Thursday, November 13, 2008

The Boy with the Mirror Face

One day, a boy was born and he was ordinary in every way except his face, which was made out of mirrors.
His parents looked down at him with soft eyes and he felt safe and sound as love reached out from all of them.
All was well and good.
Next, the baby boy noticed a pain in the middle of his body and he was suddenly scared. A cry emanated and came forth that fit this pain exactly. “WAAAAAHHH, WAAAAAHHHH!” came the sound. His parent’s eyes quickly changed and tightened and lost their softness. The boy tightened and lost his softness.
The parents began to do this and that with icy eyes that looked away from him. The boy’s face reflected an icy panic as his cries became louder. Finally, after what appeared to be a very long time, a warmth entered the middle of the boy’s body and his cries quieted. The softness returned to their eyes.
The boy grew older and with each day he began to recognize that for some unknown reason his pain caused his parents to have pain, yet their pain was icy and they ran frantically about trying to stop it from happening. He heard someone say to his parent’s that he looked just like them, and his mirror’s reflection froze for an instant. He became very used to his reflected face and forgot that it wasn’t his.
When he became a teenager his mirror began to fog. He would wipe it clean and then paint it some different way to have it fog up again. His parents often questioned him and wore angry faces that he could not help but reflect. It seemed that the love that had reached out so long ago now had been lost in the labyrinth of the mirror. He looked into many eyes for the softness and occasionally saw a glimpse here and there, but it would quickly fade and fog in his mirrored face. He noticed now that people often could not look him in the eye for long.
One day, when he was a young man and felt utterly alone in a world lacking soft eyes to look upon him, he set out on a journey. Just the idea of the journey, which entailed leaving behind all that he knew of his life thus far, was almost more than he could bear. But, the loneliness and the desire to find those soft eyes pushed him on into the land of the unknown.
His search began by moving from town to town, city to city, country to country, where it was always different and the same. He met many fellow travelers who could not help him. He stared hard and deep into the eyes of his different girlfriend’s and thought for awhile he had found the softness at last only to find that time and circumstance would always reveal the icy underbelly. He looked to achievement next and really believed that he had found the answer. He created great mountains of gold colored candy and saw not softness, but respect and awe and relief in the eyes that looked upon him. This was, for a long while, a suitable substitute and he was now him his middle ages.
He decided to accept that soft eyes were not for him and that his journey was at an end and had born no fruit, but occasionally when he looked in the mirror he saw the icy eyes of his parents looking back at his parents looking back at his mirror face, now hard and frozen.
Soon after he found a suitable mate and they wrote a fancy play that was performed flawlessly for all to applaud. As these things go, the play moved to the act and scene where it was time to have a child.
During the nine months of the play that led to the birth of his and hers son, he noticed a tension growing in his middle section, while at the same time would occasionally remember his unfulfilled journey and congratulate himself for his success.
One day, a boy was born, his boy, and he was ordinary in every way except his face, which was made of mirrors. His parents looked down at their son with the softest of eyes and reached out to him with love. The man with the mirror face saw his reflection of soft eyes for the first time he could remember, and he opened like once before. Love touched at the mid point between them, a convergence. Suddenly, visions smash with a petrifying cry emanating from this tiny mirror face. Terror grips his insides as there is nowhere to run and the parents panic as they try to stop their love from dying.
As the baby is fed warm mother’s milk and his quieted, his father walks to a nearby bathroom to escape the scene he had not predicted. He had happened to see something odd in his newborn son’s mirror face in the midst of the mayhem, a small sliver crack in his face. Now running, he closes the door and turns on the light. His hands reach slowly up to touch his forgotten face as he braves a glance into the bathroom’s mirror. The crack on his face has become shards of mirror falling all around his feet smashing as they meet the floor. He cries out for help and then stops suddenly. In the reflection, he sees something he has never seen before. Not a reflection of a reflection, just him in the mirror looking back. His face wearing all the pain of his life and the greatest surprise of all, his eyes are soft.

Have you ever succumbed to Martinvision? Like overflowing mother earth nurturing. View from the inside!

Friday, October 24, 2008

Strange Twisted Gift

The long waist high cinder block barrier, too high for a five year old to jump, stretches the length of the parking lot. A little brown haired boy pretends to tightrope walk the length of the ineloquent barrier. I stand two inches taller than the small woman with worn features that tell the tale of her rollercoaster life, features that cannot hold back the pain and suffering of mother, daughter, and wife. I avoid her face and feel the repression like a being transported to a land never able to be properly forgotten. My left breast enlarges and mutates as my voice asks the unanswerable question: What was it like for me before I can remember? The answer touches an explosion of connections rewiring my brain and explaining the game. Relative security for a few years, not much direct contact after that, mostly groups of people living together, other kids, flashes of connection, blurred awareness, friends are king.
A bizarre chirping emanates from the foot of my bed as I jerk myself upright to solve the riddle. As the intoxicating voice speaks in my mystified brain, my skin sighs reaching toward the 4000-mile ocean between us. Words elevate me to realms only dreamed of as I orient myself to the familiar bounce of the DVD symbol floating endlessly and apathetically on the screen. We talk until my eyes bubble. Through the aimless effervescent space created by day upon day of brutal missing, the story turns to enlightening generational inheritance, otherwise known as, the apple falling not far from the tree. Roots planted, but not necessarily unmoving, I begin to draw the picture of my mission as it relates to childhood confusion and missed interruptions.
I begin to retell the story of parental dedication finding a person in the world that is able to engage in the struggle for satisfying entanglement. My sight focuses on memories cast aside in the frantic footrace to personal happiness. I wasn’t consulted with, nor did they consult with each other on the matter. Ultimately one choose a person whom the rest of his family dislikes and whose puritan annoyance was shoot in my direction to the point of unbearable torment. The other choose someone whose family believes their current relationship will send them both to hell for eternity. Wow! Let us take a look at them now, shall we? Both relationships, as described, are fulfilling and satisfying. Did I suffer through the years of them screwing things up? Of course I did. Did I learn from this? It seems I have, especially considering my current endeavors. They claim, in the agony of their inability to forgive themselves, that I am committing the same atrocities, and gee, wouldn’t it be nice if I could learn from their mistakes. Whose voice is that, echoing from generation to generation? Am I not to infer that they are not happy with who I am? I mean, I am who I am now, in large part due to my experiences growing up.
The little boy moves freely up and down the retaining wall without excess fear. We watch his free flowing courage and make our own meaning. What a strange twisted gift he receives, and how will he derive his meaning out of it? Worry or not, it’s a shot in the dark, much like the plight of human consciousness. Sit back and let the ride take you where you will inevitable go.