One Rabbit Trail And A Photograph.

I’d speculate that somewhere in my personality, there is a built-in hunger to know my families’ stories, to open their secret doors and make sense of who I turned out to be. Coming from a long line of nosey people, I can’t be surprised or ashamed of my past incidents of snoopage. Last night, I was laying in my bed when I had a small revelation. I’m an analogy type of guy, so I thought:  Why do I think it’s good to try and be a watercolor painting instead of a 3-dimensional sculpture? In my head that makes sense, but to translate, essentially I mean :  Why do I try to take up as little room as possible to make sure I don’t get in anyone’s way? Isn’t it ridiculous to water our own personality down and even our wants because it might crowd others? Typing this “out loud” to myself, I wave the captain obvious banner and say, “That Is Not Okay To Live Like That”.

Oops, I’ve taken my own bait and ran the rabbit trail.

I put up this picture of my beautiful grandparents to say “I come from somewhere”. I come from thousands of threads, and some threads need to be cut, others praised. Regargless or (irregardless as people like to say), I need to keep my threads untangled.

Here’s the part where I tack on a literary analysis. [Free] <- There is your get-out-of-reading-free card, so if you wish to take it, take it!

Something of the Light” by Margaret L. Whitford is what sparked this previous post. A.K.A.  creative non-fiction successfully spurs more writing. The quote that suckered me in was “He wanted to take my photograph right after we’d made love. He said I was so beautiful, even after having four children,” and low and behold the grandma was the one who said that. Margaret and her mother are talking together and sifting through old photos “trying to identify persons who no longer exist”. Giving the photos names and dates, she still feels that even with all this evidence of her mother’s past, she will lose it all once her mother dies. Through the one photo of her mother, she dissects her parent’s marriage.

“My parents had a turbulent relationship, one that consumed rather than sustained them, though my mother tells me they were happy for a long time.”

Whitford sees past the photo, and into the darkness that surround her mother’s face. And in that darkness she sees “a metaphor for the gulf between [her] parents” as if she is already practicing piecing together her past without the help of her mother.

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