I've been freaking out and making progress. Getting drenched in the rain and soaking in the sun. Sleeping and waking. Drinking and abstaining. It's been a week.
I'm realizing more and more how little I can ever know about my grandmother. The more we dig and find, the less there is to hold onto. I'm also realizing how hard it is for me to call her my grandmother. Grandmothers come with specific images, feelings, ages, notions. Mine never was a grandmother. She died a mother, and hardly even that.
There is little left of her in story or any other form. There are gaps of time between all the photos - the 50's jump into the 70's. Then nothing. She was young and perky and classic, then long haired with sandals and a bundle of a baby.
And there's this.
and
and
It's hard to make sense of it all, but it's intriguing, too. These times are myths to me, magical stories I get to listen to and long for. She's the same. This myth I get to dream up when there's nothing left to do.
dream dream dream
Beautiful post. It sounds like you're reaching a lot of important realizations about your work. I'm glad to hear you're still discovering new things, that you're still intrigued by your subject and interested in what you're trying to produce. Personal desire is the best thing we have to keep us writing writing writing.
ReplyDeleteKaty's right. You're seeing yourself as myth building or recording and that's what it can be at this point. Everyone's memory is tainted by the unconscious, so you can be confident about your own truth and not worry. I love that your interacting with this history is such physical ways. YAY.
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