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AUGUST 29TH, 1997, HOUSE AND GARDEN
Naturally if I think there is going to be an earthquake, I run back into my house, with my dogs that I intend to protect and where I know it's safe, then I find out, that the two fault lines, meet right in the middle of my bedroom, one coming straight down the hall and the other coming from the kitchen, they connect and the ground begins to buckle and collide, I realise that the epicentre of the earthquake, is inside my own house, there is nowhere to run, the place that I thought was safe, is now unstable, I wake up with my heart thumping, I go to the toilet and let Binda out into the backyard, the backyard feels creepy and I recognise my house issues coming to the surface, there is some kind of fear planted in me, so that I can never retreat into myself for refuge, because nowhere is safe, houses, so that I was frightened of being inside them at day's end, houses, that when I left them, I was suddenly frightened to turn around and go back inside, in case the house had crept up on itself, like it crept up and began to chew at its own doormat, I realised, that just as my family had promised me houses and then had left me homeless, so had they promised me, myself and then withheld it from me, as I tried to seek refuge, it had began early, even now I can hear them saying, "but why would we bother?", to which I answer, "of course you wouldn't", because why would anyone, even bother to alter my psychology?, I am not worth altering and now I must be alone and have my very quiet times often, rarely does anyone follow me into my house and garden, I have no expectation and no desire that anyone will really understand me, by the time you reach thirty, you just think, I can't be bothered telling my story over again, no one wants to listen and they all have there own stories, there was faith and the misty unformed garden, there was a nest of unsettled birds calling, but no tree was visible, the thunder clouds rolling in, but no soil to rain upon, it smelt like a garden and often it sounded like one, but it couldn't be touched or seen, my memory of a garden, that hadn't tried to eat me, was not good, but I had read about them, in the happily-ever-after tales, and some of my closet friends, talked of their gardens and said that they tended them very well, I had to trust their words, as these were gardens, that I never went into, but how I loved the stories, and wanted to trust their good judgment. |
