I don’t want to write about childhood anymore. I don’t want to write about how no one asked. How no one asked about why my parents were never around. How no one asked why I was responsible for my little brothers’ homework and meals and personal hygiene. How no one asked what is was like to have a mother who almost never drew a sober breath. How no one asked if I had thought about going to college.
I was (and am) brilliantly creative but I am angry with my words now–angry at their reticence, their evasiveness. I am swollen with an absence of words, filled with nothing but old socks stretched out and unwearable, the kind I have to yank on throughout the day to free my toes from the bunched-up bundles. This strains the threadbare socks even more and the problem grows. It evolves. And this reminds me of stretchmarks–the result of birthing–or maybe in this case pregnancy that doesn’t necessarily result in a baby: My Writing.
I once had a lover who called my stretch marks “tiger stripes.” I liked that.
I have stretchmarks because one pregnancy did result in a birth and now he’s 13 years old. I learned this week that he has begun to smoke, four years earlier than my starting point at age 17. See how problems evolve? How they take on new forms? Always a rolling snowball and I just want to write about it. Want to ball up the bits of wax from my wanings and mold a perfect castle, a perfect place where the reader can lose herself, a second home, an escape hatch. Or more like a portal.
Birth canal in reverse. Back through the tunnel, returning to the womb. To the hot chamber of alchemy where possibility is born. I am looking for the words to lead me.