"A man never sees all that his mother has been to him until it's too late to let her know that he sees it."
-- W. D. Howells
Yesterday morning found me hiding from yet another looming hangover – as I fought a losing battle (an epic one so to speak), clutching desperately at an elusive mother’s day post that had been gnawing at my conscious for the past few days... all in vain. The words were, at best, a blur that seemed to be pulsing in and out of sight, glowing teasingly through the alcoholic fumes from the previous night’s Bacardi. Somewhat reminiscent of a ghost town scene in a horror movie... you know those ones with a neon sign with half the letters missing flashing eerily through the foggy dawn? Yes that one.
I shut my eyes tightly in a bid to clamp down on the gist of it… and winced as deep within the recesses of my mind the squint set off an explosion of color that flashed through the drunk void to the very front of my eyelids before dissipating into a wooly darkness that was about as comforting as it was disturbing. I sighed in relief and thankfully sank into the warm and comfortable darkness. When I came to again it was to the realization that I was late… if the sun, shining through my half open blinds, was anything to go by.
This morning I got up... sat up straight in my bed, noted that the cold sweat that should have been trickling down my spine was absent - thank God, and started thinking. See, I woke up from what should have been a nightmare... but wasn't. I dreamt, that I was a serious writer.... Yeah you heard me... a serious writer no less. Now, for all that know me you can understand why this was a nightmare... Me? Seriously writing? Can you even imagine? Hell would definitely freeze over....
So there I was, this morning, sitting straight up in my bed, muttering to myself.. the incredulity of it all. Then I started thinking... and you know about me and thinking. Or do you? Well, suffice it to say that I am unable to think. Maybe I shouldn't say unable since I honestly think that what I'm writing here does make sense at some level or the other. What I mean to say is that whenever I consciously determine to think about something, the thinking gets lost in the act of thinking. Think about it this way... I can think about how am thinking about what it is that I am thinking about... which obviously doesn't make any sense since that basically amounts to thinking about how am thinking am thinking.
O.K. I have to admit that didn't make much sense to me either... well it did... Anyway, so there I was thinking about this dream that I never quite had because at some point in the dream, I totally lost interest and drifted off to slumber-land while still in the dream... I bet that never happened to you. But anyway, something happened, in the dream still, that jolted me out of my slumber but by then the nightmare was over and it was almost time for me to get up. So I woke up and like I had said before, started thinking about the dream about being a serious writer.
But what does it mean to be a serious writer? Is it one who writes seriously... gives serious consideration to whatever it is they are writing? Taking the time to think seriously about what they are writing, even when there isn't much to think about. Or is it the writer who writes, you know... seriously, as in its no joke, every one knows he writes. As in, one would think he gets paid coz in all seriousness he writes quite a bit. He eats word counts for breakfast, that's how serious his writing habit (for lack of a better word) is. There is evidence, lots of it, be it in his personal journal, online blog or your local bookstore, that he writes... seriously. Or is it one whose writing the reader has no choice but to take seriously... you know, like a letter from the IRS.... Now there are some serious writers. Or from the Green card lottery...
Well I didn't get far in this attempt to determine what it meant to be a serious writer, I realized that I was once again running late. Mothers' Day was nearly here and I still didn't have that post. I definitely ain't a serious writer by any stretch of the imagination. I guess I do have another thing to thank my mother for not being able to do... yeah I blame my mother for all that I am today.
So, while I'm sure if I had enough time I could come up with a really great post to commemorate this day and honour a mother whom am sure like most of your mothers is irreplaceable in my life, I will paraphrase ~Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, 1895 and say... All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's mine.
Happy Mother's Day to all you mothers and mother's to be and sure even the wannabe's.