

Dickens.

I feel like wind. Wind is so nice. I find it amusing that I write this because if it actually was windy there is no doubt that I would be complaining, trying to stop my hair whip itself in my eyes and feeling fed up with all the whole business of "wind". But as it stands it is not windy and my hair is not in my eyes so at this very moment I do want wind because wind is nice when it isn't around. I'm glad that makes so much sense.

It is 2010. I didn't celebrate last night. Not really. I lounged around eating chocolate strawberries, crisps and dip, drinking wine and watching silly movies. My friend was meant to come round but she didn't. It was a bit of a disappointment. Louis was sick so he stayed in bed. He stayed up till midnight but then he pretty much fell asleep straight away. I read some more Dickens. I love him. I don't even know why. His stories are just so interesting! I devour his books. I think the fact that all his novels were published as monthly installments definitely helps eliminate all the "boring bit". It meant that after every installment he left his readers with a cliffhanger. You always want to know what happens next so I just can't stop reading. I'm like a mad woman possessed. I even feel annoyed when my eyes start to glaze over and I can't prize them open any longer and I drift off into sleep without knowing what's going to happen. I don't want to sleep - I want to read and read and when I get to the end I want to begin again because I just can't bear not being there with all the different characters! I read with bated breathe, my heart pounding away - the adventures sending thrills through my chest, down each arm into my fingers until I'm tingling all over. I love going to the bookstore too. I just love it. I love that feeling I get when I walk in knowing that I am surrounded by so many great stories, so many different stories - thousands of lives that I can just walk into and be a part of! Doesn't that amaze you?? We can just step out of our drab little existence and suddenly be in an enchanting, wicked, mysterious, charming, horrific or funny new world. It sends me shivers up my spine! I love books. I love the way they smell, I love the way they look, I love the way they can transport me away from all the pain and grief...I love the way you are never alone when you are reading Dickens.

You know who is awesome?

Bob Dylan.

No words needed.

I had a strange dream and now I feel oddly perturbed. I'm not even sure what happened but I can still see the imagery. It's playing on my mind. I remember being tied on to something with two other people. There was an overweight girl with long blonde hair and plump red lips who was standing next to me (I think we were tied onto a slide or something similar) and there was someone else next to me but I cannot remember him at all. There was a large cage behind us with three tiny dolls stuck onto it and I know if you wanted to be untied and freed you had to pull your doll off, twist it around with your thumb and then hold it up so everyone could see. I think at first there was like sixteen of us tied onto the slide and one by one the numbers dwindled...until there was the only three of us. It was some kind of disturbing game and I'm not sure what the object of it was but it was scary. We had to hold onto something (life maybe) and I got the sense that someone was watching us but I never saw this person and I don't think he was ever in the dream but he was watching us squirm and suffer. He enjoyed our pain. I remember feeling sick as if something monstrous was happening to me. It was like I was stuck in the cage and I couldn't get out, no matter how hard I pulled, pushed and struggled. No one would let me go but yet I had the option of leaving, finding my own doll and pulling it forward...letting the invisible ropes lift off and then I could run. I could run away but for ages I didn't. I simply stood there holding all with all my might, crying to myself and asking why...why had I been stuck here. The girl next to me did not struggle. She was obviously in pain but she stood there quietly and she did not complain. Every once and a while she would reach over and touch my hand and we would look at each other. Eventually I couldn't take it anymore and I told the girl and the boy that I needed to find my doll. They didn't want me to, they almost begged me to stay but they knew it was no use...

What can I say but this picture gives me the greatest joy? Breakfast At Tiffany's is a masterpiece.

Truman Capote is genius and I am in love with him.

Capote's words read like magic. His language is so engaging, so honest and heartfelt...his descriptions so vivid, so bright, so alluring. I am swept up into the world he weaves.

The movie is quite different to the novella however they both enchant me.

Audrey Hepburn is such a delight to feast your eyes upon.
I am going to read 'In Cold Blood' after I have finished reading 'The Pickwick Papers' by Dickens. I love Dickens too. I absolutely love him. These writers are my friends, perhaps my only friends. Oh, I know that sounds bad and I do have people who care about me but when Michael - well, I can't bring myself to say it..but when that happened only a few people were there. They know who they are so there is no point in scribbling down a petty little list (and anyway, aren't I petty enough?) but when all is said and done, it hurt like hell. But what hurts the most is that these people who I considered my friends didn't even: CORRECTION, don't even realize what Michael means to me. Not even the slightest. Of course I do not expect anyone to...but these were close friends. People who could have - who SHOULD have picked up the telephone and said a few, kind words. They didn't. And now it has been six months and two days since I have heard from any of them.
Forgive me for being petty. Forgive me for being childish. I mean it's not as though I even want to hear from them anyway. Am I lying? Fooling and deluding myself to make myself feel better when I know deep down I desperately want one of them to call? That I lie awake at night scrunching my pillow up between my clenched fists and panting, awaiting such a call? That I run to my mobile each day in hope of a text message that could not say anything to make me feel better anyway? That all I think about day and night is how I want to be part of that group again? That I fill my days with false hope and make believe games? How I want to feel loved and precious and artistic again? Well not exactly...but every so often I do think about them.

Nice.

"Life is pain, life is fear, and man is unhappy. Now all is pain and fear. Now man loves life because he loves pain and fear. That's how they've made it. Life now is given in exchange for pain and fear, and that is the whole deceit. Man now is not yet the right man. There will be a new man, happy and proud. He for whom it will make no difference whether he lives or does not live, he will be the new man. He who overcomes pain and fear will himself be God. And this [current] God will not be.
But do you understand, I cry to him, do you understand that along with happiness, in the exact same way and in perfectly equal proportion, man also needs unhappiness!"