Today, I am going to share part of a writing project that I am sloooooooowly working on. It's kind of a personal memoir meets stream of consciousness fiction. Your candid, honest feedback is much appreciated.
Hugs,
Melissa
Introduction
I heard it said once that we are the sum of our life experiences-be they positive or negative. Like life is one gigantic number line and we move forward and backward on it. A bunch of negative 2 plus positive 5 experiences until we arrive at a final sum. I guess I get that, but really, I hate math. It just sucks. Life, though, life doesn’t suck.
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The Tempo of Life
July 4, 1972, Central Park, NYC - The swell of her belly, nine months in the making, gives nod to the swell of humanity gathering together in the park. Contracting, relaxing, quickening towards the celebration of independence. The air is thick with patchouli and pot, full, heavy, and almost tangible with earthy potential like her bosom, poised and ready to nurture new life. He runs his fingers through her straight brown hair down to her waist and enjoys the the fullness of the miraculously stretched stomach. The excitement builds to a crescendo as fireworks flicker and rocket into the air. Blinding and thunderously bombastic. Her baby girl awakens head down in the womb, startled into curiosity by the sudden cacophony. She kicks, squirms, no room to turn. Boom, kick, boom, kick. The cadence, the tempo of life is now upon her and her and him.
This Ain’t no Country Club, This Ain’t no Disco Either
If you are reading this book, you are going to get to know about some of me. The most important thing that you should know about me is that I detest onions. They are the work of the devil. In fact, I am pretty sure that the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden was an onion. Another thing that you should know about me is that my mother is Italian. She cooks with onions often. She also cooks with mushrooms and tomatoes which my younger sisters hate. Basically, every ingredient my mother cooks with, someone in our family has a problem with. So to save her sanity, my mom tells us to be quiet and eat. I appreciate my mom’s “this ain’t no country club, this ain’t no disco either” philosophy on feeding her family. And as much loathe onions, I believe that they provide us with a metaphor for life. Onions have many layers and often make you cry. Life has many layers too. And life can make you cry. Sometimes often.
I Lost the Plastic Family in an Avalanche
My first memory is a curious one. My recollection is a bit fuzzy, but I like to think that it goes something like this: I am barely three years old and it is snowing outside. Fluffy, sparkly snowflakes are falling from the sky. I am a tiny bundle of snow suit and gloves deliriously digging with a giant silver serving spoon from our mustard yellow kitchen in the mound of fresh snow that has accumulated in the courtyard of our Englewood, New Jersey apartment building. Fresh white snow coupled with some of my most treasured toys some small plastic people from my dollhouse - a kid’s nirvana. Okay, it’s a rosy set up right? But I am not sure how accurate the set up truly is. What I do remember is a losing that dang plastic family in the snow pile. That is the overwhelming memory that stands out to me. Losing some plastic people in a make believe avalanche, desperately digging to find them, and subsequently losing it. Full on toddler wailing and gnashing of teeth for the lost plastic family. I may not have gotten the set up for the memory correct, but it’s close enough and definitely a prophetic set up for what would follow in life. Plastic families get lost in the snow pile, real families get lost too in the piles of life. The good news is that every winter has a spring and what once was lost, can be found.
