Where are the Clowns?

Much of my time as a child was spent observing others. I perfected mockery as a way of entertaining both myself and my mother and stepfather. My inherent self wasn't acceptable to them. Maybe it was because what I represented reminded them of things they preferred to ignore or pretended didn't exist; the inspermerator Jack, my mother's deceased visions of law school, or her divided attention from David (the stepmonster). I remember being called from my room to the Poker table, the Thai food night, the political conversations over scotch and water, a brunch on the patio to perform their favorite perfected characters: Julia Child, Dr. Who, Jane Curtain. The smiles were the few that came my way without perverted strings attached, so I willingly gave them. My heart soaked them up like a hardened sponge long forgotten under the sink.

So much time was spent taking in other people's habits and mannerisms (partly for self-preservation) and it was so encouraged and affirmed by my parents, that no time was taken to analyze myself; to understand and know who I was. Examination of one's soul and motives wasn't prioritized in that house. It was easier to go about one's day criticizing others and pointing fingers in every direction but self. Despite this my mother produced two extremely introspective analytical children. The preponderance of conversations between my brother and I over the past several years have been an attempt to help him reconcile her humanity with her mothering. Trying to help him put it all together has been a bit like purchasing a puzzle at a yard sale. No guarantee that all the pieces are there. He is learning, as I have had to do, to look to whom the other three fingers are pointing.

Yesterday was a Jack Nicholson day. Oh most definitely not in front of my babes, but in conversations with Kris (When I told R, he asked if the profanity was included in my mimicry. My first thought was, how could it be Jack without it? So a confession to a contextual use of swearing). Jack represents subtle crazed anger and anxiety to me; a steely sense of "losing it." You know, that permanently pissed-off demeanor wrapped comfortably in cutting sarcastic wit and trimmed with four-letter words. I was able to play his character, make Kris laugh, and rid myself of possible public catastrophic eruptions.

In Blade Runner, Deckard questions his wife's decision to program herself for, twice a month, three hours of hopelessness and despair. He can't understand her desire to experience what he sees as unnecessary sadness. I can relate to her. It may be unresolved issues from my childhood. Could be a lack of faith that I chose to allow myself to feel despondent. Perhaps it is my natural tendency toward the contemplative and melancholic. Whatever the cause, when I sense it creeping up on the back of my heart, I don't always shoo it away like a stray dog. It finds a warm hearth to cool within me. I like feeling sad; I love jumping into the puddle of self-pity and wallowing for awhile. Not because it makes me appreciate being "happy" but because it simply feels good to dirty myself with all those feelings deemed unacceptable to the American culture.

Most of my adult life I have given heroic efforts to overcome my childhood. But there are occasions when I allow the herb of narcissim to flavor the soup. When I look at the obvious innocence of my girls; their happiness and naiveté, I wish it upon the little girl that sometimes comes out of the shadows of my heart to do impersonations for a smile.