The air has begun to get a little cooler. You can’t see it, but in the middle picture Pleura is sitting in front of a fire, the light from the flames a candle for eggs. There will be snow falling and grey shadows beyond the glow of the fire. She is looking for a heart to feed to her mother. For then her mother will know the truth and have to speak it. She will rise from her place in the reeds and go forth. Her eyes will heal themselves and she will see clearly and walk quickly, she will read the future with her fingertips.
This is part of my myth. A small part of the story that is growing inside my head. The old woman is a character, too. I haven’t had time to write down much more than quick notes, dis-jointed phrases (do you recall the phrase, “all the eggs were wrong, wrong, wrong.”) that are intended to bring to mind the image I have linked them to in a small corner of my brain that I have devoted to this project. I think about it drawing and about the name Pleura, even when the other sectors of my brain are busy at work, or with children, cleaning the bathroom, trying to figure out what I could possibly do with three unmatched shoes, seeming impossibly small now that the footfalls of my children literally shake the house. I can feel them coming down the stairs even if I am out in the yard. Part of me is still always listening for them. But, still the tiny section of my mind that belongs to Pleura and her story churns and grinds, buzzes and thrums…a story is told.
The pictures come first, and with them a segment of myth that feels like a fit. It’s as if to get the story, I have to draw the picture, and not just any picture – but, the right one.
This process is hard to fake. I feel like this project is one of the first sincere expressions I’ve ever attempted. I get nervous when I draw something scary. I wonder what my mother might say.
Someone told me once that there is – among middle aged women – a sudden sense of freedom when there aging mothers die. Finally, they can do what they want, be who they are. I am not middle aged. My mother is quite alive. In fact she’s downstairs right now. Waiting for Chinese food to be delivered. I would like to try to be myself when she’s still alive. Certainly, at some point, those women who feel so free must realize that it is terribly sad that they were never brave enough to be true with their moms. To let their mother’s see the human they created.
I’m going downstairs.
I will try to keep up with all this. But, it just gets bigger and bigger.