Boundaries/Map Exploration II
The Victorian house on North Clinton Street that my mom calls her "dream house" is much less characteristic of her than she'd like to admit. Meander Way was her...
Sometimes I think she avoids this reality because this brown eccentric house was fraught with personal pain and chemical dependence. I am confident that I could, even today, recognize the odor of my mother's urine...connecting it with days when she drunk herself into a stupor and soiled herself on the bedroom floor.
But I remember the sunshine that filtered through the windows, highlighting every speck of dust on those silly red cushions in the sunroom. And I remember seeing a part of my mother in her altered state that she has buried in a sense...
I remember the summer of Don McLean. Dancing and spinning to "Vincent" and "American Pie" together...seeing that smile on her face...feeling the joy she exuded. This woman - this free, joyous woman - was my mother. Had she buried this part of herself during childbirth? Had she lost this joy with the clang of wedding bells or was it somewhere before?
I have a fuzzy memory of the day I learned that my father was Mom's second husband. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I came to see a speck of dust on the pedestal I'd placed my mother upon.
Looking back, I feel a twinge of...regret? shame? It's true, I was still a child...and while I admired my mother, I was still the center of my own universe. But how could I lie there on the plushy green carpet of the dining room and make my mother face her past with my tears?
She later - or was it during the tears? - told me that her husband was unfaithful. That he chose her sister-in-law's own sister. My mother was not guilty. She was freeing herself from a relationship that could not succeed.
But I could not take back the tears. And I could not put the shattered mirror back together.
Part of me blames these disjointed shards of glass for skewing my view of my mother, so that I did not see her pain and her addiction until she had completely fallen away. Another shard of me blames this broken mirror for allowing my mother to see a monster in her reflection that she needed to blur with alcohol.
But I cannot help but thank this confounded pile of broken glass, for the same shards which skewed my mother's vision and carried her into the darkness also tricked her troubled mind into believing a Truth of which years of struggling had deprived her.
So yes, my mother is Meander Way. But not for wandering aimlessly through an inexplicable world. My mother is Meander Way because it was in this house that her body and mind shattered to reveal her soul.
Sometimes I think she avoids this reality because this brown eccentric house was fraught with personal pain and chemical dependence. I am confident that I could, even today, recognize the odor of my mother's urine...connecting it with days when she drunk herself into a stupor and soiled herself on the bedroom floor.
But I remember the sunshine that filtered through the windows, highlighting every speck of dust on those silly red cushions in the sunroom. And I remember seeing a part of my mother in her altered state that she has buried in a sense...
I remember the summer of Don McLean. Dancing and spinning to "Vincent" and "American Pie" together...seeing that smile on her face...feeling the joy she exuded. This woman - this free, joyous woman - was my mother. Had she buried this part of herself during childbirth? Had she lost this joy with the clang of wedding bells or was it somewhere before?
I have a fuzzy memory of the day I learned that my father was Mom's second husband. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I came to see a speck of dust on the pedestal I'd placed my mother upon.
Looking back, I feel a twinge of...regret? shame? It's true, I was still a child...and while I admired my mother, I was still the center of my own universe. But how could I lie there on the plushy green carpet of the dining room and make my mother face her past with my tears?
She later - or was it during the tears? - told me that her husband was unfaithful. That he chose her sister-in-law's own sister. My mother was not guilty. She was freeing herself from a relationship that could not succeed.
But I could not take back the tears. And I could not put the shattered mirror back together.
Part of me blames these disjointed shards of glass for skewing my view of my mother, so that I did not see her pain and her addiction until she had completely fallen away. Another shard of me blames this broken mirror for allowing my mother to see a monster in her reflection that she needed to blur with alcohol.
But I cannot help but thank this confounded pile of broken glass, for the same shards which skewed my mother's vision and carried her into the darkness also tricked her troubled mind into believing a Truth of which years of struggling had deprived her.
So yes, my mother is Meander Way. But not for wandering aimlessly through an inexplicable world. My mother is Meander Way because it was in this house that her body and mind shattered to reveal her soul.
Criticism II
Take a few days, distance yourself from the tears.
There's definite potential here. You might consider introducing the broken mirror earlier in the piece or adding some variety to the symbolism.
Or maybe you'll return in a few days and be totally happy with the flow of things...whatever decision you make, just take some time away.
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Meander Way = "hippie," free, eccentric & unapologetic, hidden cupboards
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1. Ideas for different starting point?
2. How to better link back to myself?
3. Better conclusion? Help!
In my snapshot piece...I become my almost-father. How do I come to terms with this? How can I blame him but not myself for the same act?
There's definite potential here. You might consider introducing the broken mirror earlier in the piece or adding some variety to the symbolism.
Or maybe you'll return in a few days and be totally happy with the flow of things...whatever decision you make, just take some time away.
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- Tell us more about this house
- Tell about the details of the house that describe mother
- Tell about my love of this house
- Expand on the tale of urine
- Contrast the sunshine (p3) with the darkness in the previous paragraph
- Use dust/sun as symbols linked to Mom
- Clarify "dancing and spinning"
- If "American Pie" ties it all together, you might add lyrics
- Not sure if the questions in p4 are effective. Though I might tie the wedding bells to the only one I know of.
- Expand the memory in p5-6. This tells you the importance of the incident to me.
- We all bury our painful memories.
- Can we place the blame (assigned to the mirror in p9) on the damage done in the first marriage?
- I don't like p10. It's like a consolation prize: Sure she's an alcoholic but it's okay. BUT IT'S NOT!
- Need more of an explanation for why "my mother is Meander Way."
Meander Way = "hippie," free, eccentric & unapologetic, hidden cupboards
---------------------------------------------------------
1. Ideas for different starting point?
2. How to better link back to myself?
3. Better conclusion? Help!
In my snapshot piece...I become my almost-father. How do I come to terms with this? How can I blame him but not myself for the same act?
continue
