Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Taya
When I participated in Nanowrimo I thought it was just for me. I needed something to remind me I am first and foremost a writer.
I love to write and it pains me I can’t seem to make a good living at it. I’ve seriously considered moving to Canada or Ireland where writers, poets, artists, musicians and other performers are considered national treasures. Their work is supported through national funding. Wow. To be free to just write. What a concept.
But we left these mountains three years ago tilting at windmills that turned out to be elusive chimera. I don’t guess we’ll be leaving any time soon unless major Mango Chicken happens. Which it might. Or at least could, Oprah willing.
In the meantime writing nearly every day is a joy. Being a Nanowrimo winner is a hoot. We’re getting the 2004 T-shirt for Christmas, which should extend the social talk value of Nanowrimo right through to next November when it starts all over again.
Blogging this work-in-progress has had some unexpected results. A few of our friends have new insights into our inner world, the way things work for us, how we think and why we do things the way we do. I admit we hoped that would happen.
One thing we didn’t expect was Link. Playing that out in a public forum has been a trip at times. But what the heck if our goal is to be open and foster understanding, so be it.
Another result we didn’t foresee was changing the views of a psychology professor who previously doubted Multiple Personality Disorder was a real diagnosis. It might not seem like much, changing one person’s views. But this person teaches about abnormal psychology every day. A college professor is in a position to influence how hundreds of people view/understand multiples.
It’s like butterfly effect. Chaos Theory. Physics. I know, your eyes are glazing over already. We flapped our little writer wings in Nanowrimo and rippling out are changes grand and subtle.
But the most profound effect generated by this work may be providing insight for someone who suspects multiplicity may account for their own currently MIA chunks of time. If we’ve done one thing in our life to be proud of, it’s defusing fear for other multiples.
All of this made us reconsider the Mango Chicken of our life. At one time we actively sought opportunities to speak out. Our goal was to sow understanding. We were distracted from that goal dedicating two years to a bogus-destined-to-fail project hundreds of miles away from these beloved mountains of ours. The past year has been dedicated to reconstructing our lives here and building up enough income to eat on a regular basis.
Things are infinitely better now on all fronts. It’s time to assess our direction. In Oprah we trust. She’s accomplished some of the loftiest goals imaginable. But how did she do that?
I could try chanting, “Mango Chicken, Mango Chicken, Mango Chicken,” and click the heels of my ruby slippers together…. Or I could let el do what he does best: make a plan.
el said planning is fine but "Remember the Labyrinth." Is that anything like ‘Remember the Alamo?”
There are some similarities between this blog and the Labyrinth. The “Field of Dreams” thing. We built it and people just started showing up. Maybe it will be like that.
Hi Shel.
I know you weren’t done with this and you’d come right back to it so it seemed like the best way to make sure you find it.
People are already showing up at least inside. Let me bring you up to speed.
Last night Taya stepped away from me to explore right before Eyvonne came home from work. Owl and his friend jamming on guitar and drums drew her out. She danced and I watched over her. She was happy because Eyvonne recognized her as soon as she came in the door. She held her hands up waving to the music. Eyvonne put her hands up too and Taya met them palm-to-palm.
She played with a ball that lights up when it bounces. Anything rhythmic fascinates her, draws her out even more. She was interacting with Eyvonne, hugging her and almost smiling. But she became apprehensive and retreated to the bedroom when the music stopped and the boys went out for a smoke. She wanted the turtleneck shirt off, the neck felt too tight to her. She pointed out what she wanted to wear, Gwen’s infamous purple pajamas. But she’d never dressed or undressed before.
Eyvonne asked, “Do you need help?”
Taya was stumped. Naked in front of anyone wouldn’t do. Finally after threatening to stretch the neckline of the shirt completely out of shape she sat down on the edge of the bed and made a series of gestures with her hands.
My knees went weak when I saw what she was doing. Inside she called to me. Outside she her fingers formed the letters of my name, L I N K, over and over until Eyvonne understood.
“You want Link to help you?” Eyvonne asked.
Taya tapped her arm twice.
Soon after she signed a series of things. Blinking her eyes and tapping her forefingers to her thumbs repeatedly she was frustrated that Eyvonne didn’t understand. Inspired she made a T and a V with her fingers. TV. Next she mimed eating popcorn.
Her first foray solo, well mostly solo, outside and she’s making choices and communicating.
The implication of her knowing how to spell my name and form the letters is she might be able to learn to type.
Was I happy? More like scared witless. You’ve seen parents follow a toddler around right? Magnify that by a million. Pride mixes with abject fear of their charge getting hurt. And I felt a profound emptiness inside me where I hold Taya.
I didn’t cry. Much.
“Are you OK?” Eyvonne asked.
I nodded, got a drink of water. Busywork. Talking was too difficult. It was all too intense. Then it happened. Taya stood apart from me intent on listening to the popcorn popping. I saw you Shel, with el and some of the others inside.
You turned to el and said, “Wow. She found a way to talk. She’s not locked in.”
I heard you. At that exact moment I saw others behind you like shadows. No one I knew except perhaps in the vaguest way, like people you pass on the sidewalk who look familiar but not enough to turn around and shout after.
I choked on my drink. As soon as I spluttered and coughed Taya looked at me and I knew it was gone. You were still talking with el but I couldn’t hear you.
They were gone too, the shadow people.
What to do?
I did nothing. I was exhausted. I couldn’t even bring myself to speak of it with Eyvonne. I felt as mute as Taya. She alternated ops with me watching TV, retreating inside when CSI got gory. She seems to follow the stories. She loves popcorn. But she was just as fascinated by the reflection of Christmas lights in the big bay window. Or maybe it was something inside that held her attention. I don’t know. I never know. I hold her, we’re not one.
The only things I know about being multiple are the same things you know about being Indian: Everything can change in a blink. Always be ready to move. Never become soft and complacent.
Link.
P. S. Ready to dance?
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
I love to write and it pains me I can’t seem to make a good living at it. I’ve seriously considered moving to Canada or Ireland where writers, poets, artists, musicians and other performers are considered national treasures. Their work is supported through national funding. Wow. To be free to just write. What a concept.
But we left these mountains three years ago tilting at windmills that turned out to be elusive chimera. I don’t guess we’ll be leaving any time soon unless major Mango Chicken happens. Which it might. Or at least could, Oprah willing.
In the meantime writing nearly every day is a joy. Being a Nanowrimo winner is a hoot. We’re getting the 2004 T-shirt for Christmas, which should extend the social talk value of Nanowrimo right through to next November when it starts all over again.
Blogging this work-in-progress has had some unexpected results. A few of our friends have new insights into our inner world, the way things work for us, how we think and why we do things the way we do. I admit we hoped that would happen.
One thing we didn’t expect was Link. Playing that out in a public forum has been a trip at times. But what the heck if our goal is to be open and foster understanding, so be it.
Another result we didn’t foresee was changing the views of a psychology professor who previously doubted Multiple Personality Disorder was a real diagnosis. It might not seem like much, changing one person’s views. But this person teaches about abnormal psychology every day. A college professor is in a position to influence how hundreds of people view/understand multiples.
It’s like butterfly effect. Chaos Theory. Physics. I know, your eyes are glazing over already. We flapped our little writer wings in Nanowrimo and rippling out are changes grand and subtle.
But the most profound effect generated by this work may be providing insight for someone who suspects multiplicity may account for their own currently MIA chunks of time. If we’ve done one thing in our life to be proud of, it’s defusing fear for other multiples.
All of this made us reconsider the Mango Chicken of our life. At one time we actively sought opportunities to speak out. Our goal was to sow understanding. We were distracted from that goal dedicating two years to a bogus-destined-to-fail project hundreds of miles away from these beloved mountains of ours. The past year has been dedicated to reconstructing our lives here and building up enough income to eat on a regular basis.
Things are infinitely better now on all fronts. It’s time to assess our direction. In Oprah we trust. She’s accomplished some of the loftiest goals imaginable. But how did she do that?
I could try chanting, “Mango Chicken, Mango Chicken, Mango Chicken,” and click the heels of my ruby slippers together…. Or I could let el do what he does best: make a plan.
el said planning is fine but "Remember the Labyrinth." Is that anything like ‘Remember the Alamo?”
There are some similarities between this blog and the Labyrinth. The “Field of Dreams” thing. We built it and people just started showing up. Maybe it will be like that.
Hi Shel.
I know you weren’t done with this and you’d come right back to it so it seemed like the best way to make sure you find it.
People are already showing up at least inside. Let me bring you up to speed.
Last night Taya stepped away from me to explore right before Eyvonne came home from work. Owl and his friend jamming on guitar and drums drew her out. She danced and I watched over her. She was happy because Eyvonne recognized her as soon as she came in the door. She held her hands up waving to the music. Eyvonne put her hands up too and Taya met them palm-to-palm.
She played with a ball that lights up when it bounces. Anything rhythmic fascinates her, draws her out even more. She was interacting with Eyvonne, hugging her and almost smiling. But she became apprehensive and retreated to the bedroom when the music stopped and the boys went out for a smoke. She wanted the turtleneck shirt off, the neck felt too tight to her. She pointed out what she wanted to wear, Gwen’s infamous purple pajamas. But she’d never dressed or undressed before.
Eyvonne asked, “Do you need help?”
Taya was stumped. Naked in front of anyone wouldn’t do. Finally after threatening to stretch the neckline of the shirt completely out of shape she sat down on the edge of the bed and made a series of gestures with her hands.
My knees went weak when I saw what she was doing. Inside she called to me. Outside she her fingers formed the letters of my name, L I N K, over and over until Eyvonne understood.
“You want Link to help you?” Eyvonne asked.
Taya tapped her arm twice.
Soon after she signed a series of things. Blinking her eyes and tapping her forefingers to her thumbs repeatedly she was frustrated that Eyvonne didn’t understand. Inspired she made a T and a V with her fingers. TV. Next she mimed eating popcorn.
Her first foray solo, well mostly solo, outside and she’s making choices and communicating.
The implication of her knowing how to spell my name and form the letters is she might be able to learn to type.
Was I happy? More like scared witless. You’ve seen parents follow a toddler around right? Magnify that by a million. Pride mixes with abject fear of their charge getting hurt. And I felt a profound emptiness inside me where I hold Taya.
I didn’t cry. Much.
“Are you OK?” Eyvonne asked.
I nodded, got a drink of water. Busywork. Talking was too difficult. It was all too intense. Then it happened. Taya stood apart from me intent on listening to the popcorn popping. I saw you Shel, with el and some of the others inside.
You turned to el and said, “Wow. She found a way to talk. She’s not locked in.”
I heard you. At that exact moment I saw others behind you like shadows. No one I knew except perhaps in the vaguest way, like people you pass on the sidewalk who look familiar but not enough to turn around and shout after.
I choked on my drink. As soon as I spluttered and coughed Taya looked at me and I knew it was gone. You were still talking with el but I couldn’t hear you.
They were gone too, the shadow people.
What to do?
I did nothing. I was exhausted. I couldn’t even bring myself to speak of it with Eyvonne. I felt as mute as Taya. She alternated ops with me watching TV, retreating inside when CSI got gory. She seems to follow the stories. She loves popcorn. But she was just as fascinated by the reflection of Christmas lights in the big bay window. Or maybe it was something inside that held her attention. I don’t know. I never know. I hold her, we’re not one.
The only things I know about being multiple are the same things you know about being Indian: Everything can change in a blink. Always be ready to move. Never become soft and complacent.
Link.
P. S. Ready to dance?
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
