girlsdontcry's Diaryland Diary

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On personal myths and false memories.

When I speak to my parents, who live on the other side of the world to me, I talk about as little as possible.

Past experience has taught me that you never know when one tiny personal detail revealed in a moment of weakness will results in a tirade of abuse or advice from my mother.

So when I speak to my parents, usually on a Sunday morning when I'd sooner be sitting around on my arse doing fuck all, I talk about as little as possible.

I talk about what films I've seen, if I've been to any exhibitions, my brother, or else I ask a lot of questions about relatives I am planning on never seeing again.

This summer I've seen two productions of Shakespeare plays. One was completely brilliant, it was on at this amazing theatre with a fantastic, all-male cast, done traditional Elizabethan style. Twelfth Night.

Now, I've mentioned this to my parents a couple of times. And my mother keeps telling me about the time she went with my father to see Henry V, the Kenneth Branagh film. She tells this stupid story about looking up this scene to see if they'd really done it as it was written.

The thing is... my mother wasn't at the cinema. It was ME. I went with my father, and I came home and looked it up. I have no idea why my mother has reconstructed this story so that she was the one who saw the movie, but she has.

I was thinking about this, because I was thinking about identity and self.

I've always had this feeling that maybe I have no self. I never believe in horoscopes, or those personal myths, like "I was born in the middle of a hurricane and I've always been wild".

And I can never believe any of those stories that my mother tells me about what I was like as a child because, more than likely, they're just not true.

I'm not, you know, bitter about this. I think it's kind of funny. But sometimes I'd like stuff just to be easy, and not to think about it all, I guess.

8:43 p.m. - 2002-08-06

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