impressionistic frames

It is 1963, we are living in Germany and are on a weekend trip with our parents. The windows of the train frame the views we watch as they flash past us. Fields of green, of flowers, and crops, houses tucked neatly into the countryside, large slanting rooves define the buildings. A cornflower blue sky hangs like a drape over the picture. I sit opposite my sister and we laugh and play, and argue over little things, the chatter of adults surrounds us but we are oblivious to all but our own adventure. We sit in the dining car waiting for lunch to be served and my lips are dry with excitement. A glass of golden amber liquid is placed on the table and I cannot resist its allure as I grab it and pour its contents down my dry throat. The taste disappoints, it is bitter and rough and I choke and cough it up.

We picnic by the banks of a river, as the afternoon stretches out lazily before us, revealing little surprises like the small flowers hiding in the long grass that only fully open when touched by the sun’s rays, and the benevolence of mankind when softened into relaxation. My sister and I explore the trees and grasslands, not understanding adults’ laziness.

We live in a small village outside of Nuremburg, I look outside my bedroom window and can see only white, everything is covered in white ice, like the white icing on my favourite German gingerbread biscuits. I run downstairs squealing with excitement and go to open the door, my mother stops me, and makes me put on my red shiny boots and red woollen coat, wrapping a scarf around my head and neck. I am allowed to go and play with my sister in the snow. My sister pounds me with the cold wet balls of white ice.

The impressionism of childhood is replaced with surrealism in teenage years. Distorted edges of confusion form and harden over softer landscapes. It is no longer play but learning, each step leading further away from the safety of being cared for, and we seek it out, whatever is our fate. 

It is 1973, Sydney, another country, another light and frame. The suburb emerges from concrete footpaths and blocks of shopping complexes and tarred roads. Increasing car traffic and houses seem to grow where spaces are cleared and people multiply, foreign and homegrown. I look out the bus window and watch scenes reel before me. I follow my sister on the last leg of the journey to the high school, it is my first day and I am delighted and excited. A new beginning, an emerging new age.

But coming of age is more difficult.  

I stand on City Road outside Sydney University, wearing a bright pink sleeveless dress made of stretch rayon, high heeled shoes and holding a briefcase bag. The heat penetrates and makes me sweat profusely but I do not care. I am a university student, I will save the world, I have a bright future.

I fall in love with a smile, a soft caress, a friendly word; I was young. He is tall, blonde and strong with deep blue eyes. We talk, we laugh, and sit in the sunshine talking about our studies, our plans for the future. On my birthday he takes me to the university bar and I have my first cocktail, a screwdriver. I have hopes he feels the same about me as I do for him. Then he introduces me to his girlfriend, a small dark-haired girl of Chinese background. I feel a bit embarrassed and withdraw. The sun didn’t seem to shine as much.

There is Frank of Italian background, short, dark-haired, dark-eyed youth self-described proudly as a fascist who writes music and wants to use my poetry as lyrics. The young Liberal party member John, with dreams of a future as a successful politician, he recites poetry to me hoping I will be impressed. The slightly older and more sexually experienced computer programmer Dave, who reveals to me the pleasures of the body; I am in love; he says I am too young. Then there is the young scholar of Indian descent who wants more from me than I am prepared to give. I toy with him because I can. There is the young man who joins the army, he said for me, eager to impress he comes across too cocksure for me to find him attractive. Luke who is too unsure of himself, not really knowing how to behave with women, but he yearned for me but not I for him. Ed the tall lanky young Italian who drives a panel van to show he is serious about his intentions. It is a time when men behave like gentlemen, cautiously, nervously and clumsily looking for someone. I am searching for the right one, the one who will inspire, gratify, extend and protect me, but we all look for something different in our partner. 

Then when the dreaming stops and life emerges out of the surrealism of youth a more cubist hard edged form takes shape and we morph and change and re-emerge as someone else, a wife, a mother. The world changes us, locks us into a job, a wage, a daily routine: I was no more.

I hold her in my arms and am terrified by the realisation that motherhood is for life. I am, will always be, responsible for her. The dark brown eyes (someone was unkind and called them cow eyes out of jealousy perhaps), dark hair, and her nervous, jarring movements as she explored the world around her. Her cries wake me up at night and when she is asleep I go to her room and check to make sure she is still alive.

Those beginnings, first smile, first words, first steps are quickly replaced by a young lady at times sure of herself and at others unsteady in her grasp. I do not read the signs as I watch her brother grow. The ache she feels inside she passes onto me when she leaves. The bag is packed, her face taut with confident derision. On that sunny day the sun does not shine for us.

The little boy who smiled at six months old, always wanting to be by my side now grows apart. Tall, dark and handsome, good-natured, sensitive, he fulfills all the cliches. I dally in his conversation and hope his journey is not so rough.

As we emerge from the defined edges of cubism a more abstract picture emerges, some form of me takes shape, not sure how to proceed I linger on the fringes of the next frame. This time I hope to take up the paint brush and make my mark, my own, before age or death deprives me of my last picture.

The many us

The night is warm and stars shine brighter than before, 

or so it seems to her as she walks out to find a friend. 

A friend that is no more. 

This she remembers as if it was just yesterday 

and it is, but many yesterdays have gone. 

I walk out into the day to meet her 

but only catch a glimpse of the shadow that was there last night 

that sunshine has wiped clean in exuberant light. 

There are many that walk beside, behind, in front, 

silhouettes of past selves seeking redemption. 

Another she reaches out to me, “remember when?”. 

I had forgotten and pass her by 

then another whispers,” remember me?”, 

I shudder and hope she goes away. 

The past and present figures of my self entwine in a dance swaying,

Encircling me

Selves I have forgotten 

or choose to discard, 

shedding former selves as a snake sheds skin

“Do you know me?” 

I wish I did, 

this self is worn and tired and needs to forgive what former self did.

But then she disappears, 

too many selves emerge, take shape, haunt, torment , then merge

as she, or I, I know not which,

walk down a lighted path alone 

to meet the us we are to become

fearful of who she might be

anxious that we may not reach her

before the light fades and we are no more.