For unlike my mother, I did not believe I could be anything I wanted to be. I could only be me.

I had always assumed we had an unspoken understanding about these things: that she didn't really mean I was a failure, and I really meant I would try to respect her opinions more. But listening to Auntie Lin tonight reminds me once agian: My mother and I never really understood one another. We translated each other's meanings and I seemed to hear less than what was said, while my mother heard more. No doubt she told Auntie Lin I was going back to school to get a doctorate.

That was a wonderful period in my life. I mean, I didn't become an artist, but somebody let me do something I loved. What a luxury, to do something you love to do.

Too many good things all seem the same after a while.

Don't think too much. That makes you believe you have more choices than you do. Then you mind becomes confused.

A psychiatrist does not want you to wake up. He tells you to dream some more, to find the pond and pour more tears into it. And really, he's just another bird drinking from your misery.

Then you must teach my daughter this same lesson. How to lose your innocence but not your hope. How to laugh forever.