Talking to Myself: March 18th, 2023

Stream of consciousness (1)

I went and visited Mum this morning and told her about my life. I haven’t thought about her much recently; the four corners of my day so often filled with nothing but the rat race and the back of my eyelids; but today, I finally visited and tried a new practice of telling her what’s been going on. I’m grateful that Jem said we should go to Willy beach. I had forgotten it existed, or rather, I’ve had it wedged deep enough into a back pocket of my outward sturdiness that it suited me better not to remember.

It felt fucking weird saying it all out loud to be honest; a rambling monologue with no beginning and no end, spoken into the abyss; but I pushed myself to do it anyway in the off chance that maybe she’s listening. I told her about my new job, and about a really cool meeting I had yesterday. I told her that so many of my friends are falling in love, all over again, in an almost more defined and ‘really real’ way, and how much joy it brings me to see them so happy. I told her that babies were due any day now, and engagements were abundant; that old love had resurfaced for some and new, unexpected love for others. I felt her smiling. “Can you believe that we’re old enough for all of that now Mum?” I said. “I’m sure it makes you feel fossilised”.

I told her that I’m feeling confused about certain things, but also simultaneously the most sure of myself I’ve ever been, which causes a kind of ambivalence some days because I don’t know which part of myself to listen to. I admitted to her that I’m envious of other people’s lives more often than I’d like to be, which I know is probably normal but makes me feel shameful because I’m here and I’m healthy and I’m lucky and envy is such an uncomfortable state of being. “I’m trying to rid myself of shame though”, I said, “because feelings are complex, and I seem to give that mercy to everyone except myself. Did you ever feel that way when you were my age, Mum?” 

I laughed when I told her that I’ve been chronic pain free for a whole week, thanks to Matt, because he’s teaching my body to heal itself through calming my nervous system. I laughed because I can’t believe it, but also because I’m scared it’s not going to last and I laugh sometimes when I’m nervous. “He just rocks me, in a big bear hug, to loosen off my shoulders and open up my back, then spends the rest of the session gently rubbing my head”, I told her. “It’s weird, because it works? I’ve spent a week feeling centred, calmer”. He asked me how often my body gets love. “From me, or others?” I asked. “Both”, he replied. I can’t remember what I answered.  

I told her that I got a lead role in a short film without auditioning and they’re paying for my hair to be dyed brown and that this whole experience has made me feel like a “real actor” for the first time in a long time, even though I don’t know what feeling like a “real actor” is even meant to feel like because I still doubt everyday if I am one. “The film is about two sisters who’s Mum has just died, how weird is that!” I said. “Are you sending these opportunities to me for further catharsis, Mum? If so, I’ll take them”, I said. “May as well use this pain for good”. 

As I talked, the sound of water being thumped interrupted my train of thought. I looked across the bay to where the city skyline meets the horizon to find the source of the sound and two pelicans were floating across the water’s edge in unison, their wings just hitting the surface. It’s all dumb and irrelevant really, but it made me cry, which I enjoyed, because it always feels like a purging of the purest, cleanest kind, aside from writing. 

I think I write so that moments like these don’t die or pass on with the time in which they are held. I think I write to stop it all; to give each moment that feels significant, a significance that is lasting. The more I meditate on this, I think that’s all that artists do really - pause time - so that when we let it pass us by, we have a chance to try and see it again; see a moment in a painting or a song or a poem or a film, and begin to make sense of, or capture once again, the moments we feel like we’ve lost. 

“I often feel at the moment like I’ve lost you, Mum. That I can’t remember your smile, or your laugh, or the feeling of your hand on my cheek”. So here I write to try and hold it all again and keep it saved somewhere outside of myself; to share it so that other people can hold the moment with me. I think it feels less heavy that way. 

Sure, there is the wretched inner turmoil of sharing vs. oversharing (which I think all artists reckon with), but I relentlessly fight the devil on my shoulder and continue to share as a challenge; a constant exercise to rid myself of embarrassment and ickiness and idleness and ego and all the things that trap me into perpetual self punishment. But also, in sharing it, you’re never alone in carrying the weight of a moment’s significance, and if we can all find a piece of ourselves in a singular moment, then surely we all feel a little more unified? “I don’t know, does that even make sense Mum?”.

In speaking out loud, I end up feeling as if I’ve been in a conversation with her in the present. One in which there has been a call and response, and questions I feel as though she’s answered. And then the sun peeks through the clouds with just enough light to hit my face and remind me that no matter where she is, that if I just sit and talk and share and really think about her, I can remember.