'She doesn't really look up much. You know how it is, eyes half closed, just sort of nods a lot and her facial expression doesn't say ever say much. Like she's built a wall in front of herself. What's the word for it? Facade?'
It's all a charade.
Day in. Day out. Along with the other masquerades that time resumes. Eliot always sticks for some reason and I have a terrible memory so that's saying something. But it's all a charade and that's all it's ever been. How was your day? May I take your coat? Are you hungry? Do I even care? No of course not. But appearances must be kept up. Must. We mustn't break down those walls. Age equals respect, sex equals discrimination and money equals power and when all three things work against you, you must work with them. Put on a face for the evenings when he comes home. Over the years I have perfected this face, this look of passive adoration. I wear it close like a second skin and by God, I wear it well.
And so the bits and pieces of my life I allow to be seen never make a whole image let alone a thousand sordid ones and once I need something solid, something real I pause to think about how I would go about it. Because for the longest time it hasnt been about demanding anything, just keeping up the charade, keeping up the smiles and pettings and compliments so that when I want something real he would consider. And now I do how to go about it is beyond me. It would be beyond anyone. We're talking an eighteen year old relationship here. But really eighteen years of what?
'Hello Daddy, here's your tea' 'What've you got there Princess? A brochure?' (Laughter, never derisive always cute) 'Oh no Daddy, it's the prospectus from the university I got into. Do you remember?' (silence) 'I thought...we could look at it together, it has course details and lots of information...' 'I see' (silence) 'I'll just put your tea down' 'Not over there, lovely, here on the bedside where it'll stay warm' (sets tea down, holds out prospectus) 'Shall I turn the light on so we can read it together?' 'I really don't think I can deal with this nonsense right now. Maybe tomorrow.' (Nod and smile, always smile as you back out of the darkened room)
It's all just a fucking charade.
It's all a charade.
Day in. Day out. Along with the other masquerades that time resumes. Eliot always sticks for some reason and I have a terrible memory so that's saying something. But it's all a charade and that's all it's ever been. How was your day? May I take your coat? Are you hungry? Do I even care? No of course not. But appearances must be kept up. Must. We mustn't break down those walls. Age equals respect, sex equals discrimination and money equals power and when all three things work against you, you must work with them. Put on a face for the evenings when he comes home. Over the years I have perfected this face, this look of passive adoration. I wear it close like a second skin and by God, I wear it well.
And so the bits and pieces of my life I allow to be seen never make a whole image let alone a thousand sordid ones and once I need something solid, something real I pause to think about how I would go about it. Because for the longest time it hasnt been about demanding anything, just keeping up the charade, keeping up the smiles and pettings and compliments so that when I want something real he would consider. And now I do how to go about it is beyond me. It would be beyond anyone. We're talking an eighteen year old relationship here. But really eighteen years of what?
'Hello Daddy, here's your tea' 'What've you got there Princess? A brochure?' (Laughter, never derisive always cute) 'Oh no Daddy, it's the prospectus from the university I got into. Do you remember?' (silence) 'I thought...we could look at it together, it has course details and lots of information...' 'I see' (silence) 'I'll just put your tea down' 'Not over there, lovely, here on the bedside where it'll stay warm' (sets tea down, holds out prospectus) 'Shall I turn the light on so we can read it together?' 'I really don't think I can deal with this nonsense right now. Maybe tomorrow.' (Nod and smile, always smile as you back out of the darkened room)
It's all just a fucking charade.
Preludeeesss. Best poem in the whole selection.
ReplyDeleteOh and good luck? With the whole getting-your-dad-to-hear-to-you bit.
But at times, this second skin becomes an integral part of us. A pity it ain't dead skin. At least that wears off..
ReplyDeletemake this second skin a tough one, girl 'cause you're gonna be needing this one a lot more!
ReplyDeleteAgain, a piece I love. Keep it up! :)
Saaleha: Preludes, hands down best Eliot poem :)
ReplyDeletey.hayat: And that perhaps, is the greatest pity of all. Do we become it? Does it become us? Are we really so flexible that we can change skins this way? And maybe, just maybe this could be a good thing. We might live a thousand lives instead of one.
Sarah: Sounds advice. And thank you :D Why aren't you blogging eh?
Maybe it's a good thing but maybe it aint.. But hell yes, we are so flexible that we can change skins this way fo sho.
ReplyDelete