You & I

26 Jul

In response to what we heard through the walls  during our ArtiPeep session last night.

 

You & I (Marina’s Call)

A mother and a son should never live together (if they can at all help it) once they are grown.

The three of us came to that conclusion last night.

Hearing their voices through the wall  – paper thin-

Just because on this particular evening the windows were open and the warm summer air was shimmering in.

His words were pointed, jagged-toothed and harsh. They seared through the brick, seeped through the mortar.

Cutting  through contemplation, calm, soft utterances and understanding.

[‘You, You, You’  We heard. (imagine the looming figure with pointed finger, right up close to her face, desperately trying to make his mother SEE the he-position),

‘What about Me, Me, Me?!  (see  the lone tear trickling down her cheek, her black synthetic  wig, slightly slipping to the right as she tries to run her hand through her hair; the real white slipping out underneath, like a secret)

‘You don’t understand what it’s like for me. For ME. NOT for YOU. For Me. Me. Me.’

(A heavy mantra from a heavy heart.)

Her words were quieter. You could not distinguish them, the semantics merged into  soft tones,

She was holding her own though. One tough lady. Been through the wringer. So they say.

She was not defeated (though the weight of her heart was diminishing (feel) , as she saw no solution to the fearful dynamic. No words to really frame the relation, other than resignation).]

And she’d only told me two weeks ago that she thought he was the devil.

‘It’s like living with the devil’. She’d said.

And there we were ‘omming’, and meditating and talking about what we wanted, what our issues were, and there

next door,

right next door -red and horned

was life-the real nitty gritty-the harshness, the fear and the conflict, the mother-softness and the son-rock-rage.

Equally vulnerable.

It was like Ying and Yang.

Like black and white.

You cannot have one without the other.

The ‘You’ without the ‘I’.

The hope and the joy, without the balance of brutal words through mortar. Next door.

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