Meditations On Matilda : Chapter 2.

The second chapter of a fictional work I started writing in 2010.

Read Chapter 1 of “Meditations on Matilda” here.

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Chapter 2. 'Punch-lines & Parables'

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I suppose I ought to explain a little of my own life, or at least some attributes of my character. After all, how can you identify with what I say without first understanding a bit of my background and context? So, let me start. I am Matilda. I am 26. I have lived most of my life in Manchester with a short escapade to France where I worked on my second book, which was an analysis and research venture into the rise of Christianity throughout France. My parents were both academics in the field of Psychology, although my mother eventually veered more into the realm of Eastern healing. My father was a little more hard headed — a man of firm science and rational thinking. I have taken from both a healthy dose of skepticism along with a good dash of attraction to the mystical, although I wish it was stronger some days. Cynicism has a great habit of creeping into the blurry lines of life and building boxes to live in. I guess it's the easy way, after all — sitting on a fence requires a good deal of upper body strength and most of us would prefer to just pick a side and the side with the greenest grass, thank you very much.

I'm 6 ft 2 and I'm positively terrible at re-telling jokes. I'll always let the punch line slip too soon, even in the first few lines. It causes many awkward moments and my attempts to break the ice often end up freezing the conversation altogether. I was never meant for the limelight. Perhaps that is why I'm in the business of hiding behind words. The only light I come close to is at my writing desk. I prefer to tell stories from the safety of a pen knowing that if I were ever to create an uncomfortable moment, I am well and truly untraceable from the scrawling of my pen or the bolted imprints of a typewriter. No one can look me in the eye and oppose me, so I'm free to say what I like.

I love my cat, Mariah, and I love Dali. I am prone to tangential monologues when I’m in one-on-one conversations and I’m quick to timidity in large groups. Perhaps it is my lack of being able to multi-task. My mind likes to stick to one school of thought at a time. But within that school of thought I am likely to encounter countless inside voices, each with their own take on every subject, so if I am slow to answer questions, it is only because there is an attempted democracy at work inside my head. I must hear out the yearnings of each opinion before considering them; you see it is very important that each one is heard. I am not schizophrenic. Simply a fair politician to the society of my imagination. I pay close attention to the voices in my head. Anyone who tries to tell you that you are crazy for having voices in your head should rethink their statement. Because I will tell you, that to ignore those inner voices could well be the first step towards insanity.

I was conceived in Zimbabwe. My parents were working there, my mother gravitated toward the people of Africa, and collected oils there for what ended up being her own range of aromatherapy which she used at the massage parlor she opened when I was 10. Her intention was to combine the psychology of the mind with the relaxation of the body through scent and senses. My mother is an undercover hippie. She would've fit in better at Woodstock with a joint out the side of her mouth when it came down to it. I loved her for that. She was progressive. 

They say a child's first glimpse of love is pieced together in their first 5 years of life. That’s why there should be a stable and secure family environment for a child to blossom and feel grounded. In other words, if you must break the whole thing off, do it after your child hits the age of 5. I think my understanding of love came much later than my toddler years. I understood the nurture and care of a mother, the strong guidance of a father, perhaps even the taste of unconditional love offered by the Divine, but the sting of early romantic love? No parent can teach a child how to possibly handle the symptoms of such a thing. 

The Hebrew language has many words for “Love.” We have one word to somehow encapsulate the complex and diverse dialects of love. How very different is the love between two boys who have been best friends since the age of 7 to the love of a terminally ill grandmother for her family? Or how different again is a 13-year-old’s first heartbreak when they see their crush lunge toward Cindy’s pre-pubescent frame and grab her tiny hand, instantly destroying all your hopes for a future as you storm off to math class, tears cascading down your chubby cheeks? They stem from the same place, of course, but to possibly explain the intricacies of such a huge emotion seems almost blasphemous to attempt with one tiny four-lettered word. Nevertheless, we must talk of it somehow, and if it must be through this limited means then so be it. Somedays I think we are just greedy and ought to be content with simple shapes of communicaton. But I am a writer, and I live by words, so shoot me for asking for a few more. 

‘Mariah’

Till next time,