The Soundtrack of My Life/ writing 101,assignment

Deep Purple was my favorite band for many years. My brother was 4 years older than me and so I inherited all his records as he grew up and moved on. But deep Purple’s lead singer, Ian Gillian was my secret dream lover, and his singing their song, “Pictures of Home” cut deep into my aching heart. I was a depressed, or rather, disturbed girl, and very lonely. So the words were my plea for help:,”I’m alone here, with emptiness, eagles and snow- Unfriendliness chilling my body, and taunting with Pictures of Home…” That last echoing cry sent out along the moors, stolen from his “kissy” lips, and making me ache in ways I had yet to understand.

Then there was Black Sabbath, with my idol, Ozzy Osbourne at the helm. It wasn’t the “crazy train” that owned me, but rather a darker,  more personal song, also very dark. I had this song on a cassette that I played in my “Boom-Box” everywhere I went. Selling joints to my school mates, taking quaaludes, and tripping on acid. Always, this song moved through my mind like a mist: “I hide myself inside the shadows of your name… Your silent symphonies were playing their game…” Then, later in the song, my hatred for authority came to a climax with the chorus, “Why don’t you just get out of my life”, repeated twice, and then the big finish,” Why doesn’t EVERYBODY LEAVE ME ALONE!!!” I took that cassete with me to the locked Psych Ward where I spent my eighteenth birthday, along with the 6 razor blades I hid in my clothing. I oozed hatred from every pore that day, but I craved love so much and lacked it so much that my gut felt like a bottomless meat freezer when those doors slammed shut behind my parents,

But there are other songs today that I hear and love. Songs about joy, songs about love. Songs about life. There is one particular song I am hearing now in my exhausted mind. A lilting melody that I can not play without sobbing all nthe way through it. It is by Eva Cassidy, and I have also heard it done by Sting. I believe it is an old song, but I’m not sure. I know that it carries within it the seed of my dead mother’s essence, Carol, my best friend, has been gone for 5 years now, but when I hear this song, it is she who sing it, ” Among the Fields of Gold.”

I miss you, Mum.

I love you Mom!
I love you Mom!

The Warm Place

Her breath, warm and vaguely sweet. Her eyes glistening, the tears mingle with her laughter. I am in the circle of her embrace, as we lie entangled in a beautiful red paisley comforter.

The room is dim, quiet except for our soft talk of living, loving and dying. Wiping her tears, we laugh, then she wipes at mine. Outside the bedroom, I hear the birds stirring – on comes the dawn. She calms, lays still and quiet, as I rest my head on her lightly rising and falling breast. She is fragile now, and tired,

The room becomes more womb-like, in the still air. Even the sputzie out in the oak seems to understand this moment in time. This place…

I whisper gently to her, loving her to sleep with an ancient Irish lullaby. Being in the circle of her arms is the only place in this life where I ever felt complete, and able to love completely. I try , in the morning mist, to bring her this same comfort.

Time stands still, as memories flow between us like dew on a spiderweb.

One day soon the web will break, but not in this glowing room she fills with love. This is where I will always be safe with her, forever.

A Free Write/ Unlocking the Mind

Free write. to me the words go together like bread and butter. Freedom to me is writing, expressing myself with words. Beautiful words. I used to love reading these very old encycolopedias we have, the certainties they contained became less certain as I grew up. Today much of what they contain is now known to be untrue- but the language they contained, in it’s firm and proper turn of the century puritanism, makes me ache inside to this day.

Imagine, a time when thoughts about electricity powering the globe were fresh. A time when the descriptions of prehistoric creatures were as close as the majority of people would ever get to seeing a real dinosaur. When people depended on prose to win hearts, to secure jobs, to set their dreams free.

I get woozy when I hear people discussing whether to teach the art of writing in school. How I loved to watch the march of little letters across the lined page. I was SO determined to make mine look like the teachers’. The day we were introduced to cursive script was the day I found true bliss.  I would scrawl across the page, over and over again. Rushing home for Mommy to see the mind blowing “s” that occured not only once, but twice in my name.

My journals became my lifeline to sanity, writing my innermost thoughts in secret. All the things I needed to tell someone, but couldn’t- this is what my journal was for. I started writing religiously in my journals in 1976, when I was 12. I lost many of them in the move to Florida, but many I still have, and I can now comfort that lost little girl who wrote to no one. I can read her words late into the night, and tell her not to be afraid anymore.

I can hear her calling out in those dog eared pages, all those years ago. This is my answer:  You made it, Lillie..