kraige (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} josephinebaker) wrote,@ 2008-09-24 19:14:00 |
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mammy time
i am at my mother's, in a box room she calls her office. the walls are decked out with photos thru the ages; my brothers at 5 and 11, 18months old, sitting in the sink, hair wet, and sucking on beakers. me at 15, a raggedy indie haircut, cut with blunt scissors i found in a drawer - skinny and insolent, i look like a lesbian. looking at him, i see just a trace of my current face, on loan from sandra bullock. these pictures of my mam make me sadder - a face shrinking and ballooning, irregardless of any lines it acquires. the only constant - a peroxide helmet, cut close to her head in a punky style, and latterly dyed at the tips with red and then purple. i like the one with the skinny blonde thing, made up like a clown, her expression a petulant glance to camera which says: look at what i've done. In her hands, either side of an enormous black dress, meant to fit her former space-hopper body. then the pictures of animals - dogs, always dogs, annoying and ugly dogs, dogs that made me cry when they died or were 'sold off to farms'. dogs i saw born from other dogs' fannies, get big and excited, then wane, grow tumours, drag their backends behind them like toy tractors. i'm grateful to them now - all lined up on this board - their dumb faces and pink tongues - affection on tap, excuses to go walking, leave behind the angry house; and their small deaths, little wimpers, that prepared me for the heartache of the big.
and if i look round the room - stuff. more and more stuff, crammed into a tiny space, everything made symmetrical by the hand of an ocd. a teddy's stance is mirrored there. that dolly has a twin. if there's a plate hanged east, see it reflected west. nothing is ever left lonely - my mother, an incredible matchmaker of stuff. and then a line of cards blutacked to the wall - all of them saying either mother or mum, one mummy. i vaguely recall picking and sending some, my brothers will have sent her the rest, but i dare not look inside them; not with my heart so heavy. i might see a glimpse of my handwriting - lighter and bouncier than it looks today; a message that would beam with naivete, remind me of a long lost self. if i saw that i'd crumble.
and i think now why i'm here. because i was sick of mind and body when she called me, sanity hanging by a thread - and she said: son, come home to your mother. let me cook for you and listen. if you want to be alone, i'll clean out my office. i was moved - we don't usually play mother and son like this: she resists her role, i scowl at mine. but when i turn up, i see the effort she's making - the room laid out for me, the foods she knows i like - an offer of valium. the listening to me and holding her tongue: she knows better than to tell me what to do.
last night neither of us could sleep. so we sit in the kitchen smoking cigarettes, me sipping a glass of wine - and she says: let's go to tesco. and i go - it's 3am. there'll be no-one around she says. so we drive to this huge superstore, her still dressed in pink pajamas, me with bedhead and sullen lips. we look at cds and books - then clothes, cheap, nasty clothes she insists on buying me - a jacket, some jumpers, jeans. i say: no, i'm not bothered, she says: PUT THEM BACK IN THE TROLLEY LAD. and then we get treats: cakes and sandwiches, ice cream, a pineapple. at the checkout the woman says 130 quid. mam pays in cash. when we get home we're jollier, talking smack about some bitches she knows from the top estate, and chewing on unnutritious foodstuffs.
she's being so gentle and lovely, trying so hard but driving me mad. talking too much and attempting to mother a grown man she neglected to mother when he needed it most. she wants to talk to me about fyzal - i won't go there with her. too painful, her mind too messy to be insightful or keen - if she says something wrong, i'll bite. another day, i say - knowing i mean never.
it's quiet now. i can hear the hum of the telly downstairs, and now and then a battery operated air freshener chugs out fumes in the corner. i should eat something. my stomach is empty. the thought of food makes me sick. i'll roll myself a cig.
i am at my mother's, in a box room she calls her office. the walls are decked out with photos thru the ages; my brothers at 5 and 11, 18months old, sitting in the sink, hair wet, and sucking on beakers. me at 15, a raggedy indie haircut, cut with blunt scissors i found in a drawer - skinny and insolent, i look like a lesbian. looking at him, i see just a trace of my current face, on loan from sandra bullock. these pictures of my mam make me sadder - a face shrinking and ballooning, irregardless of any lines it acquires. the only constant - a peroxide helmet, cut close to her head in a punky style, and latterly dyed at the tips with red and then purple. i like the one with the skinny blonde thing, made up like a clown, her expression a petulant glance to camera which says: look at what i've done. In her hands, either side of an enormous black dress, meant to fit her former space-hopper body. then the pictures of animals - dogs, always dogs, annoying and ugly dogs, dogs that made me cry when they died or were 'sold off to farms'. dogs i saw born from other dogs' fannies, get big and excited, then wane, grow tumours, drag their backends behind them like toy tractors. i'm grateful to them now - all lined up on this board - their dumb faces and pink tongues - affection on tap, excuses to go walking, leave behind the angry house; and their small deaths, little wimpers, that prepared me for the heartache of the big.
and if i look round the room - stuff. more and more stuff, crammed into a tiny space, everything made symmetrical by the hand of an ocd. a teddy's stance is mirrored there. that dolly has a twin. if there's a plate hanged east, see it reflected west. nothing is ever left lonely - my mother, an incredible matchmaker of stuff. and then a line of cards blutacked to the wall - all of them saying either mother or mum, one mummy. i vaguely recall picking and sending some, my brothers will have sent her the rest, but i dare not look inside them; not with my heart so heavy. i might see a glimpse of my handwriting - lighter and bouncier than it looks today; a message that would beam with naivete, remind me of a long lost self. if i saw that i'd crumble.
and i think now why i'm here. because i was sick of mind and body when she called me, sanity hanging by a thread - and she said: son, come home to your mother. let me cook for you and listen. if you want to be alone, i'll clean out my office. i was moved - we don't usually play mother and son like this: she resists her role, i scowl at mine. but when i turn up, i see the effort she's making - the room laid out for me, the foods she knows i like - an offer of valium. the listening to me and holding her tongue: she knows better than to tell me what to do.
last night neither of us could sleep. so we sit in the kitchen smoking cigarettes, me sipping a glass of wine - and she says: let's go to tesco. and i go - it's 3am. there'll be no-one around she says. so we drive to this huge superstore, her still dressed in pink pajamas, me with bedhead and sullen lips. we look at cds and books - then clothes, cheap, nasty clothes she insists on buying me - a jacket, some jumpers, jeans. i say: no, i'm not bothered, she says: PUT THEM BACK IN THE TROLLEY LAD. and then we get treats: cakes and sandwiches, ice cream, a pineapple. at the checkout the woman says 130 quid. mam pays in cash. when we get home we're jollier, talking smack about some bitches she knows from the top estate, and chewing on unnutritious foodstuffs.
she's being so gentle and lovely, trying so hard but driving me mad. talking too much and attempting to mother a grown man she neglected to mother when he needed it most. she wants to talk to me about fyzal - i won't go there with her. too painful, her mind too messy to be insightful or keen - if she says something wrong, i'll bite. another day, i say - knowing i mean never.
it's quiet now. i can hear the hum of the telly downstairs, and now and then a battery operated air freshener chugs out fumes in the corner. i should eat something. my stomach is empty. the thought of food makes me sick. i'll roll myself a cig.
