Saccades Project

“Gyres in the Kitchen,” Collaboration with Marianna Fierro

(See Marianna Fierro, Image 1)

Setting: Thea’s sitting at the kitchen table, hiding her face in her hands,  with her homework spread across the table, Monday night, September, 15, 2008.

You know my mom was an English major. She loves writing. Or she used to, at least. I don’t know what she loves doing anymore, but anyhow. Me, I’m just the opposite. I mean, I don’t know what happens, really, but I just freeze up, especially when it something that’s going to be graded. Like I’ll know what I want to say, but then, when I start writing, it gets all mixed up. Not like dyslexia, just, I don’t know. I just get so afraid that I won’t get the answer right, that I’ll get a bad grade, whatever, and then I sit there, and I just stare and stare. And then, finally, I get so frustrated, I want to throw my computer out the window. Just like with geometry and chemistry. Just like everything anymore, really.

I don’t know what happened, because I used to love English. And I love to read, I really do, it’s just . . . I don’t know. I can’t explain it, really. And sometimes my mom gets really angry with me when I don’t do as well as I used to. Which is like all the time anymore, basically. Once, one time she started to say, Thea, what happened to you? Then she stopped. So she changed her tactic.

Last time we fought about it, she goes, You’re smart enough, Thea. You’re plenty smart enough to get an A in this class. You just psyching yourself out, you have to push through, is all.

Is that all? I said.

Yes, that’s all, she said, as if that was the end of the conversation, right. And I’m thinking, like I was this close to saying, Why, Mom? Why do I have to push through my fear or whatever? So I can be as successful as you? I didn’t say it, of course. But I was so close.

It’s like some nights she understands, and then some nights she doesn’t, you know. Depends on her day, her mood. Mine, too, I guess.

If it’s been a bad day, at night, when I’m trying to do my homework, I just stare at the book, at the words, and it’s like oil and water, like the words won’t go into my head you know, my eyes won’t take the words in. And it makes me want to cry, it really does. I’m sorry, but I get so fucking frustrated, I want to cry.

By the second or third week of September, I had to get a tutor, too. Because I failed my first geometry test, and nowadays, they don’t even give you two tests. The counselor steps right in, and it’s cool. I mean, it’s important that they get on people and try to help as soon as possible, but I had a tutor last year for Algebra I, and I don’t know. Anything that makes me stay at school an hour longer twice a week, come on. How helpful is that, really?

So I think I was just so bummed about that, about the thought of staying at school until four-thirty every Tuesday and Thursday for god knows how long, you know. I tried working in my room, but it wasn’t working, the working in my room, so I went to the kitchen, instead. Probably because there aren’t as many distractions in the kitchen, I don’t know. But my mom came in, right after she got home and changed out of her work clothes.

What are you working on? she asked, peeking over my shoulder.

Take-home test, I said: I’m supposed to read this poem and answer three questions.

What’s the poem?

The Second Coming, I said, wondering if she’d know it, but of course she did.

William Butler Yeats, she said, turning my book around to face her. What’s the first question?

The first question is, discuss the gyre motif, I said, so annoyed for some reason.

Not really a question, is it, she said.

Yeah, well, just one of many problems, but anyhow, I said.

Hold on a second, she said, walking over to the counter, turning off my iPOD.

Mom, don’t turn it off, ti’s the only thing keeping me awake, I said, whining. This poem’s like a narcoleptic fit, just waiting to happen, I said.

That’s good, she said. Write that down.

Ha, I said, unamused.

Go on, just read it through, she said, and so I sighed again, because i wasn’t getting out of it, but I was just so, so irritated.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre—.

Slow, slow down, she said, holding up both hands, like, what’s the rush? Come on, take a breath, read each line, and start at the beginning with the title, she said.

Mom, this isn’t drama, okay. I just want to answer the questions, please, I said.

I realize that. Which is why you need to take a deep breath, read each line, and start at the beginning, she said, speaking in that tone that told me I was getting close to crossing the line with her. Which I wanted to do, actually. I’d much rather fight with her than do my homework, actually.

The Second Coming, by William Butler Yeats, I said, slower. Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer; things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; mere anarchy is loosed upon the world . . ..

That’s so much better, see? she asked, but I just shrugged, whatever. Have you read it through a few times?

Of course I read it through, Mom, I said, almost rolling my eyes.

So what’s it about? she said, sitting down, across from me.

I don’t know, I said, sighing, and she just waited. I said: It’s about anything you love, everything you thought was true, it’s not. It’s a big, fat lie. Everyone’s been lying to you. And there you are, standing, turning around, trying to, you now, just stand up, but you can’t move. You can’t get away. There’s no escaping it. Gee, great poem, I said.

So what’s the center, you think? she asked, ignoring my attitude, but I didn’t answer. Thea, what’s the center, to you?

Love, I said, glaring at the table. What else is there?

So let’s put these two things together, she said, taking my pen and my notebook and drawing lines between the two circles of words she’d drawn, and I was just like, Will you please stop?

Don’t get hung up, move on. Let’s here another question, she said, ignoring me.

Discuss the beasts, I said, saying the words in a huff, nodding my head at the question.

You don’t like that question, either, she said.

No, I don’t, I said. I don’t like the question, and I don’t like this poem, because I think this poem just goes to prove it’s useless. I mean, that’s his point of view: what hope is there? The Apocalypse is coming, nothing you can do about it. It’s Pentecostal, if you ask me. I mean, seriously, I said, reading from one of the critics said about Yeats: And he feared that the beast was coming to claim its kingdom, right on time.

So who are the beasts? she said.

I don’t know, I said. It was just knee-jerk, but I could tell she was losing her patience, too. Good. Why should I suffer alone?

Who are the beasts? she said, like it was my last warning.

People who want to destroy everything and anything just because they don’t understand, because it’s different, because they’re afraid, I aid.

Like this poem, for example? she said, smiling, but I ignored her. When is this due, these questions?

Thursday, I said.

So you have two more days; we’ll work on it tomorrow night, she said.

Mom, I have tutoring tomorrow. Remember?

After tutoring, she said, and I just nodding no, no. What’s wrong? she said.

What’s wrong? What’s wrong is I hate my life. I want my old life back, I said, and I felt tears. I did. My eyes got all teary, but she wasn’t having it.

Beasts, she said. So what’s the kingdom? she asked, propping her chin in her hand.

The best of what we are. Art, I said, biting the inside of my lip, not knowing what else to say anymore.

So draw it, then, she said. Draw something for me, and I just looked at her, like, Mom, you aren’t helping. You are not helping at all! What if you could draw your response? What if you draw a picture instead of writing it? she said, smiling like it was this great idea, right.

I can’t do that. It’s English, not Art, Mom.

Pretend, she said.

Pretend I could pass. Pretend I—.

How does it make you feel?

It’s English, not therapy, Mom. Come on, I said.

How, Thea, she said, telling me, not asking me.

Scared. And angry, okay. Because I don’t understand why it’s happening, I said.

Fear and anger, she said, writing the words on my paper. Which just made my toes curl, I was so angry, because it wasn’t helping! Writing fear and anger does not help—I could’ve done that.

Thea, quit worrying about the grade and just tell me what you’re thinking, she said.

I’m thinking . . . I’m thinking this is a complete waste of time. I think I’m going to fail another class, Mom. I’ll be stuck here, in this stupid town, my whole life.

You and me, she said. Right here, at the kitchen table for all eternity—.

No!

Read the last few lines again, she said.

So I read them: And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

What do you think of that? she asked.

I think . . . I think it’s awful, what an ugly thing to write. I said, and I was so angry. I don’t know where it came from or what it was, but it’s like I hated Yeats. I hated his ugly fucking poem; I even hated my mom for trying, for making the mistake of walking in and sitting with me. Go away: all of you, go away.

Thea be quiet, she sad, even though I didn’t say it out loud. I’m tired, and I’m feeling pretty beastly, myself, so don’t push it. Draw the picture you see in your head when you read the poem. Hand it in with your notes, and I’m sure you’ll have worked as hard as anyone else in class, she said.

I’m done with this, I said, turning the book around, about to close it and go to my room.

No, she said. No, you are not done. And you’ll sit here until you’re done with the three questions. Cry if you want to, then get back to work. I want to see some drawing, and I want you to write some notes, she said, getting up, walking to the living room.

So I sat there, and I drew. I drew clouds, horse hooves, human limbs piling up on a desert floor. Vultures circling like swarms of flies. A river of blood. I was doing better when she came back into the kitchen to start dinner, but there was something dark in me, something black that wouldn’t quit fighting.

How’s it going? she said, looking over her nose, seeing that I’d been working on something.

There’s no light in this poem. I can’t draw without light, I said.

You want light?

It wouldn’t hurt, no. If you ask me, it’s not God, it’s man: mankind is the beast. People are the ones who are turning and turning, repeating the same mistakes, over and over, I said.

Did you write that? she asked.

No.

Then read what you’ve written so far, she said.

Nothing, I said.

Just read what you have there, she said, and I didn’t want to. I so didn’t want to, and it make me so angry with her, like why are you doing this to me? Why?

So I read what I’d written. I said, This poem makes me feel hopeless. It makes me feel frustrated. It’s way too religious and over the top. I don’t think it has any relevance to life today, except maybe for war, which is a constant, because people are such beasts. I don’t like this poem because there’s no love in this poem, I said. It’s ugly and hopeless and no fifteen-year-old should have to face anymore of that than they already do, every day.

Thea, she said, softening, and I couldn’t do it anymore, and my eyes welled up.

I don’t get it. I don’t get it! I don’t get it! I said, rolling my eyes back.

You do, Thee. You get it, exactly. It’s demonic; it’s evil; it makes no sense, but it keeps happening. We can’t get ahead of it, falcons or no, she said. Thea, believe it or not, I think you’re too hard on yourself. You just need to be quiet and listen. You’re so smart, Thea, you can do this. You just have to believe, babe. You want to find the hope in this poem, look at yourself, first, she said.

I don’t want to be here, Mom, I said, almost crying. I hate it here. And it’s only September, I said.

It’ll get better, she said.

You always say that, Mom, but it doesn’t get better, so stop saying it.

No, she said. Then she did something she hadn’t done in so long, I couldn’t remember when the last time was. She wrapped her arms around me, and she held me against her waist, and then she leaned over and kissed the top of my head. I love you, she said, and I wanted to say it, too, but all I could do was nod. Yes.

Note: This week, I’m enlisting the help of eight guest artists/DJs/collaborators in editing eight separate sketches, written since the start of this project, or, as in this case, writing a sketch that came to mind, but I never had a chance to finish. Original post: Gain, October 26, 2009 in Sketches.

The Second Coming, William Butler Yeats (1864-1939)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?