[Previous entry: "Japan (Kobe, Osaka, Kyoto, Tokyo)"] [Next entry: "Heaven is a place..."]
11/05/2004: "From the Crib, 1953"
An artist's work, most sincere, is created upon all the knowledge accumulated in a life's worth of time, and reflects the benefits of relating to a unique collection of memories. An artist's memories are so tied to the core of their art, and, for whatever other reasons they have to create - the essence of their memories will certainly fingerprint their work and effect it's clarity.
Who can say, exactly, how or why our earliest childhood memories may be carried along with us. So many inevitably fall to the wayside of time, or the lack of exercising contemplation. Others remain as consequences of vivid, traumatic events that brew up the chemistry of our recollections consciously, and sometimes subconsciously. Primary ingredients of reminiscences must be emotions - especially those wrapped around the warmth of a parent's loving embrace, or debilitating neglect... Such brandishing likely marks deeply upon our cultivating persona, declared invariably thru the summoning of hidden and recallable memories.
I keep in mind the first time I was resourceful enough to reach the light switch in my brother's bedroom, flipping it off and on while he laughed from his bedside. I muse over over my fifth birthday party as if it were yesterday - even though it came about 47 years ago. That was also the year (1957) that my brothers and I, six weeks earlier, looked up the funnel of a meandering tornado, dancing across the sky above our backyard and touching down, moments later, just blocks away from our home. From that period forward, my mind is filled with memorable events that highlighted my upbringing. My recollections before that hallmark year are much more evading - a pain to my brain-strains that beckon upon them like the pleading walls of an empty gallery. There must be so many forgotten events, before that period, important as they may be, I still haven't recovered a conscious inkling of. Maybe, I never will…
Even more intriguing to me, are two memories I do retain - the two earliest memories of my life - memories from the crib. While one is only a short vignette, they are both, nevertheless, remarkable accountings. These organic recordings are branded as indelible inscriptions upon the foundation of my being. They have absorbed into my character, and are emblazoned upon the cornerstone of my nature. The first episode sparked a curiosity within me that would some day lead towards the path of artistic expression. It marked a path to awareness that acknowledged a larger world outside my diminutive realm. It was a simple occurrence of something I had to envision as my synapses built their bridges into the hollows of my imagination. The other memory blossomed a cognitive delineation between the essence of life and the emotional haunting of death. The second remembrance also evoked the significance of nurturing.
Infants are sensory sponges, and tactile response is of paramount importance in their earliest days of life. A child touches not only with it's hands, but with it's tongue as well, grabbing anything shiny, noisy, or just clearly within reach. Children put objects in their mouth, not only to taste, but also to feel and identify. Even in the dark, a toddler's tongue easily recognizes the nippled relief of its mother's breast. As time passes by, the babe's eyes and ears become more acute as receptors for disseminating information. The main ingredient missing in the tot's early times is a cognitive process of learning to command for itself. The lack of plain language veils communicative and reverberating efforts to the world at large, defining it's specific needs. A baby can cue, giggle in appreciation, and cry in fear, hunger, pain, and frustration - but they can't say, "I've got an itch I can't scratch…" My crib memories are from that realm of existence where objects, care givers, and resonance are magnificent wonders.
'Crib Memory Number One'
Simple pleasures, soothing sounds, soft textures - baby stuff. An infant has several points of view it can't escape in a crib. Bars, walls, and ceilings. Left on its back, and within the confines of its crib, an infant has oodles of time to muse. Just after I was born, my family moved into a new home. There were three bedrooms - one for my parents, and one for each of my older brothers. My place was left to a crib situated in the living room. There were four windows there, an open entry hall to the front door, and two other doors - one to the den, and another, with a springed hinge, leading to the kitchen. My crib was situated against the wall away from the windows and facing the den doorway. When left alone, life was mostly quiet. One day, as I was just being and breathing in a baby's daydream place, something captured my attention, marking the beginning of my first forever memory.
The experience started as a undertone and became a cadence. There was something moving behind the closed curtains and brown wooden slated blinds. It was reminiscent of my breathing; it was akin to my heart beating, and finally, it was like my mother's singing, smooth, textured, and lovable. It was nature's musical lullaby - a rain shower. So delicate, restrained, fragile, but spirited. It carried on beyond my sight; still, I knew where it was. It was not dwelling behind the drawn curtains, but beyond the blinds. It was outside, and it was calling to me so melodiously. I yearned to see it. I was captivated. I was charmed and spellbound… There was color in the resonance, there was peacefulness. It was another life beyond my own, but it was different from my family's. It was god looking over me… I felt wonder, and bliss, pleasure, and harmony. Filled with such contentment and gratification, and with my first forever memory in hand, I slowly yielded to the pitter patter rhythm of that soul of verve and fell into slumber…
'Crib Memory Number Two'
My second memory, from the crib, was nothing like my first. It was full of upheaval, disturbance, and unnatural alliances that taunted my perceptions. I have no recollection of how my day had started, but I remember my mother settling me into my crib, after a feeding in the kitchen highchair. As she left me alone, and passed through the swinging kitchen door, I was happy, and full of baby food. Life was good. But suddenly there was something new, something different. The door from the living room to the den had been left open… As I gazed into that far away place, from my crib, there was something astray, disparate, unusual…
My father was an avid sportsman and hunter. He, later in life, would be the among the first men to hunt down and kill the "Big Five" trophy animals of the world (Elephant, African Lion, Indian Leopard, Cape Buffalo and Black Rhinoceros) - using only a pistol. As for myself, I grew up to hunt with a camera. As it came to be, Dad had recently brought home his first trophy, something like a ten point White Tailed buck deer. He had proudly hung it on the den wall…
On this day, I was alone in my crib, and the den door was open so that I faced a dead beast (without legs). There it hung, staring at me. Unmoving, without breath, and unanimated. It just gaped at me. I imagine what set me off was the fact this new presence, this staring creature, had such large eyes - eyes that didn't blink. My mother's eye's blinked, my brother's - their eyes blinked. This towering mammal was, at first, beautiful, and curious looking. Still, it continued to gaze at me with those lingering, unblinking eyes. My curiosity suddenly turned to fear. The buck wouldn't quit staring, so I began crying. At first, quietly, and then with a greater bravado. Soon my mother came into the room, from the kitchen, and tried to settle me. She held me in her loving arms so I could look into her eyes, they blinked, and all was well. Then, she laid me back in the crib and returned to the kitchen. As soon as she had gone, I saw the partial life form again, staring, unflappable. I began to cry again. This time I wailed and wrestled about in my inescapable domain. My mother came back to the crib, with a bottle, and encouraged me with her sweet words. I calmed down again, and again, she returned to the kitchen.
It was only a matter of moments before I realized my tormentor was still in the same place it had been before. I began to weep and moan once more with an ever increasing crescendo. This time, instead of my mother returning to my side, it was my grandmother, Mimi, who came to me in my crib. This is my first memory of my grandmother, but I know, I knew her well. She was a different soul, with a more textured voice, and a delicate sense of love that made me feel comforted again. Mimi looked at my still-filled bottle and reoffered it to me. I was not interested. Then, she also cradled me in her arms for a while. As with my mother's visits before, I quickly settled. After a few minutes, she placed me back into the cradle and took the bottle with her, disappearing through the kitchen door. At this point, I wasted little time in rediscovering my nemesis. It was no longer just a baby's uncertainty, I was scared, completely frightened, and disturbed to my core… I began to shriek, scream, and bawl. I must have been turning red and blue with fluster.
Finally, another figure came through the kitchen door. Large, slow, certain, and wise - it was my Great-Grandmother, Little Mama. Little Mama had lived so many of my little lives, raised five children of her own. One, died as a child with a burst appendix, back in the day when a doctor's call was by horse and buggy. Time was swift and the child passed away before anything could be done. As I grew older, and could ask Little Mama all the questions children love to ask, she, like any loving Great-Grandmother, always obligingly, lovingly, and patiently answered my queries - no matter how much they may have hurt, or stirred her within the deepest regions of her own weary heart. She would tell me, years later, "The hospital was too far, too far away."
Little Mama was the softest, the lowest toned, and slowest speaking of these three most wonderful women. Donna (her real name) picked me up and snuggled me into her bosom - a crib unto itself. She held me, kissed me on my ears, spoke to me in words I couldn't understand, but knew were special sounds she only shared with me. Little Mama walked with me around and around the room for so long a time. Suddenly we stopped and she kicked the den door with her foot, closing it resoundingly. After some extra hugging and snuggling, she settled me back into my crib while rearranged my blankets and speaking to me in velvet, reassuring tones. My dear Little Mama. As Donna was returning to the kitchen, she continued speaking in soft tones as she moved away and finally, out of sight. I was happy again. Then I looked to the foot of my small domain, towards the den - there was only a closed door, and the coordination of my room was back to normal. No longer was there a beast about to frighten me again. Finally, my ordeal was over, but the visual impact still remains a part of me today...
©BMM2004
