Two things: We watched A Ballerina’s Tale, a [very poor] documentary on Misty Copeland, last night, and this morning, I called my dad. Also, my brother’s been reaching out to me via Kakao, and honestly, it’s a bit annoying. Sorry, three things.
The Misty Copeland documentary was truly disappointing, Don’t get me wrong, I’m a fan of the dancer, but the film itself just did not really do her justice. I mean, I read her book, and so, I felt like the entire movie was sort of like Misty saying something to the effect, “Please leave all the drama and negativity out of this film. It’s in the past; I’m done with it.” This is all well and good, except that without the drama and the other HALF of life, you end up watching nothing at all really, since, as a viewer, you are obviously aware of the fact that Misty Copeland reached her penultimate goal. The point of documenting her journey is to witness … the journey. I was mostly excited to watching the dancing, since, again, as a film, the viewer views sch things that a reader cannot experience, and yet that aspect of the movie was also quite dull. *sigh. Oh well.
I called my dad this morning after my mom begged me to due to the crisis of North Korea. Being as it is that I live in South Korea, my parents are naturally concerned. When I called, my mom answered his phone. I don’t know why this bugs me so much, but it absolutely drives me crazy. If it only happened once, then it wouldn’t be a problem. But it’s like she tricks me into talking to her. Obviously, I don’t mind calling my mom, I just don’t think I should call her just to call her or quell her fears. She should be proud that I don’t need to call her all the time and that I’ve grown into a healthy, self-sufficient adult who doesn’t need to be coddled. Instead, she feels like a failure because her daughter isn’t her best friend. Anyway, I always sort of dread talking with my family, and I don’t really know why. But whenever I get the chance to talk to my dad, I always love it. I should call my dad more. The truth is that I just don’t like … hate, really, to call anyone really. If Ee and I didn’t live together, I would also hate having to call him. He knows this, and I know this, and I know that he knows this, and so, I think our relationship would suffer greatly if we ever had to be long distance. Of course, it wouldn’t end, but we really wouldn’t talk to each other. I don’t know, maybe. Probably not. My point is that whenever I do finally call my dad, I always feel really good and happy. Often times, I feel a lot happier than I did before talking to him. Talking to my mother, on the other hand, has the exact opposite outcome. She just like to take jabs at me, always under her breath or backhandedly. For instance, one time, when I was having a lighthearted conversation about how Ee and I were coming up on seven years of being together, she offhandedly said, “Oh, after seven years, I threatened your father that I would leave him if we didn’t get married.” I’ll just leave that at that.
As for my brother, he rarely contributes anything positive. I think that most of the problem rest on my knowing his personality and the way that he interacts with the world. I’ve witnessed it first hand. He would always rather be talking to someone [via web anything] than not. So, when he reaches out to me, it always feels a bit disingenuous, like everyone else was unavailable, so … . Of course, I feel like my brother genuinely cares about me, but I can’t shake the feeling that he just wants someone to be buzzing his phone, anyone. Thus, I generally ignore his pries and prods for instantaneous communication and the like and wait for longer more thoughtful emails and such. Ugh.
In general, I’m feeling much better today. My mind is still physically and figuratively fuzzy, but I think my cold is finally to the point where it’s not making me feel sick. I still have all the symptoms, however. I wrote a stupid little poem on Tuesday, so at least I’ll have completed one goal so far. And I think that’s it. I guess I ought to respond to my brother’s text now.