This whole place is a mess!

I’ve spent the last few days cleaning my house like a demon. This is an activity I enjoy on any day of the week, but currently, to my great satisfaction, it counts as two categories of work since I’m also writing a book on the subject. I’m in my kitchen making up batches of natural cleaning products, trying them out, writing about them, then going back to my kitchen to tinker some more. I’m getting my book finished and my house smells gorgeous. Honestly, it’s pure bliss, but I have to chuckle about just how much I enjoy putting my house in order. It’s a little demented. I can’t help but think of one of my favorite lines from one of my all-time favorite movies, Mommie Dearest. “I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at the dirt!” Faye Dunaway, playing Joan Crawford, sing-shouts this in an attempt to seem cheerful toward the poor hapless housekeeper she’s just read to filth for neglecting to mop the floor under a potted plant. I relate to this. I’m not mad (or sad, or anxious, or confused, or hopeless, or doomed)—I’M CLEANING!!!

Yesterday I watched the movie for the 200th time and laughed out loud all by myself, as I always do. It made me want to share this piece of writing with you again. I posted it on this blog a few years ago, and it originally ran in a food-themed zine put out by The Soapbox. The portrait of Faye Dunaway from that famous wire hanger scene was made by Joe Carlough of Displaced Snail. Enjoy it, folks, and remember, I would rather be here with you than anywhere else in the world.

Mommie-Dearest

 

When we were kids, my little sister and I watched Mommie Dearest on a regular basis. We had a VHS tape of it that we’d recorded off theTV a few minutes in, so we never got to see the very beginning, when Joan Crawford wakes up at four a.m. to begin her meticulous morning routine. In that scene, with the swirling, corny score playing in the background, we see Joan scrub her face with steaming water—literally scrub it, with a brush—and then plunge it into ice, a strange ritual that I didn’t really understand but knew had something to do with making and keeping yourself beautiful. There was something so incredibly satisfying to us about watching that movie. There were the terrible, overacting extras, who make me hoot with laughter when I watch them now; the cathartic, crazy screaming; the hush of melodrama that settled over the whole thing like snow. Even the way the word mommie was spelled was weird. It was wonderful.

I don’t know how much Joan’s rage and loneliness really registered with me back then, and as kids Liz and I certainly didn’t have the life experience to appreciate the subtleties of “camp.” I think what we were responding to instead was the childishness of Christina’s complaint, the outrage that every kid feels, at one time or another, however lucky they are: This isn’t fair! No one gets to choose their family, and it doesn’t matter how enviable it looks from the outside—there’s something scary and sad that lives in every household. Liz and I were no strangers to the way a parent’s mood could shift like the weather, responding to nothing but itself, the air dense with gathering storm clouds. And so we screamed along with Christina, and Joan too, since the anger of every person in the movie thrilled us equally. “Tina!” my sister would cry out, just before the rose bushes were about to really get it. The sob in her voice was just right. “Bring me the ax!”

The sumptuousness of the setting was a big part of the movie’s appeal too, of course. Joan puts on these floor-length gowns and glides down her art deco staircase like she’s in a movie, even when she’s just hanging out around the house. She goes out to dinner dripping with diamonds. And the dinners themselves? Nothin’ but steak. Whether she’s at home or cradling a vodka tonic at Perino’s, Joan always orders hers rare.

One of several baroque punishments Mommie hands out to her daughter has to do with the steak. They all sit down to lunch at home one day—Christina, Joan, little brother Christopher, and that lackey of a nanny, Carol Ann—but Christina balks, calling the meat on her plate “raw” in a babyish voice. She presses down on it with her fork and watery blood runs out. Mommie won’t let Christina eat anything else for the next several meals. Instead she sets out the same cold steak every morning and evening and waits for the girl to break down and eat it, but she never does.

The thought of eating steak for lunch (a rare one, no less) made a big, sickening impression on me back then. There was something so queasily grown-up about it, not unlike Mommie’s spooky sex appeal, or the very female rage that fills the movie. Christina wins that battle, just like she wins the war in the end. But that’s not what you remember, is it? It’s Joan’s anger and ego, larger than life, that matter to this story. She so often seems to want to kill the daughter she loves, but there’s that one moment, when she finally relents and lets Christina scrape the disgusting food into the trash, that a tiny smile plays at the corners of her mouth.

“Why must everything be a contest!” she hisses, but you can tell she’s kind of proud.

Me and My Shadow

shadows

Content warning on this one, pals: mention of sexual assault, lots of F bombs

A long time ago now, I wrote a zine and published it under a fake name. It was an obviously fake name, a bit rude, and I picked it because it made me laugh. I won’t tell you what it was because that zine is still out there in the world, and if you knew—if anybody knew—that I was the one who wrote it, it wouldn’t feel the same to me anymore. To tell those stories properly I needed to pretend to be someone else.

On the surface, the stories were not that big of a deal. Just some childhood memories of a spooky religion and adults who weren’t very nice to kids, turned into funny stories by someone who was still mad about it. Since the writer of that zine had an obviously fake name, the stories could have been written by anybody, which had a way of making them larger than themselves. This was fitting, because I am not the only person these kinds of things have happened to. 

I made an email address for that pseudonym, and she got letters from people who read the zine and wanted to share their own stories. Those stories were pitiful, too, but they were also always a bit funny. We weren’t talking about abuse or terror, after all—just the daily grind of boredom, befuddlement, and shame, the little indignities of life that we all suffer to some extent or other. I’d say that reading, writing, and talking about this stuff was cathartic for everyone involved.

Some months after I put the zine out I went searching for it online. I don’t remember why now; I think I was trying to see if any of the shops that carried it had listed it on their websites. What I came across instead, to my surprise, was a review of the zine on someone’s blog. I don’t remember most of what the review said anymore, just that the writer related to the stories and enjoyed reading them—and that they thought I was a fuck-up. The way they said it was something like, “this is where a fuck-up comes from” or “this zine is like the fuck-up’s origin story.” I will tell you right now that the moment I read this was one of the most satisfying in my entire life as a writer, or the public aspect of that life, anyway. I am not even kidding. It meant that something I had written had been a success in the realest meaning of the word: I’d set out to be completely honest, and someone had recognized it—they’d felt the “cut of truth,” as Natalie Goldberg calls it in Writing Down the Bones, her classic book about learning to write. 

The truth cuts, and it heals. Since I had made up that ridiculous name I could say anything I wanted, the way you can in a diary. It happened that the things I wanted to say were insulting, a bit immature, and very angry. And wow did it feel good. I was surprised by how freeing it felt to write this zine, in fact, since I write about my life all the time and I’m always trying hard to be truthful; I mean, that’s the whole point of doing writing like that. But this little experiment of mine taught me that I can always dig deeper.

I have thought about this many times over the years, this idea of me as a secret fuck-up. By secret I mean that I probably don’t seem like a fuck-up to most people. In fact I might even seem like the opposite: Hard-working, stable, fortunate, my middle class background written all over my face. I’m polite and my house is tidy. I did well during those years I wrote about in the zine, even—I was the fucking valedictorian of my high school class! But I hated the way I felt sitting in those classrooms, humiliated and trapped. I hated most of my teachers, thought they were stupid, and felt suffocated and insulted by the oppressive religion I was subjected to every day. I hated the kids who believed in it, their prissy smugness, and the adults who let themselves be bullied by these weird authoritarians who’d convinced them they had heaven to offer. I hated it all until it made me sick to my stomach, but I balled up my bad feeling and used it for the energy I needed to study hard and get good grades. I did this because I understood that being angry all the time would somehow mark me as a fuck-up—the fuck-up I thought I was, even though I had so much going for me.

When I read that review of my writing I felt seen, and I know you know what a glorious feeling that is. It’s so rare, so precious, that when it happens you’re usually about a minute away from falling in love. I’m sure it helped that the writer of the review was using the term fuck-up affectionately—or, I guess, knowingly: From one fuck-up to another was the general feeling I got. But I would have treasured that comment even if they’d said it to be mean. I had shown my real self—one of my real selves, I should say—and someone has seen it. A split inside myself was healed. Or if not quite healed, at least patched up a little.

***

I’ve been going through some personal turmoil over the last few months, something very hard. It’s brought new ideas to the forefront of my mind, ideas about family and belonging, safety, secrets, and shame. About what it means to tell the truth, and how hard it is to actually do that. I’ve been thinking a lot about what honesty is and where it is, where in the body. When something feels too painful for you to look at, where do you put it? And if it’s been tucked down in there for a long time, how do you dig it out? 

I don’t know much about the various schools of psychoanalysis and have tended not to be very interested in them as a subject, like intellectually, but as I say, I’ve been doing some searching. I read an essay recently about the Shadow Self, Jung’s idea of the Id. It’s the part of ourselves we keep hidden from ourselves but is there anyway, motivating some of our behaviors. Those hidden aspects of our personalities are usually things we consider negative, but positive stuff can get tangled up in the Id too. It’s a jungle in there. 

I warmed to the idea of the Shadow Self instantly. It reminded me of my inner fuck-up, that poor, pissed-off girl who thinks no one can see her. The one who was so split from the rest of me, I had to give her her own name. She’s been tagging along behind me all this time, and I really do love her after all. She tells the truth and makes me laugh. I need to recognize her, integrate her more—I need to do some shadow work—and even though I’m not quite sure how, I’m on a path, and I’ve been seeing signs to guide me as I go.

Like: In the car last week I passed a street called Moonshadow Lane. Later that afternoon I found a jigsaw puzzle at a thrift store that had the word moonshadow in it, too. Like: “Dark Morph,” the new song by Jonsi and Carl Michael von Hausswolff, who made an album out of sounds they collected on a research vessel: whale song, the sound of bats flying, gorgeous and terrifying. It conjures half-seen things moving elegantly, slowly, deep beneath the ocean’s surface, where the light barely reaches. It’s as if everything in the world has a dark side, a shadow self, but I’m only able to see that now for the first time.

One of the things that has always drawn me to Wicca, though I don’t practice it as a religion, is the idea of embracing the darkness, or at least accepting it as the balance of the lighter aspects of life. Wicca is a nature-based religion, and with nature as a framework for understanding ourselves these ideas are easier to conceptualize. Life is a cycle, the year is a wheel, and every season is necessary. The seed of death inside the heart of every summer day—you can feel it there. The green life tucked underneath the frozen ground in winter—you can feel it there. Everything is everything. 

Poking around the library the other day, I found a small book called Two or Three Things I Know For Sure by Dorothy Allison, a writer who I have loved for her brainy and fearless truth-telling. This book is too short to be a proper memoir—less than 100 pages long—but it is about her life. Allison, who grew up very poor in rural South Carolina, always writes about her own life in some way—and because of some of the details of her life, she also writes about secrets, shame, stories, and truth. In this book she writes that her stepfather raped her, beginning when she was five. She writes here, and has written in other essays and books, that she refuses to feel ashamed of who she is and where she comes from. But reading her writing, something more powerful even than that proclamation comes through: She very clearly just isn’t ashamed. Her honesty and love—love for her mother and sisters, her partners and queer community, as well as for herself—make that apparent.

Allison also writes that she didn’t tell the story of her abuse for a long time because stories like that have a way of defining their teller. She didn’t want to wear the coat of many colors, the one in the Bible that’s so brilliant no one can see the person wearing it—they can only see the coat. 

She says: 

“Behind the story I tell is the one I don’t.

Behind the story you hear is the one I wish I could make you hear.

Behind my carefully buttoned collar is my nakedness, the struggle to find clean clothes, food, meaning, and money. Behind sex is rage, behind anger is love, behind this moment is silence, years of silence.”

I think this is excellent, this image of stories like matryoshka dolls, one inside the other. In a sense this is the hardest part of writing, figuring out when the story begins. You have to strip away so many layers to get to the truth, but when do you stop? Do you need to tell them all for the picture to be complete? I don’t know yet. What I do know is that, one way or another, we need to find a way to integrate all of our stories if we want to become whole.

The Wheel of the Year

Upon the first of May,

With garlands fresh and gay,

With mirth and music sweet,

For such a season meet,

They passe their time away.

—Traditional English song, reprinted in Herb Gardening in Five Seasons by Adelma Grenier Simmons

I love the seasons, and I love the way they pull me along with them into new phases of my life as they change. With my melanin-challenged skin and migraines that make me sensitive to light, I have tended to dread the intense sun of the summer. I used to start dreaming about Halloween in April, as if I could wish the in-between seasons away. But like a lot of things, I’ve learned that if I go with it—if I decide to embrace the obviously beautiful aspects of the season along with the blessings that are harder for me to recognize—I stand to gain a lot more. Living in season, a concept I first started thinking about thanks to the writing of Waverly Fitzgerald, has been a big part of that. Diving deeper into the reality of the day I find myself in, rather than trying to work against it. I might prefer the cool air and rich colors of autumn, but I’ll be damned, in summer the song really does sing itself.

In an essay about the holiday, Fitzgerald says that May Day, like Halloween—which is opposite May Day on the Wheel of the Year (I love that, the idea of the year as a wheel that keeps on turning)—is a time when the veil is thin between this world and the other one, and spirits can wander freely. Does that sound goofy to you? Maybe it shouldn’t. If you live in a part of the world where spring is turning into summer, go outside. See how it makes you feel. When I step out back I find myself in a messy little garden, a different world from the one inside my house. It’s full of life and color, and the weather is moody from hour to hour. The clouds move swiftly and surprise me with the rain that we need to make everything grow. There’s a wildness in the air.

There are many traditions around the world that mark this time of year with a festival. In northern Europe, where my people are from, the May Day festival was called Beltane, and there was dancing and drinking and maybe some sexy stuff too. Revels. I like that word, and I like the idea, too. The celebration has a feeling of abandon, of letting the wildness of nature inhabit your mind and body for awhile. Goodness knows I need that sometimes, don’t you?

Anyway, it happens that a small anniversary is coming up for me this month. I started keeping this blog four years ago, in May of 2015. Sometimes I feel like anniversaries and birthdays aren’t worth marking—like, who cares that another year has passed in the life of this blog that I really only keep for myself? But marking the passage of time gives us a chance to reflect on the things that have happened and the work we’ve done. I’m proud to have made this space where I can work through some of my ideas, and to have shown up to it, to have kept a commitment I made to myself and to anyone who’s reading this. I’m proud of some of the things I’ve written here, too. This spring, I wish you fruitfulness in your life, that you have the courage to hatch a plan you’ve been making and nurture it along. No matter how humble the plan is, how small your ambitions may seem to you, don’t talk yourself out of them. If you feel drawn to something, I promise you that’s reason enough to let it flourish.

may day
Spring, Lawrence Alma Tadema, 1894