(no subject)
jo-
(writing assignement)
Alternate Universes. That is what came to my mind when I first saw this picture (a picture of sowing thread mill workers in a row, think abstact) When I first was assigned this project, I wanted to make is funny, origional, good enough that the class would like it as I like theirs, but you know what?
I'm not in the mood to please you all, hell I'm not in the mood to please my teacher. I just fed my mother with a spoon that is not our own, in a room that was not hers and in a place that was not home. I can't stand it sometimes, hell what am I saying? I can't stand it time. I still smell the degrading stench of bodily waste and floor cleaner, clinging to my nose and clothing. The sight of old humans, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers- basically rotting away in their beds and wheelchairs haunt my mind; flashing to life only when I close my eyes long enough for my heart to beat. Souless eyes.
I firmly shut off my emotions, like I've done a time or to in my life,, as I look back into my mothers eyes, speaking clearly as I beg her to swallow the food in her mouth. Seeing a slight reaction, I pray that she did indeed swallow as I raise a small new portion to her lips. She opens her mouth to take it in, unaware that the small amount of food already upon her tongue comes spilling out: down her chin, onto her bib. I cup a hand under the flow, letting it pool in my palm as I retrieve a napkin to clean her chin, then my hand.
She just looks at me as if I am not there. And am I there? I can feel the cold spoon in my hand as I place the pureed chicken back onto the tray. Smell the the digustingly putrid scent of whatever gunk is pink and chunky on her plate. Probably prunes, or beets. Just another small torture.
I can see her, touch her, but it isn't her. The once mobile and enchanting mouth that used to open in a full grin is now void of any substance of development. Beautiful hazel eyes are now void of the woman's soul, identity, love and recognition, everything that I had admired to such depth.
The shaking didn't help. Any movement to her body, like changing her diaper, or bringing her to the wheelchair, started the tinyjackhammers that were lined up within her muscles, or lack there of.
Yeah, this is my mother. The very same woman who had yelled at me for my fualts, for her faults. The one who called me a bitch or disciplined my childhood actions with a smack to the shoulder. The mother who held my head in her lap when I had an ear ache or rocked me to sleep after I had a nightmare. The woman who raised me to be how I am now. Alternate Universes, yeah. I'm living one. My mother- her daughter. I continue to feed the woman before me while I look through a cracked reflection of my mother.
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love,me-Chii
(writing assignement)
Alternate Universes. That is what came to my mind when I first saw this picture (a picture of sowing thread mill workers in a row, think abstact) When I first was assigned this project, I wanted to make is funny, origional, good enough that the class would like it as I like theirs, but you know what?
I'm not in the mood to please you all, hell I'm not in the mood to please my teacher. I just fed my mother with a spoon that is not our own, in a room that was not hers and in a place that was not home. I can't stand it sometimes, hell what am I saying? I can't stand it time. I still smell the degrading stench of bodily waste and floor cleaner, clinging to my nose and clothing. The sight of old humans, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers- basically rotting away in their beds and wheelchairs haunt my mind; flashing to life only when I close my eyes long enough for my heart to beat. Souless eyes.
I firmly shut off my emotions, like I've done a time or to in my life,, as I look back into my mothers eyes, speaking clearly as I beg her to swallow the food in her mouth. Seeing a slight reaction, I pray that she did indeed swallow as I raise a small new portion to her lips. She opens her mouth to take it in, unaware that the small amount of food already upon her tongue comes spilling out: down her chin, onto her bib. I cup a hand under the flow, letting it pool in my palm as I retrieve a napkin to clean her chin, then my hand.
She just looks at me as if I am not there. And am I there? I can feel the cold spoon in my hand as I place the pureed chicken back onto the tray. Smell the the digustingly putrid scent of whatever gunk is pink and chunky on her plate. Probably prunes, or beets. Just another small torture.
I can see her, touch her, but it isn't her. The once mobile and enchanting mouth that used to open in a full grin is now void of any substance of development. Beautiful hazel eyes are now void of the woman's soul, identity, love and recognition, everything that I had admired to such depth.
The shaking didn't help. Any movement to her body, like changing her diaper, or bringing her to the wheelchair, started the tinyjackhammers that were lined up within her muscles, or lack there of.
Yeah, this is my mother. The very same woman who had yelled at me for my fualts, for her faults. The one who called me a bitch or disciplined my childhood actions with a smack to the shoulder. The mother who held my head in her lap when I had an ear ache or rocked me to sleep after I had a nightmare. The woman who raised me to be how I am now. Alternate Universes, yeah. I'm living one. My mother- her daughter. I continue to feed the woman before me while I look through a cracked reflection of my mother.
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love,me-Chii