Growing up, the weeks leading up to Christmas meant a clean house, an air of anticipation and hope, good food, music, friends, magic, wonders from around the world displayed on table tops and tree, and a happy mom.
Until recently I clung to those happy memories and always felt so down after Christmas because I was so connected to that earlier life and After Christmas meant again the descent into chaos, lack and neglect. As an adult, I hated taking the tree down, hated having to wait another whole year before I could again have those thrills of pre-Christmas perfection.
But this year is different. The summer's work of un-charging the sting of the past, cutting the cords of emotional connection I still had to my childhood is evident in my feelings now that Christmas is over. I'm not sad, let-down, and worried about having missed some chance at joy. This year I am taking down the tree now, throwing out the garlands with a month of dust on them, and replacing my table decorations with a sparkling bowl of fruit, white candles and empty space....room for the new of the new year.
No need to hang on to the old anymore. Lots more happiness and joy on the way! No need to worry about a descent into hardship, I have faith in myself that all will be good even without the reassurance of red and green.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
the scene
If I could paint this is what I would paint in a Persepolis-graphic novel mode (with some inspiration also from Kahlo): a woman stands in a chador, all you see are her heavily made-up dark eyes which are alluring and sex-kitten-like. if you look closely at the layers of paint that make up her chador, you can barely detect that she is wearing red sexy lingerie and has voluptuous figure. she is standing in a room, seen in a skewered, three-dimensional way. there are many walls between her and the outside world. the only link she has to the outside from this prison-like room is a phone cord, that curls around her like a growing vine and trails out the window and over to the other half of the painting.
in this second half, a white woman is curled up in a corner of a room. she has long elegant legs that are curled up gracefully around her, her hair is long and blonde and swirls around her naked breasts. you see a glimpse of her eyes peaking through the hair and arms wrapped around her upper body. they are clear and blue and are outlined by the remains of smeared mascara.
there is an emaciated man lying sprawled as if on a cross on a bed in the room as well. he is asleep but also looks like he could be dead. he is so thin you can see his hip-bones and ribs. he has the eyes of a sad persian poet. a swath of cloth hides his sex. the cloth is decorated with the words: "lies create grief, hidden love creates chaos, secrets create distance, deception creates walls and pain" over and over in tiny print on the cloth. the phone cord has crawled into this room via the back pocket of a pair of discarded jeans that lie on the floor and leads to a cell phone that the man clutches. the phone is in the shape of a heart and is broken and smashed. the walls are plastered with calendars, starting with February 2007, and going until August 2008. there are numbers marked in red on each day in a violent hand.
there is a sense because of the angle of the lay-out that the man on the bed is closer in space to the woman in the chador than to the woman in the same room as him.
in the frame of the room, so close you can barely make out what the fuzzy image is, a brown girl with curly hair sits absorbed in a book, her eyes are glued to the page, she is hunched over in self-protection. the book is entitled: "no father."
in this second half, a white woman is curled up in a corner of a room. she has long elegant legs that are curled up gracefully around her, her hair is long and blonde and swirls around her naked breasts. you see a glimpse of her eyes peaking through the hair and arms wrapped around her upper body. they are clear and blue and are outlined by the remains of smeared mascara.
there is an emaciated man lying sprawled as if on a cross on a bed in the room as well. he is asleep but also looks like he could be dead. he is so thin you can see his hip-bones and ribs. he has the eyes of a sad persian poet. a swath of cloth hides his sex. the cloth is decorated with the words: "lies create grief, hidden love creates chaos, secrets create distance, deception creates walls and pain" over and over in tiny print on the cloth. the phone cord has crawled into this room via the back pocket of a pair of discarded jeans that lie on the floor and leads to a cell phone that the man clutches. the phone is in the shape of a heart and is broken and smashed. the walls are plastered with calendars, starting with February 2007, and going until August 2008. there are numbers marked in red on each day in a violent hand.
there is a sense because of the angle of the lay-out that the man on the bed is closer in space to the woman in the chador than to the woman in the same room as him.
in the frame of the room, so close you can barely make out what the fuzzy image is, a brown girl with curly hair sits absorbed in a book, her eyes are glued to the page, she is hunched over in self-protection. the book is entitled: "no father."
Thursday, August 21, 2008
six
she is six. she stands in the small kitchen, the formica spotless and foreign. she can't swallow. the Roman Meal bread has formed a doughy throat-plug. the woman is standing nearby drinking a cup of Sanka. it is early morning. she refuses to cry, doesn't feel safe, doesn't want pity. the woman is a stranger. she can offer no comfort.
where was mommie? why didn't she pick her up from kindergarten yesterday? why did this stranger take her home instead? where is kitty and bruce, the dog? are they at a stranger's house too? can they swallow their food?
she wanted her mommie and her favorite blanket and her bed and her toys and everything to be normal and ok.
she had waited and waited for mommie to come and pick her up. she was playing and noticed that she was the only child left at school and the sun was setting and she was there still! where was mommie so she could give her one of her running tackle hugs that knocked mommie over on the floor and then they laughed and hugged? and then on the ride home they could make up silly songs about the bad cafeteria food at mommie's work.
instead she walked through the empty parking lot with the woman to the woman's car and tried not to cry and clutched her coat and wondered if the woman knew where her mommie was.
she is six and now she is sitting in a bedroom of another little girl. this other little girl's mother agreed to take her and keep her until mommie gets out of the hospital. mommie is sick. it is a different kind of sick than a body sickness. it is not a cold, or a stomach ache or something like that, she has been told. mommie has some problems with the way she thinks about things and needs some help from the doctors in the hospital to get better. mommie will be away for a few months. she does not know where her dad is or why she has not seen him. she does not know this mom and daughter she is with very well, but the other little girl has lots of barbies and the mom lets them eat candy and dessert and ice cream. so that is good. it is summer soon, so they play together all day and it is kind of like having a sister, except that she misses her mommie all the time and feels sad a lot. she doesn't talk about it. she has a little framed photo of her mommie by her bed and at night she always says goodnight to the photo and kisses it.
she is six and she is going to see her mommie at the hospital! She is better enough to see her! it is a big big building but she doesn't have to go inside. instead, she sits with mommie under a big tree on the grass and mommie gives her some paper dolls that she cut out for her with happy faces drawn on and little dresses in different prints drawn on. mommie kind of feels like a stranger...it has been so long since she saw her. and then she has to say good-bye and leave her there and go back to her other home with the mom and daughter.
she wonders: what did i do that was bad that made mommie sick? what did i do that made me left alone? how was i not good enough? why did everyone leave me here alone? where is dad? where is grandpa and grandma? where is aunt c? why am i alone? i must not be important to them. i must not be loved. i must not be loveable.
she is forty-one. she is curled up in the fetal position in bed. she washed down her "happy pill" with vodka tonight so she could stop feeling the pain. her ten-year-old daughter is restless in the next room, the glass doors between the two rooms allow the sound of the woman's crying to bother the girl. the ten-year-old asks the forty-one-year old if she will please tell her what is troubling her in the morning: "promise you will tell me?" how can she? what can she tell her daughter? that she hates herself? that she sees her life as a failure and has lost all hope in a better life? that what she learned at six has been confirmed over and over: no one loves her enough to stick around...she is not important enough, not valuable enough. this is not a legacy she wants to give her daughter. she wants her daughter to be strong and confident and know she can achieve whatever she wants to in life. she wants her daughter to be able to swallow her food without that old constriction in her throat blocking the goodness from coming.
she is not loveable. she is alone. she is poor. she has not accomplished anything with her life except be a "great mother" as all her friends say. she does not think she has been a great mother because her daughter is burdened by her sorrow. she is married but her husband cannot stand to be with her. like her mother, he has such a problem with his emotions and his mental state that he must be apart. everyone leaves her. she somehow drives everyone away- drives everyone crazy. she is unloveable and unimportant. her daughter loves her, but she is poisoning that love with her grief and sorrow this summer. as her daughter grows older, it is harder to hide the pain. or maybe that is just a lie and her daughter has known of her mother's pain all along. and then she will leave too. and she will have no one and nothing.
she is ten. she is so angry at her mom for not being "normal" and safe. she is so angry at the blame she feels levelled at her that her mom's pain and anguish are somehow caused by her. she stands up to her mom and tells her: "stop being crazy and be a good mom!" this is too much for her mother. her mother says she can't go on, that life is too much, that she can't hold it together any more. she grabs her car keys and tells the girl she is going to go drive into a brick wall and end it. She slams the door, gets in her car, rev's the engine and drives away. it is sunset time. the girl cries and sobs so hard and so long that she has a migraine headache. she has cried so long that the sun has gone down and the house is dark. she is afraid, alone, her head is pierced with pain. she walks into the living room and turns on the tv and flips on a light. it is past dinner time. she thinks of who she could call. she is afraid to call. she sits in front of the tv with her head resting on her bony knees, her toes digging into the shag carpet. she kind of knows mom will come home and kind of worries that this time she actually meant it and she will be alone. she thinks about getting the forbidden ice cream out of the freezer and eating it but her head hurts too much. Pa on Little House is chuckling at his "half pint." mom comes home.
where was mommie? why didn't she pick her up from kindergarten yesterday? why did this stranger take her home instead? where is kitty and bruce, the dog? are they at a stranger's house too? can they swallow their food?
she wanted her mommie and her favorite blanket and her bed and her toys and everything to be normal and ok.
she had waited and waited for mommie to come and pick her up. she was playing and noticed that she was the only child left at school and the sun was setting and she was there still! where was mommie so she could give her one of her running tackle hugs that knocked mommie over on the floor and then they laughed and hugged? and then on the ride home they could make up silly songs about the bad cafeteria food at mommie's work.
instead she walked through the empty parking lot with the woman to the woman's car and tried not to cry and clutched her coat and wondered if the woman knew where her mommie was.
she is six and now she is sitting in a bedroom of another little girl. this other little girl's mother agreed to take her and keep her until mommie gets out of the hospital. mommie is sick. it is a different kind of sick than a body sickness. it is not a cold, or a stomach ache or something like that, she has been told. mommie has some problems with the way she thinks about things and needs some help from the doctors in the hospital to get better. mommie will be away for a few months. she does not know where her dad is or why she has not seen him. she does not know this mom and daughter she is with very well, but the other little girl has lots of barbies and the mom lets them eat candy and dessert and ice cream. so that is good. it is summer soon, so they play together all day and it is kind of like having a sister, except that she misses her mommie all the time and feels sad a lot. she doesn't talk about it. she has a little framed photo of her mommie by her bed and at night she always says goodnight to the photo and kisses it.
she is six and she is going to see her mommie at the hospital! She is better enough to see her! it is a big big building but she doesn't have to go inside. instead, she sits with mommie under a big tree on the grass and mommie gives her some paper dolls that she cut out for her with happy faces drawn on and little dresses in different prints drawn on. mommie kind of feels like a stranger...it has been so long since she saw her. and then she has to say good-bye and leave her there and go back to her other home with the mom and daughter.
she wonders: what did i do that was bad that made mommie sick? what did i do that made me left alone? how was i not good enough? why did everyone leave me here alone? where is dad? where is grandpa and grandma? where is aunt c? why am i alone? i must not be important to them. i must not be loved. i must not be loveable.
she is forty-one. she is curled up in the fetal position in bed. she washed down her "happy pill" with vodka tonight so she could stop feeling the pain. her ten-year-old daughter is restless in the next room, the glass doors between the two rooms allow the sound of the woman's crying to bother the girl. the ten-year-old asks the forty-one-year old if she will please tell her what is troubling her in the morning: "promise you will tell me?" how can she? what can she tell her daughter? that she hates herself? that she sees her life as a failure and has lost all hope in a better life? that what she learned at six has been confirmed over and over: no one loves her enough to stick around...she is not important enough, not valuable enough. this is not a legacy she wants to give her daughter. she wants her daughter to be strong and confident and know she can achieve whatever she wants to in life. she wants her daughter to be able to swallow her food without that old constriction in her throat blocking the goodness from coming.
she is not loveable. she is alone. she is poor. she has not accomplished anything with her life except be a "great mother" as all her friends say. she does not think she has been a great mother because her daughter is burdened by her sorrow. she is married but her husband cannot stand to be with her. like her mother, he has such a problem with his emotions and his mental state that he must be apart. everyone leaves her. she somehow drives everyone away- drives everyone crazy. she is unloveable and unimportant. her daughter loves her, but she is poisoning that love with her grief and sorrow this summer. as her daughter grows older, it is harder to hide the pain. or maybe that is just a lie and her daughter has known of her mother's pain all along. and then she will leave too. and she will have no one and nothing.
she is ten. she is so angry at her mom for not being "normal" and safe. she is so angry at the blame she feels levelled at her that her mom's pain and anguish are somehow caused by her. she stands up to her mom and tells her: "stop being crazy and be a good mom!" this is too much for her mother. her mother says she can't go on, that life is too much, that she can't hold it together any more. she grabs her car keys and tells the girl she is going to go drive into a brick wall and end it. She slams the door, gets in her car, rev's the engine and drives away. it is sunset time. the girl cries and sobs so hard and so long that she has a migraine headache. she has cried so long that the sun has gone down and the house is dark. she is afraid, alone, her head is pierced with pain. she walks into the living room and turns on the tv and flips on a light. it is past dinner time. she thinks of who she could call. she is afraid to call. she sits in front of the tv with her head resting on her bony knees, her toes digging into the shag carpet. she kind of knows mom will come home and kind of worries that this time she actually meant it and she will be alone. she thinks about getting the forbidden ice cream out of the freezer and eating it but her head hurts too much. Pa on Little House is chuckling at his "half pint." mom comes home.
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