Memories. I write memories. Not about me but about my mom. Don tells me to write them down as fiction, because it helps the writer (me) like an analgesic; and because it helps the reader (you) like a fantasy.
A fancy of shadows. About every moment of true joy that my mom has had ended up, rather sooner, under the shadows of fears or arguments. Harmony wasn’t exactly at home, but an ephemeral visitor. More like a haphazard. You had to have an eye to catch a glimpse of it.
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
Some of you may know these words from a poem by Kahlil Gibran.
Your Children Are Not Your Children – by May Benatar, Ph.D.
My parents didn’t know the words. All they had was what they used to call a ‘school of life’ and a survival routine between the factory and the apartment. Tough times they did not wish to share with their children.
Was my mom happy? Having a hard time recalling random felicitous moments of her life, finding none, really, it only dawned on me when writing her memories: it was the year when she escaped the farm life, running to the city, where to live her young life. The year was 1957, when the Sputnik beeped.
Fast forward to the beginning of 2011 when I wrote about my get-fat-fast diet during Christmas, when she stayed with us throughout the holidays, when my children were still my children. Happiness, like freedom or edelweiss, is not a given. It takes a mountain to climb for a moment of happiness.
‘Afterparty, Afterorgasm’ was, initially, a private home sex video. Filmed on the fourth day of the year (2011) after the holidays party, when everyone went out the gate, leaving us home alone. First thing in the morning, I posed with the Christmas tree in ways that I could not during the previous days. Then we made love and my orgasms were sublime. To the end, he had to come – in his own right. As exhausted as I was, I told him to bring the camera in bed with us. The dialogue between us goes deeper than gender identity. This is such an intimate and totally unprepared #realworldsex video that I’ve never considered publishing it. Until now.