seekerofvisions
08-16-2007, 10:29 AM
(a repost)
When one is growing up, they don't necessarily sit and ponder their existence or why things are the way they are, they simply exist and accept it as fate or some such thing. By the same token, when one is growing up they don't necessarily see themselves as living a life that is somehow different from others, until possibly when it is shown to them by the masses that they are different than others by some set of arbitrary standards.
I, like many people, simply lived my life seeing myself as no different from others. I wandered about in my little cloud of constant wonderment, stopping many, many, many times to smell the roses. So often in fact that from time to time I was late... late in blooming... late in kissing for the first time... late in developing wisdom teeth and on and on. But, that was just how I did things. I thought a lot about oddities. Things that appeared to be different but were somehow beautiful. Perhaps I was conditioned this way.
My mother was a Beatnik. I don't really like giving her a title, but she was, for all intents and purposes, a Beatnik and I loved her for it. My mother lived life. She was always on the go, experiencing things, good or bad, that was my mother. She was so into experiencing things that she often forgot to wear a bra, or her shirt was on inside out...but she was moving!
It was many a weekend that my mother packed us up and stuffed us into the car. She drove at top speed with the music blaring, the windows down, our long hair flapping in the breeze and I with my head hanging from the window, bugs stinging my face (yes, they really do sting when they belt your face at 90 miles an hour). It was to the museum or coastal city we went. Corona del Mar, Pasadena, Los Angeles, or Idyllwild...on and on. My mother was a liver (no, not the organ). I learned to see the world through my mother's eyes. She was never afraid to live or share. Yes, my mother was a sharer.
My mother loved to share, even if the recipient was not in need of her helpings of whatever it was she was sharing, whether it was her poetry on a street corner, her words of anger at a store clerk, her singing at the top of her lungs in a market...my mother SHARED! My mother shared her opinion wherever an opinion was available to be shared.
My father on the other hand, lived a life of constant apology. Not necessarily an apology for his own existence, but instead for the well wishing of opinions my mother shared with the world. My father was always one step behind my mother, his head bowed and a look of constant apology on his face. Now, I don't mean at all that my father was the passive sort. Oh no, not my father. He was not only in constant apology for my mother's off the wall actions such as stealing of bras from Victoria's Secret; no, he was living his life under complete anger management.
Something about dodging bullets in Viet Nam and picket lines in the States stirred something in my father that was no less than rage. It seems like only yesterday that I watched as my father fought four Hell's Angel's motorcyclists after my mother offered one of her never ending opinions to one of the girlfriends. Oh yes. That was a fun day.
Oh, but enough of the fun times and onto the educational era of Marie's life. It was an evening event that was shared by many in the Marie household. An evening that sparked lively conversation and large cups of iced tea. A book on father's lap, an opinion on the lips of mother and attentive ears of the audience that sat, everpresent, on the living room floor. It wasn't meant to be argumentative, oh no. Father had merely decided to share the learning of his Philosophy of Religions class with the family.
How strange it was to hear my father say that the table may not be real! Oh, my. How the thoughts began to roll in my little head as my mother began to argue that of course the table is real. But, my father could not argue scientifically with her on this point. My mother, who was well versed in classical physics, argued demonstratively that the table was THERE! The argument lasted well into the night.
Nights of debate, nights of wonderment of existing tables and rock hard biscuits tossed joyfully at the body of a sibling made for interesting memories. Seal blubber and homemade ice cream. Victoria Secret’s bras and bottles of Ibuprofen stuffed well into the pocket of the maternal figure. Siblings who dashed high into the air to greet the ribs of a younger sibling...oh how the memories flow. Oh yes. Horseback riding and fire pits. Donkeys and billy goats. Water and desert, these are the things that Marie is made of.
When one is growing up, they don't necessarily sit and ponder their existence or why things are the way they are, they simply exist and accept it as fate or some such thing. By the same token, when one is growing up they don't necessarily see themselves as living a life that is somehow different from others, until possibly when it is shown to them by the masses that they are different than others by some set of arbitrary standards.
I, like many people, simply lived my life seeing myself as no different from others. I wandered about in my little cloud of constant wonderment, stopping many, many, many times to smell the roses. So often in fact that from time to time I was late... late in blooming... late in kissing for the first time... late in developing wisdom teeth and on and on. But, that was just how I did things. I thought a lot about oddities. Things that appeared to be different but were somehow beautiful. Perhaps I was conditioned this way.
My mother was a Beatnik. I don't really like giving her a title, but she was, for all intents and purposes, a Beatnik and I loved her for it. My mother lived life. She was always on the go, experiencing things, good or bad, that was my mother. She was so into experiencing things that she often forgot to wear a bra, or her shirt was on inside out...but she was moving!
It was many a weekend that my mother packed us up and stuffed us into the car. She drove at top speed with the music blaring, the windows down, our long hair flapping in the breeze and I with my head hanging from the window, bugs stinging my face (yes, they really do sting when they belt your face at 90 miles an hour). It was to the museum or coastal city we went. Corona del Mar, Pasadena, Los Angeles, or Idyllwild...on and on. My mother was a liver (no, not the organ). I learned to see the world through my mother's eyes. She was never afraid to live or share. Yes, my mother was a sharer.
My mother loved to share, even if the recipient was not in need of her helpings of whatever it was she was sharing, whether it was her poetry on a street corner, her words of anger at a store clerk, her singing at the top of her lungs in a market...my mother SHARED! My mother shared her opinion wherever an opinion was available to be shared.
My father on the other hand, lived a life of constant apology. Not necessarily an apology for his own existence, but instead for the well wishing of opinions my mother shared with the world. My father was always one step behind my mother, his head bowed and a look of constant apology on his face. Now, I don't mean at all that my father was the passive sort. Oh no, not my father. He was not only in constant apology for my mother's off the wall actions such as stealing of bras from Victoria's Secret; no, he was living his life under complete anger management.
Something about dodging bullets in Viet Nam and picket lines in the States stirred something in my father that was no less than rage. It seems like only yesterday that I watched as my father fought four Hell's Angel's motorcyclists after my mother offered one of her never ending opinions to one of the girlfriends. Oh yes. That was a fun day.
Oh, but enough of the fun times and onto the educational era of Marie's life. It was an evening event that was shared by many in the Marie household. An evening that sparked lively conversation and large cups of iced tea. A book on father's lap, an opinion on the lips of mother and attentive ears of the audience that sat, everpresent, on the living room floor. It wasn't meant to be argumentative, oh no. Father had merely decided to share the learning of his Philosophy of Religions class with the family.
How strange it was to hear my father say that the table may not be real! Oh, my. How the thoughts began to roll in my little head as my mother began to argue that of course the table is real. But, my father could not argue scientifically with her on this point. My mother, who was well versed in classical physics, argued demonstratively that the table was THERE! The argument lasted well into the night.
Nights of debate, nights of wonderment of existing tables and rock hard biscuits tossed joyfully at the body of a sibling made for interesting memories. Seal blubber and homemade ice cream. Victoria Secret’s bras and bottles of Ibuprofen stuffed well into the pocket of the maternal figure. Siblings who dashed high into the air to greet the ribs of a younger sibling...oh how the memories flow. Oh yes. Horseback riding and fire pits. Donkeys and billy goats. Water and desert, these are the things that Marie is made of.