Friday, August 24, 2012

Post One Hundred and Eighty Six: Origin.

Why do I feel, as I'm nearing thirty, that I don't know who this is? 

Meet Dianne. She is my mother. She squeezed me out in October of 1984. I imagine that as soon as I could focus my tiny baby eyes on my forebearers face I was probably trying to figure her out. 

Screaming to get back into the womb that she housed me in, from day one I commanded for her attention. I wonder if she looked down at me in all of our placental muck and thought "Gee, this squall is going to be a handful..." 

A handful I was. I continue to be quite a dickhead. 

I've accepted a tapestry of truths in an attempt to construct a personality profile of my mother. She likes bingo, but not as much as she likes the pokies. From 1992 until about 1999 I only ever saw her in bike pants. She buys every item of new clothing for herself from Millers. She sticks her tongue out when she's watching TV. She likes hazelnut Cadbury Chocolate, and used to hide blocks of it in her underwear drawers. We never talked about life, or love or sex, or friendship; and mystery shrouds her experiences of such phenomena. I was resentful that she wasn't my best friend. I wanted her to assume the role of a traditional matriarch and share secrets of the ages. But life isn't like that, and as evidenced by Ursula's failings in The Little Mermaid, you can't control the desires of others. 

Under the various roofs that we lived beneath during my childhood, I would question her intent. She is not an archetypal woman, but she strived to keep her brood out of harm. I certainly philandered with varying threats to my survival; perils like falling off my bike, getting cracked in the skull by swing sets, and diving under the wheel of reversing vehicles (I did all three to test her patience). She worked to keep me from from going hungry. She took me to dancing competitions, she drove me around when I most certainly should have walked and most importantly she bought me connector pens in 1995. And all these things she did with minimal complaint. 

Why do I feel, as I'm nearing thirty, that I don't know who she is? I question why she worked to keep me alive, just to shy as her last bird flew the nest. 

I get it. Being a mother looks backbreaking. There's a script for it if you're one to take on characters, but doing so is a sham. Being a mother wan't so much a choice as it was a predetermined path. Things have changed. 

Mother, I can share with you some of my stories about life, and love, and friendship with you, if you're keen? We'll leave discussions about sex out of it for now. This isn't Skins. 

Peace. x 




Friday, August 17, 2012

Post One Hundred and Eighty Five: Really.

Love is real. It's alive, lurking far beyond the purview of it's bastardisation in popular culture.

Distress not.

This blog isn't going to permutate into a perpetual almanac of dribble about my new relationship.
(It is true though, I am in love).

My fidelity seems incomparable to the Hollywood notion of romance and attachment, which is ironic(?) considering that Los Angeles, the terra firma for such piffle, is where we'll soon reconnect.

This is old school amour. I feel like our names were written in hieroglyphic passages decorating the pyramids. The possibility that I've found this other corresponding identity feels cryptic. I want to do all the things that I deemed as important, but with him. And in turn, I want for him to take my hand as we traverse through those experiences that he calls for company therein.

To yearn sounds rhetorical; but to ache.

Until then.