If there are so many memories I may begin with, this one includes an elusive love of mine. If I may speak of intangibilities, this sensation is one I could recollect the most. If there is one that is most indescribable, it is one that I can describe with every one of my brain cells scampering about at its full potential. With certainty, She knows this is about her. Certainly, my mother in the flesh. My fingers remind me of hers. I have her features, I have her gestures and I own her vocal chord in my throat. She has bestowed upon me things that I haven’t asked for and sometimes wish I never had. My fingers and fingernails upset me most because they are the exact replicas of her very own. It should be a crime of some sort to have such hands resemble others in such an impolite and inconsiderable manner.
Her structure is of nonsense to me. It is far too poetic. She begins to carry herself in a way that makes me feel as if I should never leave her, in a way that I won’t ever leave her. Not entirely at least. The problem is that she doesn’t have my fingers to remember me by; I have hers. I am my mother’s daughter. I hate the idea of having that one person that I need to depend on, or simply need. It’s funny because she told me herself never to depend on or be needy about anyone. “Not even if that person is your mother”, she said right under her breath. “You will always somehow end up getting hurt”. How can I not depend on her when I have her very fingers to remind me of her? It’s her genetics’ fault! The fault is on you mother genetic! Go back to where you came from. Hide your chromosomal selves in the darker places where no one will find you. Just so if you find yourself conceiving again mom, this won’t happen anymore and that will make it easier not to depend.
She is fleeting in ways more than one. She is a series of thought and emotion. Thought and emotion are the bases of what makes an individual. Those elements being intangible and immaterial already make her seem momentary. I do quite enjoy ephemerality to the core. Most of the artwork I make is about constructing short-lived, intangible sensations and transforming them to become wealthy in terms of life span and making the intangible tangible. When it comes to fixations like my mother, the idea of all that is short-lived expires from my life. I begin to loathe the thought. Of course, leave it to my mother to poop on my “All Things Ephemeral” party. My mother transitory? Never! Selfish I know, but what about me? I wish to transit to wherever before she ever does. Denial, denial, denial. A pretty word that starts to sound like it could be a pretty girl’s name if you say it enough times.
Dependence, dependence, dependence on your husband, on your brother, on your sister, on your father or your mother makes for a restless, fidgety life. The “on edge” quality to life makes for a sleepless one. Psychologically, I am restless I think, because I am as dependent on her as her hands are dependent on my wrists for attachment. Because of this, her life is of concern to me and hopefully will become something I may be able to control to keep in line, in sight, and wedged to the very pit of my life for as long as the both of us are still around.
