Myths Revisited

My life to this point has been of a voyeur, watching my own pain and unaware of and looking for my own mythological double.
My life to this point has been of a voyeur, watching my own pain and unaware of and looking for my own mythological double.

I am the product of a narcissist and a hysteric, clashing like giant symbols with me and my siblings deafened and shaken in between. A mother contorting with demonic wildness, cursing, and lamenting and a wizard father with his controlling wisdom, magic, and invisibility cloak.

My life to this point has been of a voyeur, watching my own pain and unaware of and looking for my own mythological double, trying to piece together something that resembles a life out of the fragments of memory. This is something that is necessary to me at the moment. And it is only now that I realise that my memoirs, made from snippets of cultural acceptance, faded memories and blissful ignorance are what is cobbled together to help make me acceptable to myself.

A life, a story, mystery and theatre, but as yet all I can see are shadows. Shadow people coming in and leaving an imprint for a while then fading, but ultimately, they will go as will I one day take my leave. Before that time I must make a record, but what do I write?
Google searches take me to the myth of Electra, the daddy’s girl, but in this case without the daddy, which isn’t even true as I have already said he was a master of invisibility, so he might have been there, just one of the shadows on my cave wall, feet sticking out from the other side of a blackberry hedge, the back view of a man in a hat, a disembodied jacket, dreams about him but him looking like somebody else. His death just made him more of a shadow to me, flickering into being then fading depending on the direction of the light.
I shall make an attempt to interpret a childish memory, apologies to those who had more time with him and knew him better. I hope I don’t violate your memories

He was an old man in terms of being a dad, born 1891 so he was 66 when I was born, he lived through being in the trenches as a volunteer in the great war, studied art at the Slade school in London, worked with the sculptor Jaggers producing the war memorials that are dotted around London. Married my mother and had two children. that cuts a long story short as I know I have all the facts mixed up but -; I remember the first time saw him or at least the first time I had a memory of meeting him, this strange man, was wonderfully familiar to me, so that my usual shyness and self-imposed closed mouth and refusing to speak was forgotten.( I had a dislike of men) I was in the hallway on the top floor of Lavender House in Hastings and aged 3 or 4 wearing a pretty dress I can’t remember a colour, do you remember in colour? My brother was with me he is 5 years older than me and we are sitting on the floor in the passageway, my brother is showing me magic tricks and we are waiting a very long time.

I have a big sister there as well and she is in the kitchen doing work and being very busy and distracted. We suddenly get alerted and I am made to stand at the top of a steep flight of stairs that twist away to the right and I am aware of a bulk moving on the stairs but out of my sight., fear made me close my eyes .When I open my eyes, below me looking up is a grey faced man wearing a hat.and a suit. My sister makes me stay in place. The man stops and just looks at me then comes towards me and picks me up. I feel his joy through his body and on his face, he is holding me tight, that was my daddy and the start of a whole new world of art, music and imagination.