Monthly Archives: Feb 2020
Here we all are, sitting around the circular dining room table- flecked with bits of gold.
Ma sits under a hanging portrait of this Christmas just gone. Three weeks ago. We are all smiling in it including Poppy. Poppy sits playing with her Annabelle doll, on my husband’s lap. Sat opposite from Ma, closest to the electric fire hearth is Gran.
I find myself sitting across from Gran. An iciness breathes mist over us. It separates me from them, cloaks me in a fog.
I try to swallow. The air is so thick it chokes me, I’m forced to put my hands to my throat. Nobody notices me. Nobody notices me the way they used to. I tune into the conversation-taking place.
‘Of course I’m not suggesting this is your fault. I should have known. Done more…’ Nan bursts into tears.
A cry out for:
I need attention I’m suffering the most.
My skin bristles. Nan pulls her scarf tighter around her neck, and then throws out a familiar comment about it being draughty.
‘You know I could catch pneumonia with my Asthma.’ She coughs. Ma gets up to put on the electric fire.
‘I didn’t take her seriously. You know what Angie was like?’
Ma’s eyes are red as the rosary beads she is thumbing; she looks over to an unusually quiet Poppy.
‘Did she just do it to spite me?’ How could she just leave her own…?’
My husband throws a warning look at Ma,
‘Marie, for Poppies sake. Our Angie suffered more than she let on.’ Ma sits back down. ‘Let’s put on a cartoon, luv?’
Poppy shakes her head.
She doesn’t look at us.
I look straight at her, willing her to leave this table. Leave this conversation. She lifts her head and looks me dead on in the eyes. I instinctively smile. Eddie and me always stood together when it came to Poppy.
Her face is pale, her eyes sunken, her skin is drawn in so tight I can see cheek bones protrude. Beneath her eyes veiled shadows betray her youthful face.
She clings onto Annabelle, still looking me dead on in the eyes.
‘When’s Mummy coming home?’
Silence. Her words enmesh with the silence. Her question disarms me. Marks me. The arrow leaves its bow splintering my heart.
I open my mouth to scream out as many words as I can. Condensation steams the air distilling me into silence. I reach my hand across the table to grab hers.
She doesn’t see me. I glare at my family sitting at the round table. They say nothing. Smothering themselves in sorrow, they witheringly curl inwards. I urge to shake them, uproot them from winters glaze.
-Answer her. Answer my daughter!
Instead, Gran succumbs to a puddle of wrinkled tears, mechanically Ma gets off her chair, attempts to console Gran and naturally it’s up to Eddie to mediate.
My calm, rational Eddie. His eyes read as vacant –his beard is wild and unkempt. It’s impossible to read his face.
He clears his throat,
‘We’re gonna see Mummy when we give her… say a proper goodbye.’
Gran flounders in her anglers net of remorse. Great splotchy splashes of grief escape. She wails,
‘She’s with the angels –looking down at you, darling!’
I roll my eyes. Of course I love her! Lately, she grates my skin more frequently with her, melodramatics.
– Confess how you truly feel. Relieved!
I’m so fixated on evoking a response from Gran; unnoticed, a light flickers with an intensity to match my own. Eddie carries Poppy over to the sofa, sits her down to watch a cartoon. He covers her with a blanket then kisses her forehead.
‘We’ll see mummy soon? To say goodbye?’
Eddie nods his head, his voice cracks.
‘When will mummy come back from saying goodbye? In spring? My teacher says it’s winter – everything goes to sleep like her?’ Poppy points to ‘Sleeping Beauty’ on the television.
Eddie focuses on the image. The Prince is just about to kiss Aurora on the lips. He turns his head away from the television before he can see Aurora wake up to her true loves kiss. He grinds down on his teeth. Poppy’s eyes remain transfixed on the television. Eddie gets up, crosses the dining room table; I’m compelled to follow him, I have to stop him. Tell him I’m still here. I haven’t gone anywhere. I’ve so much to tell him.
-There is no God! We were right all along. Religion is for people who can’t think for themselves. We were right to take the piss.
Eddie flinches, puts his hands in his jean pockets. I follow him down Ma’s hallway and into the bathroom. He closes the door on me. It doesn’t ever close fully. I slip through the crack of the door that is always ajar.
Head down. Still. He sits on the toilet seat. I kneel down before him; go to lay my head on his knee. He flinches again. Hits himself in the head. Bangs his fist on the wall screams out:
‘Why? We could’ve figured it out, you fucking stubborn mare’ I bring out the best and worst in Eddie. Till death do us part. What are the chances?
He still refuses to let me go. Stubborn.
My symptoms intensify in the days leading up to the funeral. Everything‘s heightened especially emotions that seemingly walk precariously on stilts. I can’t walk through walls or levitate. Nothing like any of the horrors Eddie and me used to watch together, on the sofa.
Unheard, I bellow continuously,
-Just let me go!
Every time I hear my name called reflections of nostalgia flash and beam over and around me. Prompted, I gravitate towards the source. Someone needs me. These past three weeks, I’ve been teleported from one conversation to another. I find myself in a room; familiar or not familiar, with people I know and people I don’t know.
Today I’m summoned to the usual bickering between Ma and Gran. The familiar sound of Gran’s kettle boils in the background.
‘I want that picture of her on her graduation day and flowers- blown up .With azaleas. And roses – she loved roses- pink.’
‘She hates that picture! And she loves- loved yellow roses…’ Ma’s wobbly voice mirrors her jelly struck legs propping her up in her work shoes. She staggers backwards. Like the black dog with a bone, Gran won’t give in,
‘No, she’s my eldest grand daughter and I know her – it is… was pink!’
Ma sits down, doesn’t speak. I go over to her to put my arms around her then she dissolves into tears. Gran bulldozes her way over to us. Intimidated, I move out of her way. Gran holds Ma and Ma lets Gran hug her. Ma calms down, mentions something about pink and yellow roses
Vexed, I shriek
– don’t back down Ma, I love yellow. Yellow roses. The kettle whistles for attention. My voice is lost to an object.
‘I’ll go make that cup of tea’ Nan retreats to her kitchen.
Another opportunity to get close to Ma again. I need to hug her, give her some of my energy. As if on cue, Mum’s tear-stained face crumples just like my heart. A poking hot iron burns a hole right through it. Gran re-enters the room I scarper.
‘Here you go, love. Lost three of my own …, as you know, mind, they never got to Angie’s age. Yellow’s more of a quirky colour like our Angie… was.’ They smile at each other. I move back, the distance seems to illuminate their smiles.
Tonight, I beg for there to be a heaven. This has to be hell. The familiar, incongruous, gravitational pull lures me out of my cavernous abyss. I blink my eyes several times to focus: orientate myself. Hung up around the wall are vintage Disney posters. My eyes settle on Poppies bed. Eddie bends over Poppy and kisses her goodnight,
‘Mummy loves you just as much as I do.’ He tucks her in.
He switches off the light before walking out. I stand and watch my worn out daughter in her bed. She sings herself to sleep just as she does every night. She sings our song: twinkle twinkle little star. With each inflection of her sweet singing voice, the words serve as a needle. Each word stipulates smelting hot ink into my flesh. My neck is ablaze. Before closing her eyes, she whispers,
‘I love you mummy.’
When I reply, scorching chains wrap and lasso me around my neck. My skin swells up in blisters. The familiar sound of her breathing evaporates the pain. I need to be close to her, I need to smell her, kiss her. Carelessly, I run over to her bed to touch her sleeping head. Startled I lunge backward as Poppy instantly wakes up screaming.
– I’m powerless
. Eddie barges into the room, throws on the light and takes Poppy into his arms. I watch her body stiffen; then relax. I watch him settle my daughter back to sleep. My hands ball into tight fists.
-She must know I’m here.
Before I can touch her face, she wakes up screaming like – like she has seen a- ghost.
-I’m that Ghost! I put my hands to my mouth in horror.
Envy bubbles inside me as I witness Eddie consoling Poppy again. I’m half hoping he won’t succeed.
What kind of a mother am I?
I’ve been telling everyone to let me go.
Where will I go?
I can’t drive, no one can see me. There are no other lost souls wondering about telling me to join the dead community!
I won’t give up on my daughter. She needs me. I have to be here.
The stroke of our clock announces its time; a primitive realisation slithers down my very core. Nausea spirals up into my throat. I run into our bathroom, heave over the toilet, nothing comes out. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror; I see vicious V-shaped welts where the noose of the rope has cut into my neck. This is what Eddie came home to.
The cloying black dog of depression haunted me. Its delivered dose of pain was exquisite- nothing took it away. Not drinking, overdosing, drugging myself, talking-nothing. Eventually, I told it to sit down. I told Eddie repeatedly,
– I just want to disappear.
– How can I help you? His eyes pleaded for an answer. I would always lash out,
-Unless you help me disappear, you can’t!
I remained imprisoned in our bed and he would go back to work and look after Poppy and the house. He could walk away from me. I couldn’t. I resent him for that. I can see myself now, googling the various ways people commit suicide. One article struck my eye ‘Men are more successful at committing suicide’.
-They don’t mess about with poisoning themselves –they resort to more violent means.
That is the moment I reached out to the wrong Alpha.
The black dog and I began sleeping together. It became my obsession. Up-close, I could analyse it, experiment with it. As a couple, it didn’t take much to find that Alpha rage. One phone call from Ma,
-Just snap out of it. If you’re going to do it, get on with it.
-Fine, I will! I hung up on her before she could hang up on me.
My impulsiveness finds me trapped within this mirror. It’s cold. Everything I read is back to front. Everything I do is back to front. It doesn’t reflect my true intentions. When I reach out, in fact, the more I reach out the more pain I inflict. I back away from the mirror until I’m pressed up, with my back against the bathroom wall.
What have I done?
What right do I have trying to tell my family how to deal with their loss?
Eddie will never know that I was messing about; I didn’t know if I could actually go through with it. From a great height in a corner of the bathroom my body feels cut loose from itself. I can see it happen in front of my eyes. Like a rerun episode, I can’t pause. The noose around my neck, in the shower. Steam shrouds the mirror, with slippery feet, I accidently knock myself off that chair and in that moment I realise,
– I don’t want to die.
I can’t scream and tell anyone. I made the decision when I decided to sleep with my enemy. I’ve interrupted the natural course of life. A lost soul in life: a lost soul in death. There are no bright lights to come with this epiphany. I exit the bathroom, stumble down the staircase, out the front door, and walk aimlessly down the street. I sense a familiar pair of eyes examining me; I look up and see the black dog in its true form. It waits for me to catch up. We walk side by side. I don’t look back. I am the one preventing people from moving on. I have to let go.
*TMA Submition for Open University- Year one MA -Creative writing- fiction genre
“The worst thing about that kind of prejudice… is that while you feel hurt and angry and all the rest of it, it feeds you self-doubt. You start thinking, perhaps I am not good enough” -NINA SIMONE –
I never knew why I connected so much with this woman’s voice and songs so much, until now.
We seemingly have nothing in common- she was a trained classical pianist, jazz and soul singer, and a proud African American lady, actively a part of the American civil rights movement.
She hung out Martin Luther King! She was born in the 1930’s.
I , on the other hand, was born and grew up in South Africa. I am white. I was born in the early 1980s when the apartheid regime was crumbling.
Recently, I watched the documentary about her life on Netflix and I identified with this wild spirit within her. A spirit demanding justice. She was a person who had a name but couldn’t truly own it.
There is a song she sings – AINT GOT NO -I GOT LIFE (she is simply mesmerizing to watch)
The song ends with her singing
“I am my freedom. I got my freedom.”
That is my connection to her. For a long time I wasn’t accepted,I may well have been another skin color.
In fact- in post-apartheid. -early 90’s -I spent most of my teens taking drugs with the colored or black and Indian community ( they identify themselves with these terms in South Africa btw ) and increasing less time with white people.
At various points in Nina’s life she felt like she had lost her mind.
I nearly became mad.
In fact I am sure I did.
I nearly died -countless times too.
I was forced out of South Africa because my mother couldn’t stand by and watch me die.
It took 17 years to get to the person I am today.
I should be dead. I guess life has bigger plans for me. It is not for lack of me trying every possible way to kill myself by my hand or another’s..
I have always wanted my freedom to be me in my body and mind and be comfortable in it.
In my search for Freedom I even became like some feral creature to get it. I could say I only imitated what I saw other people do.
Its’s strange how other people are quick to judge. They don’t seem to see that they do the same things to cope.
Oh,how they just took .
People just took from me what was useful to them and discarded me like a used condom. Making sure there was no evidence to be found that linked them with the theft of my own creativity and soul.
People took a lot from Nina – she left the U.S.A. for many years to find her mind and peace.
One of my favorite sayings I always tend to tell people is
“I’m a person with good intentions”
“My actions and heart come from a good place .”
I think I must have picked it up from the lyrics in the song ‘DON’T LET ME BE MISUNDERSTOOD
“I’m just a soul whose intentions are good – Oh lord please don’t let me be misunderstood”
I’ve often felt misunderstood.
I have made one hell of a journey.
So these days if someone misunderstands what I say, I have to pretty much cut them off and be direct and tell them that they have misunderstood or not heard or misinterpreted what I am saying .
To have soul, you have to be free.
Completely free of your mind and body -you mustn’t covert away any part of you , you must reveal your soul to the entire world.
People will either get you or they won’t but that becomes their problem not mine or yours.
There must be no shame in revealing your soul to the world.
Nina was diagnosed with Bipolar in the 80’s and I guess she felt displaced.
Now I know that world well.
I felt displaced in so many situations in my life. I did actually do something Nina did (at a point in her life)-
I turned inwards on myself.
I couldn’t win the political game of “normal” social life. I never fit in one social group or culture.
I stood out for all to see.
I didn’t fit. Yet, I felt comfortable in more than one place or with one type of people simultaneously.
I didn’t want to have to choose just one set of people to be around. I tried to conform but my soul rebelled
I struggled when I was growing up.
Not being able to fit into one box came high levels of recklessness on my part. I was probably the first person in my social group who displayed crazy- off her head signs.
It was awful because I was only 13-17 years old.
You could be a certain type of crazy but not my kind of crazy.
People backed up the fuck away…
Never mind that later many of my peers would have had more life experience and with that , they had gained a few extra pounds of experiencing the not so great hand life deals us at times.
There would come a time when many I knew would have to deal with whatever it decides to throw at you. Whenever it chooses to do so.
Maybe a few of them went
“Oh,now I get it.”
I took on adult responsibilities from a young age.
I didn’t fucking want them.
So it then became a political inquest into my soul…
My soul fled from me – leaped out of my heart, got lost in my head , ran- in search of the nearest exit.
It found that exit in a secret tunnel at the furthest part of my unconscious. It did a backflip out and over the balcony of my mind, landed on its feet and made for the ocean.
It went into hiding , to the deepest part of the ocean. A place it knew it could surrender to without protest. It could go with the current and not be examined for doing something as natural as just being its nature and of nature.
I searched to reclaim mine back for years.
Soul can’t be questioned it must be felt.
Nina felt stigma,
I felt stigma,
Many feel stigma.
She connected to so many because she wasn’t afraid to share her humanness and be her and speak up for ‘her kind’.
She inspires me to carry on speaking out for people who still suffer inequality with their mental health issues. I will never stop using my voice and writing to break down stigma and prejudice and ignorance.
There are four songs I want to share that she sang.
The only way she knew how to help change and shape the world she lived in -was to get political with her music. It killed her singing career and nearly killed her.
I can’t help but see Nina as such a positive role model for all genders, race, sexuality, age and faiths.
STRANGE FRUIT- The first greatest protest song. Originally sung by Billie Holliday -another idol of mine
GODDAMN MISSISSIPI –read about the meaning behind the song
TO BE YOUNG, GIFTED AND BLACK – be proud!
This leads me to tell all your Jazz lovers out there that today is Sunday ( again?)and I kind of accepted to do a challenge.
INTERNATIONAL JAZZ DAY EVENT is on 7th May.
WANT TO JOIN IN ON FACEBOOK? HERE YOU GO.
If you can, I recommend watching the ‘WHAT HAPPENED, NINA? ‘ ‘ DOCUMENTARY ON NETFLIX
* This a poem that I wrote whilst waiting and comforting my mom and my gran before she passed over in March 2018, from vascular Dementia and Alzheimers. I wrote it while waiting for her to let go of Life. It’s a Morbid (and possibly strange) thing to do when someone you love is dying in front of you. This was one way of expressing my powerlessness, over a period 3 days watching someone cling on to this Life).*
Reminiscent of an uprising of crickets ready to battle.
Stare at a puffed updiamond heart
Drumming inside an empty cage.
Birds ripped apart.
Gargoyle stares ignored.
Folk bumble about unaware of what’s in store for us all,
The breathe of Hades lingers
then makes a dash for scant flesh and bones.
Meat is not this gods instrument
Lust causes the call for more drones.
Sponge, moisten parched parted lips
Raven signals the ire of its whips.
The ones who don’t loose it in bedlam excite
Invites all loved ones to rally around
Stands by door.
Stands back a while
Admires its own power.
A moment to savour
Every door closed,
Each breath cloys,
Begs for enough fare to cross the distance to embrace Elysium air.
Today everyone shall know how close we are to parting from brown soil.
Babies born in Cumbersome air.
The cycle must complete before we can emerge reborn.
Death is inevitable as necessary as life is to the Cumbaya of springs first show of petal.
When you look at the beginning of this new dawn,
Know that when you stand back in awe
Its because you have felt the chill of winters soul depart.
Shed a tear for the snowman who brought our youth so much joy.
Stare it in the face.
The sun chants
counting his rosary beads.
Tomorrow never dies.
Trying to type something while listening and watching my grandmother dying.
I support the assisted dying law.
This is inhumane!
A selfish farce.
Happy mothers day,
Wherever you go
Wherever you roam
I hope that it is a place as magnificent as earths revellers make it out to be.
Ma petit fripon. Je t’aims toujours