25 April 2024
It starts here and now. With me at my desk. The messiest desk on earth. (check out my Notes if you want to see it, for real). Writing on my MacBook Air that’s ready to be replaced soon. My phone buzzing next to me with messages because I forgot to shut off the sound. My other screen behind this one, waiting, on alert, as I am, as all my systems are – alert and prepared. Sympathetic nervous system is ON folks, on and ready. I’ve yet to shower this morning, but made a to-do list and that’s one of the things on my list. And I’m getting hungry. It’s just past noon. Breakfast was hours ago. Focus, Audrey, you can do this. Do I have a goal? Uh oh, forgot to set myself a goal – fail, fail, fail… Hey, be gentle to yourself. I give my arm under my fuzzy sweater a little reassuring rub. It’s okay, Audrey. You’ve shown up. The words that swirl around in your head all night long, just before sleep, and later show up again in the shower (though not yet today) often get washed away in the drain before you can push yourself to sit at the desk and write. Why is it pushing, I wonder? Why not a release? Let those words out. I’m not planning anything – well, planning to talk through some of my layers. Maybe not all of them. I’m like Shrek in that way, except much worse. I’m not an onion, I’m a knight in dull armor, with a steel plated chest plates and a shield. It's made of kryptonite. Even Superman couldn’t penetrate all those layers.
So, that’s where I am now. A to-do list to my left, a transparent glass with hot water and fresh ginger in it to sustain me, the neighbor’s drilling hardly noticeable three doors down, tired eyes after too little sleep, putting words onto paper that I may never publish, but still – these words may set me free.
Free from? Where can I start? What’s the first layer? Dad. Dad, you wanted the attention, so here it is. I am an adult, I am already 60 years old – fucking old – and you are dead. So, obviously, even if you wanted to take care of me, or more likely, to control me, you cannot. Although I have to admit I think of you a lot. Still making excuses for why you were so mean, so abusive, so neglectful, so narcissist, so threatening, so angry most of the time, and then suddenly generous for a second, just enough that I was thankful, and then again, feeling manipulated, because no generosity came without a price.
“You can borrow my car, but….don’t go for too long, and don’t go to the beach [on this warm sunny day, my favorite place in all of Israel] - because you’ll get sand in the wheels [what, is it a tricycle?!], don’t go up to visit your friends in the North, because you know, it’s dangerous.”
“Dad, it’s not dangerous in Zippori. The road there doesn’t even pass by any Arab villages. It’s well protected.”
“Well, don’t go, anyway, it’s my car, and I’ll decide.”
So, I’d stay at home, their home, with the TV blasting with the news (Fox, of course), or Wild Shark Attacks, or Airplane Disasters. Loud, violent, disturbing. When I’d go to the other room, where I was staying – it used to be my room – but now it’s my mom’s den, he’d shout to me, “What are you doing? Are you hiding in there?” I had to pretend to be working; that was a viable excuse. The bed took up most of the room, so artwork was out of the question, as was exercise. Reading a book was hard to do with the background TV sounds, and with Dad’s comments – “Come and see this! They chummed the water first! It’s a feeding frenzy!” As if I had never seen sharks in my life, thanks to him, following the boat, on the end of a hook he’d been trailing to try to catch tuna, a writhing shark on the deck, all those rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth. For him, nothing was too frightening. The world was a scientific experiment he wanted to play with. If we were scared, well, we were ‘pussies’.
Okay, Dad, do you think you got enough attention now? That’s a layer. A thick one. A peanut butter enriched with epoxy layer. I’m not sure it will ever come off completely, but I’m willing to go under it.
Dreams. Why do they always have water in them, but not me swimming in the water? Weird, scary fish that seem dangerous, toilets that are neither private nor easily accessible, roads that are hard to cross? There were worse dreams – there was a series of Tsunamis that I just barely escaped from, big walls of water as high as a cliff, that I had to escape from. That was before Dad died… Years ago, I had flying dreams. I wouldn’t mind some more of those. It started with high jumps. As if gravity was more relaxed, and I’d go up as high as the power cables, and sometimes lose control a bit, but always make it back down. Eventually I got better at flying – I could go places, short distances, high up. More control. Then it got to a point where I could show people; I’d be in my house, and say, “look” and then I’d lift off, lie horizontally on the air, and float around the various rooms of the house. It felt extremely satisfying. Those dreams are long gone, I’m afraid. But they’re welcome to return.
To be continued. (I hope; you never know with me, I’m an avid project starter… finisher - not so much…)