Reading Purpose

I once read somewhere that you can be whatever you want to be as long as you work hard enough for it. I read two more articles about the inequality of wealth in the world and how “modern, radical women” should find another “occupation” rather than causing “unnecessary friction” in today’s society-by the same author.

My grandfather always told me to never believe anything I read; he never read anything, but watched television for ten hours a day. My grandmother believed that TV was worse than sleeping, because at least you could always get up and do some work after resting-TV just left you atrophied and hollow.

My father told me that I’d never amount to anything when I told him I wanted to be an artist; he made sure I went to a good fine arts college. My mother said I could be whatever I wanted; she knew I’d change my mind after the first semester.

My professors didn’t like my art because I couldn’t “justify” myself. They said that if I couldn’t defend my art I couldn’t be taken seriously. I never did figure out how to explain why or how my hand moved across the canvas to make what it made. I never knew what it would make, I just had to work and see. But they always demanded a “reason” from me, when no one else could give me “reasons” I asked for.

My fourth girlfriend always told me nothing was wrong when I asked if I could help her. She broke up with me because I didn’t understand her. I read in the newspaper that she committed suicide. She always told the doctors nothing was wrong.
My wife made sure to tell the doctors when something was wrong with me because I didn’t know it. She told me she needed me and that she wanted me to get better, but she decided to separate from me.

She told me we had a daughter. I’ve never seen her, but she says she loves me in unsteady pink letters on purple stationary only on Father’s day.

I don’t think I have a daughter because I’ve never talked with her or seen her to love her.

My sister says that love is too general and doesn’t “allow for specifics of the intermingling of hate and desire.” She says it’s always “juxtaposed” with pain. I understand pain and love. I never figured out what “juxtaposed” meant, though. Maybe it was her way of making me feel better when my wife’s divorce was final. When you don’t know the meaning of a word you can’t know if it is good or bad. I believe this one is good.

My brother died in a car wreck. We were twins. I heard people say that I must feel like half of me died. But he was only a tenth of me. Five tenths belonged to my daughter and the other four tenths went to everyone else.

I don’t think I have a daughter because I’ve never talked with her or seen her to love her, but I’m not sure what to do with the five tenths otherwise.

My ex-wife (who keeps reminding me to negate her name like that) sent me a card on Christmas. It said that she hoped I would be well soon and that I was improving. She said that our daughter was going to come visit me for my birthday.
I wish my grandfather had told me that it was okay sometimes to believe the things that I read.