In a few minutes I'll be in bed reading some piece of opened poetry, literature, or nonfiction. Today in the bookstore I opened Italo Calvino's Mr. Palomar because it hits close to home. The first three lines gave way like moist skin and I had to close the book to stop from going further. I would've bought it if I'd continued, and I have no money to spare. I remember that I love to read and haven't really been reading recently. Poetry here and there, sure. I make it through some nonfiction interests too. But it's been months since I lost time and place to good fiction and the brilliant writing that churns the would-be writer's inferiority complex.

The pornographic images from yesterday's visit to Superflat affected me more than I thought. Today, unexpected slips from consciousness brought flashes of Japanese women's bodies lying or standing, it makes no difference how, just invariably positioned for taking it in. It reminds me of the picture I saw several years ago of a young Korean woman's dead body after a horrific rape. Like then, today every Asian woman is a potential object for tearing apart. That kind of thing I can't shake not only for the brutality but for its cultural specificity. Something to do with the way my culture absorbs and pursues ideals of Asian women. Their cultures package an image and sell it to white culture; our culture does the same to us. I'm just so tired of the trading in the destruction of women's bodies.

I opened the Xmas present my gma was keeping in the fridge for me. By the size and shape of the package, I guessed it probably contained Swiss Colony petit fours and I didn't want to wait a moment longer to dive in to a box of those. I was right and very pleased she remembered how I used to love them. I'd wait anxiously for my ration, pushing the limits of permission on the number I could eat on any given day. I ate two just now from the bottom up. They taste best that way.