Myths and Skeletons
4/7/06
by Diane Sprague
Three years is a long enough time. The beginning is sufficiently far away to start tracing the patterns and distancing one's self from the illusions. The middle is close enough that many elements are still there, but maybe not so overwhelming. And the end is gentle enough to be the beginning, when one can better choose, become more aware, and find ways to create. It's all about myths after all, even though our modern sterile society despises the idea that we are only telling stories and dismisses our realization of that truth as mere psychobabble. That resistance stops mattering once one realizes that one is surrounded by idiots and allowing one's self to be weird is the only escape form a world that is fascinated by filth, seediness, and repetitive drivel. So I will be weird and talk about the myth. I will start with skeletons because they make perfect sense.
My daughter, Elizabeth and I, started our myth in the middle of horrible abuse. It came in step by step, sneaking around our lies that it was not so bad, until nothing was left, nothing remained. One can reach a point in life where one dies. The person can be up and about, eating, going to work, acting as one is expected to act, but inside it is gone, it is finished. It's over, except that it isn't. That's the irony. That's the skeleton. We remain, but we are just bones clunking our way about the world. There is a feeling of shock but also of relief. The games are finished, life gets funnier, and our actions become more daring. We don't need to explain ourselves anymore; we don't need to make sense. And yet, we still need our myths because the bleakness of our realizations becomes too much to bear.
In the middle of the darkness, Elizabeth and I created our myths of Clay. I think for her he was what she was hoping men would be instead of the ugly reality of what she was seeing. For me, he was a place I saw once in a dream. It was a small house on top of a hill in wintertime. It had glowing Christmas lights and a feeling of warmth that created a feeling of safety and coziness in the still, cold winter night. I did not enter the house, but I approached it. I could tell there was something festive and welcoming inside. I could feel the gentle benevolence. Even so, I knew I could not enter it, but that was okay. Just knowing it was there was enough. The world could be cruel, sterile, and bullying, but there was safety and strength to be found by just imagining the house and holding onto the hope that it was truly out there somewhere.
Over time myths change. One day, Elizabeth startled me by ripping down her poster of Clay and dogs that filled her bedroom wall and replacing them with new posters of strange punk bands. She has new myths and new passions. I was not sure how to find any commonality in her new interests. When I took her to a punk store, I was pleased to see the skeletons. It reminded me of my old Grateful Dead days. I loved of their image of the skeleton holding onto the flower. I think we are both that: skeletons holding onto flowers. Maybe the flowers change, but the idea is still there. We have both been shattered but nothing stops us from telling our stories, from holding onto our myths.
Are our myths lies? I don't know. Time plays funny tricks on our illusions. Sometimes it crumbles them into dust. Sometimes we discover how foolish we can be, what nonsense we cling to. Perhaps we just need to redefine, to clarify, and to recreate our stories. How would I know? I am just a silly skeleton clunking my way through this unexplained world.
I still cling to my myth of Clay. I still hear something in his voice which pulls me back to my house on the hill. Even after three years, his voice still takes my breathe away and I am amazed that something so beautiful did not fade away and become plain and tarnished by the passing of time.
When I look at the Internet, I am fascinated by how one man inspired so many myths in so many people. So many agendas out there have swept him into their corner to fulfill so many needs. Some are vicious, seedy, and cruel. Some are strangely political, condescending, and manipulative. Some are gentle, poignant, and funny. Lots of finger wagging occurs and we judge others motives. My favorite observation is the creativity Clay inspires in so many people. To me it's the main reason we should cling to our myths; it helps us to create. I love the many pictures, videos, articles, websites, and stories we have produced. My favorite is the Moanica Takes Manhattan thread on the Clayboard. That giraffe is too darn funny.
So three years later, so many of us are still holding on. Waiting, creating, arguing, laughing, crying, and wondering. When Clay recommended a book to read, my first reaction was hmmm... I always thought the people who go out and read a book just because it was recommended by Oprah should be shot. We should never let others tell us what to read. Books are too precious for that. But, shoot, this was Clay. It's so tempting. It would be like going up to my house and exploring just a little bit. What interests him, what's inside; will I discover it was just an empty illusion I was clinging to or is there something there I would like. Just clues. Who knows. We silly skeletons need something to do to pass the time after we die. Exploring, listening, laughing, and creating are the only things left that make sense.
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