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Sun 13 Jul, 2003 03:45 am
A late at night, early morning reflection upon a cathartic conversation I had with my brother Saturday. (Just thoughts on paper. Please do not suggest Prozac! Thanks!)
WE WERE ALL YOUNG ONCE, WEREN?T WE?
I think I was young once. I just can?t remember when or how it was. I can only see size. Small shoes and too-short pants once worn by others. No parents, just masters to be satisfied in their demands of obedience. Taskmasters, who did not long suffer my rebellion nor tolerate insolence from someone so short of stature. Punishment meted out in retribution for an illicit harvest of some small trinket while the theft of my youth went unpunished. Childhood, when was it, where was it played out, how did I miss it? Sticks that should have served as imaginary steeds during my early years are only remembered as switches laid on with vigor as Satan was exorcised from my soul. And yet, to repent was to die so I lied and ran with the devil. When I was young I learned to torment the tormentors. For you see, I was never young. I was old and perceived as young. I saw weakness, small fissures in my master?s emotional constitution ripe for exploitation. Fury on demand. Easily prompted, they lashed out, aggravated and enraged, marionettes dancing to the man-child?s secret tunes. I performed in many theaters for a master, trifled with once too often, will not long suffer the presence of his bedeviling ward. And so, I became well traveled. I became an emotional hitchhiker toting my carpetbag of serpentine antics from place to place. I traveled alone. I traveled in solitude. Singular in a sea of random faces and names. New names, new faces, yearbooks filled with unknown portraits and pictures of unattended events; life sped past as a series of short novellas with no final chapters to give them meaning or substance. Blindly I stumbled forward, careening recklessly from experience to experience, blindly groping for an adulthood I somehow felt I had already seen.
I am old now. I no longer have a master. I have a companion and I have 2 friends and only time holds sway over my life. Yet, I often sit and reflect and at times I sob. I think I was young once. I just can?t remember when or how it was.
When I hear of someone I admire having had a miserable, vanished childhood I get so confused. How is it that this remarkable person came to be? I wonder. Because of or despite of? How was this person created?
As I try to devise a happy childhood for a tiny person this question nags. I take a thousand photos of a smiling, joyful spirit in hopes that someday, when the questions certainly arrive, that I'll be able to provide evidence of happiness.
Raising someone else's child, with all of it's opportunity and possiblity; with all of it's uncertainty and distraction, leads to paralyzing worry over the 'why".
Still, your sad story gives me hope as I know a beautiful soul can fight it's way out of a scary place.
Your childhood was incredibly sad - but you have obviously come out of it a really lovely person - I've just read your poem on another thread and it was beautiful.
I guess I was pretty lucky, as I had a happy childhood. I've often thought of the fun times in grade school, baseball every night in the summer , driving the teachers nutts to the point the whole 8th grade class was expelled for a single day, much to the despair of all of our parents.
as a child I didn't always realise how lucky i was.
My father was in the RAF and so we moved around, which wasn't always good for my education, We lived in Cornwall for a long time and i loved it and was heartbroken when we had to leave and live away from the sea and in horrible flat countryside in Suffolk - i like hills and coastlines.
Though strict, they were always supportive - i felt at the time that I was very hard done to because i always had to go to bed earlier than my friends, wasn't allowed to roam as far as my friends etc Now I realise they were just doing the best they knew how to. These minor things pale into insignificance with lives like yours and others I know now.
I was lucky enough to live in some beautiful places - near the coast in Cornwall, near the sea in the north of Scotland, Malta, Gibraltar .... I think this is why i love to paint the coast so much.
Living abroad and seeing your country from outside is a good thing too as i am sure Craven knows. It gives you a different perspective.
Thank you all! I wrote a lot last night. Actually, until 8:30 in the morning. I'm sorry not tohave responded but I just got up. (2:30)
Context:
This piece is sort of an amalgamation of both my brother's and my childhood. I have, to a great extent, come to deal with my past. He, on thwe other hand is just now beginning to expolre. He lives on the west coast and i on the east. Wwe talked for several hours yesterday about our childhood. He has just begun to participate in anger management classes and was taken aback when others in the group couldn't believe hei memories were true. This is part of a much longer letter I wrote to him.
Interesting posts. Bookmarking for now. c.i.
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