written Aug 31, 2008, during insomniatic wakening
There are layers.
My truth is only one view through a convoluted, rippled memory.
As a child, my experiences and observations came with no contextual identifiers. Even reactions were downplayed and re-assigned in acquiescence to an elder's (church's) desires.
In what format does a child live? One person's most tragic day could be another's fantasy castle.
Sensory triggers are psychoneuroimmunilogical and those re-wired synapses cannot be re-instated to their seminal semantics.
This time of personal archetype development can overrun the soul. Souls become lost in the netherworld of loss.
While surrounded by birds chirping in the clear blue sky, this, my tattered soul, is grasping at slippery roots to regain a sense of solid footing.
Shall it come to pass?
In my life, moments glimmer with mica-glittered foundation stones, until a new tremor comes along - it is hard to stand on such shaky ground.
- thick, twisty "devil" eyebrows
- greasy, slicked-back, receding hair
- knobs turning under a porch awning
- banana seat bikes
- flyswatters (especially if shaped like a butterfly)
- keys or money being jangled in a pocket
- creaky swings
- fish eggs pouring from a fresh fish
- black, glossy tarmac from the glare of the sun
- dirty fingernails
- vans with no back seats
- having my head pushed down
- "Good Girl"
- blankets too light to feel "safe"
- the urge to pee at night and the danger of going to the nearest bathroom
Image 1 - above - "Split Self", pastel on paper, 32"h x 24"w, 2006.
Image 2 - immediate left - "Your Story Begins At Home", Found Object/Altered Doll Sculpture, Self Portrait, 42" h x 16"w x 17"d, 2006.