walter asked me if i had any hobbies yesterday. it was an awkward question and i felt myself trying to bullshit my way into convincing both of us that i do have hobbies. but i don't and i asked him about his and he could not think of anything either so i felt better about it. but still not great. i have felt very one dimensional lately. and i know that i am not but my inability to speak in front of people has finally caught up with me and made me believe i have little to say.

my sister is always asking me what i am reading. i like reading again. my glasses are not reading glasses but they make it easier to read. i think it is because my eyes don't hurt as much anymore. they are not so strained. she is reading all the time and always some fascinating book that i want to borrow but restrain from asking because i know i will let it sit on the shelf for years and she will be annoyed by that and i will just feel guilty.

i started a book on the train this morning. the woman warrior by maxine hong kingston. i first read it when i was nineteen for my first women's studies class. i think it changed my life but i barely remember it. it is a good reread. there are several stories and the first, which i just finished, is about her aunt who killed herself in china because she got pregnant while her husband was away. the village attacked their house and ruined their crops, killed their animals, and beat her the night she was to give birth. She gave birth and drowned herself and her baby in the family well. the author was told this story after she get her period, a warning of what can happen if you have sex. she was told only these details but the story she tells in her book is longer, fleshed out. i find it interesting how we flesh out stories that are part of our history. our need to plug in details to understand what is happening. maybe everyone does not do that. but i do. and i feel like i have grown up around a lot of stories that are just bones. no meat. no flesh. no skin. our imaginations help us understand.