I can really see through people. To the well of their intentions. To hidden agendas, ulterior motives. The snakes on my head can use tongues to sense out pureness, to see masks and remove them. To tread lightly, trepidatiously on eggshells of broken glass.
I used to sit at the bottom of the stairs when my parents fought, listening to the facts.
My parents were great at explaining to me which one was worse – who was to blame.
I would sit there and listen so I could discern who was lying and who was telling any version of the truth.
This was at our house on Woodwyn Terrace, on the top of Mt. Newton. So I would have been between the ages of nine and eleven.
My mom finally kicked my dad out when I was eleven. Not sure what that particular fight was about but I’m pretty sure it happened in the kitchen.
I am always a backdrop in these memories, with an omniscient view – or maybe the view of the environment. I am not central in the scene, but off to the side – watching the scene unfold before me as if I were the fridge, the windowsill, or the cupboard doors.
This is something I’d like to keep diving into… maybe how I witnessed and observed so much as a child, that I very quickly became the backdrop or setting.
Not even so much as a participant observer. Purely a quiet observer. Do not upset the characters more than they already are – what’s happening around you? Where is your sister? What time of year is it?
The colours – the 1970’s cupboards of white MDF and a natural wood ‘lip-handle’ at the base. The yellow countertop.
The raw beam cutting the scene awkwardly in two.
Did our first dog die yet? Did we have our bird, Kobi yet?
My mom was yelling so loud and made the decision. My dad was yelling too but then looked dumb-founded when she pointed and yelled get out!.
She sort of sucked at dealing with emotions, big or small. He did too I guess – his own, anyway. But he could be reasoned with. We could sit down and have a chat with him after.
where rivers are born 