When I was young my mother used to constantly chastise me for talking too much. For giving out what she considered too much information about our family. Normally she would complain about smaller things: like telling someone (distant relatives even) what we had for dinner last night, that my mother bargain shopped, or that the dog had an accident on the kitchen floor that morning. Things like that. I don’t remember most of the reasons or events when I was chastised. I just remember it happened on a daily basis. Oddly enough, she never expressed a fear that someone would discover signs of physical abuse on my body, though she did make sure that I dressed in such a way that those signs were well under the cover of my clothing. I guess, the marks on my body had nothing to do with language, so nothing was to be feared.
Secrets later became a problem. But, not for me (as much at least). I used language as a way out. A release that was always followed with pain, embarrassment, guilt, and chastisement.
I’m beginning to recognize that I have now replaced my mother. I chastise myself on my own. Again for small things, small comments, that had they been in writing I would have surely cut. Erased the memory of. But harmless small comments nonetheless. Like material that has been published for which one is ashamed, these comments haunt me to an extent which I will never admit to fully. I turn them over again and again in my mind, hoping to dull their edges. Alas, my head is not full of sand and water.
§
In college I thought words were heavy. They were difficult to lift and I left all the wrong ones in the wrong places. It wasn’t that I didn’t try to lift them; I did. Boy, I did, but they always sunk my clarity boat to the bottom of the pool. I knew I wasn’t a good writer, but that didn’t matter I needed the language anyway.
A break-through came after reading Woolf. A bigger one came after reading and writing about Joyce.
§
“My daughter will never graduate from college, but my son will be a doctor.”
“Teaching is a good job for women.”
“Learning to write is like lifting weights a the gym; you have to do it often in order to build muscles. You just need to do it more often.”
“I can see you living that box sort of life.”
“I can’t date older women because they pose a threat to me, to my career. That’s why I’m dating you; you don’t threaten me.”
“Promising, but undisciplined prose.”
“We always knew you were a good person, that you’re thoughtful, inquisitive; but now we know (because your writing has finally improved) that you’re smart too!
“We’re looking for stars.”
§
In my early grad school years words were like quicksand. Nothing sturdy. Nothing I could lean on. And created a very similar feel I got from my mother’s chastisements, and now my own. Instead of filling a gap, they’d create a deep vast void into which I’d fall. I resented my own words. I wanted them to stand still on solid ground. Steel planks, golden pegs, and Bedford limestone siding would all tumble down into that hole, ending at some point in a large heaped up mess. I fought tooth and nail, but nothing would stand up straight in that swampland.
Actually, they stood up straighter than I thought they did. But what does it matter if the house looks slouched and as if it’s sinking to me? I’m the one who has to live there permanently. The rest of yous are just visiting.
§
I had a dream the other day, or perhaps it was a daydream. I may have been conscious. I lived in a wooded area, which is great because I love the woods; I love trees in general actually. Always wanted to do a series of photographs looking at trees from the roots up. Kind of like that one Georgia O’Keeffe painting. I have a kinship with trees. They bend and turn and suffer just like people do. In this wood, though, none of the trees would stand up straight when I gently leaned on them. Most fell to the ground. I discovered that what I once thought were sturdy strong healthy trees were decayed and moldy inside. Termites and maggots feasted on their flesh. Few trees remained in this wood and I was scared to lean on any of them. The ground was soggy and treacherous so I needed something to grab onto now and then. I worked out a rhythm so that I would lean a little on a few trees at a time, so that any one tree wouldn’t carry much of my weight. If one was to fall, I would not fall with it. It also preserved the other trees. If I leaned too much they all would fall. Flying termites were everywhere. The same ones that tore my house down when I was twelve. We tried sucking them up in the vacuum cleaner, but when we opened it to take out the bag they’d just fly right back into the house again, eating my bedroom floor, and, in part, my core.
(I haven’t read Satrapi’s novel though; I’ve only seen the film, which could make a big difference in my reactions). Both of these graphic novels, however, seem worth anyone’s time. I wonder if Fun Home would be good as a film; the book is pretty awesome by itself. 
