I’ve lived a good life, she says to me holding my hand. My hand is enveloped in latex and I am wearing a neon yellow protective robe. Has she? Has she lived a good life or does she think she’s lived a good life? Is there a difference between fact and perception? Are all facts based on perception? Who's perception do we deem fact?
I have nothing left to fight for. Her words.
What has she fought for? Every step of the way she has fought the fighting. No. I can’t. I can’t. I won’t. I don’t want to. Please just take me home. I want to get out of here. I don’t want to do this anymore.These are her words too. Plucked from a six month length of hell on a string. I bet if we could get into her mind we would find those words drifting in comatose black from way back. Handicapped, sunken back, warped and perverted; these words worm unctuous and sycophantic, fermented and introverted between neurons convoluting between tenuous sense of love and hate.
Why this has always been my mother’s state.
Who are we, her children, to unanimously agree that she has been depressed most of her life and faithful to this state of Inferiority? That we think she has been committed to thinking, believing that she is and has been Unimportant. She will oppose such perspective emphatically. But we children know best. Buried in subterranean cellular communities, taking on the traits of their archival past, perhaps even dormant at times, lives the nemesis of my mother. It bore itself a home when she was in utero. Through my mother’s mother the state of Second would flow. Through experiencing at thirteen first hand, with the support of her family; that men can’t help themselves for the things that they do my mother’s nemesis grew. And grew. And grew. And grew.
It took the form of a cuscuta, smelling my mother’s mother from seed. It flourished first on just a few precise incidents of abuse. Through exploitation my mummy’s parasitic vine developed. Hungry for more it bloomed its gorgeousness for my mother’s eyes, promised warmth and understanding. And it delivered. It delivered in the sumptuous form of granita and braised shank and sainte maure, it delivered through the fine pastry sheets of burek cigara and the saffron scented paella and the raw oyster on the half shell. It gave and it gave and it gave as it took and it took and it took. It gave in the form of epicurean aphrodisia and it took in the form of a one liner induced autophobic party line.
I am not.
I am not I am not I am not I am not I am not I am not I am not I am not iamnot.
I am full I am love I am me and I breathe. I am full I am love I am me and I breathe. I am full I am love I am me and I breathe. I am full I am love I am me and I breathe.
