Imposter
This is not Seema. This is an imposter.
When I was in the midst of the separation/divorce, my mother could only talk about the very worst, unanswerable things–“What will this do to your children? How will you live?” Et cetera. Stuff that was NOT helpful at all (it’s okay, Ma, no hard feelings. I know you were working out your own shit there too). At one point I actually had to stop talking to her.
My bedroom is in the corner of the building I live in, and there are windows of equal size on two walls. On one side is a really beautiful view of trees and sky. On the other side is the dumpster. Where do I put my chair? In front of the beautiful view, of course. It doesn’t mean I can’t hear the trucks coming for the dumpster, or that it ceases to exist and stink, or that I’m not still generating trash. But where I choose to place my chair, what I choose to see in my resting moments, where I decide to search for luck and beauty in my life–how I choose to write my story–will impact what I find.
I am flawed and I slip and I am not as kind as I want to be, maybe not as kind as people think I am. But I am trying. My friend and colleague, the portrait artist Raye Leith says about mothering, “If you’re asking the questions, if you’re wondering if you’re doing it right, you’re probably doing okay.” And so it is with all things in life. If you’re trying, if you’re recalibrating, if you’re making conscious choices, you’re on the right track. Even when you slip.
Raye is leading a painting workshop this week, and we’ll be starting to install participatory art for the “In It Together” Exhibition at Workhouse Arts Center in Lorton. Friday night you can have a look at some of the work AND join us for an open mic at 7 pm! 9601 Ox Rd, Lorton Virginia. I might wear overalls. You should too.
Haven’t written anything new in a while? Well, set a timer, dummy. 20 minutes. Read this poem, then write about your weekend. List a little bit of the shitty stuff, then make room for the beauty.
Letter to a Friend, Unsent
I haven’t written in a whilebecause I don’t want to talkabout anythingI’ve been unable to stopthinking about: the knotted threadof bad capillaries on my retinae,money, or that my morning was ruinedby the unusual tightnessof jeans around my thighs,like the obligationsof having a bodyso ill-fitting, oppressively snugaround an obstinate will.And while I don’t wantto be distractedfrom this Duchamp thingI’ve been working on— I amitched out of reverieover and over againby this feeling I don’t deservemy raptures anymore.So I’m sorry. I don’t want tobring you down. It’s unfairto have to hear about needlesand envelopes and flieswhen you might just have beenenjoying an iced tea outsideand when I would prefer to tell you,really,there’s a family of pheasant livingin the massive cottonwoodwe call the Tree of Life.The male’s red, green, gold plumagemakes him looklike a Christmas presentI would want to give you.So except “I hope you’re well,”that’s all.
So here is the story of my weekend:
There is a Greek lemon chicken soup
called avgolemono that takes all the work out of eating:
one bowl, the rice so soft you barely chew it, the tartness of lemon
already mixed in.
I was mother and child to myself: drank soup, took walks,
went to the museum and stared at my hands and my sons’ hands through
an outdoor kaleidoscope, then listened to their voices echo
bouncing off of buildings and back over the grass where I sat.
I made them turn off the screens and they made me play monopoly.
I lost on purpose (because that game is too fucking long).
I cut a cantaloupe, took the big bowl back to bed and stayed
filling my mouth with sweetness until it was noon and there was nothing left.
The giant burn blister* on my forearm popped during some rough-housing
with my son and he looked so sorry he might cry
which means he’s a compassionate human being
And I’m doing okay.
*I had an incident which led to a pretty nasty burn on my hand and forearm, and I’m super tempted to post a picture here, but I know that’s uncool. So email me if you want to see. Some of my friends totally got an unsolicited blister pic during the height of my fascination. Sorry.
One Response
Thank you for this. “If you’re trying, if you’re recalibrating… you’re on the right track.” And, “Where do I put my chair?” Um, well, some might say that based on my chair’s frequent placement, I’m really enamored with the smell of my own shit. But there are other things I’d like to have on my gravestone, so maybe I’ll practice sitting in front of the other window. These are good reminders.