i’m a vacillator. i go from one extreme to the other. and since i left grad school, or maybe since i became a mother, i’ve become way too….safe. and yet, even that safety, that cautious way of living is punctuated by random acts of recklessness. drinking too much, getting kind of loose in the night, using sedatives and/or depressants…reveling in a numbed sensibility. sometimes it feels damned good to check out from the fine lines of reality…to see the grays and reds and blues without the normal precision of weather and schedules, calendars, polite conversation, and elevator beats. loud music moves me, bass stirs my soul, and when the alcohol hits my bloodstream, something else comes to life. i am the night and the night is all there is. but in the mornings, i prefer sobriety. sunshine. open windows, soft sheets and squishy pillows near my head. waking up to my one and only. no more blackouts. (what?) i used to drink much harder in my 20s, behave more wildly more nights per week and more weeks per year. there was nothing worse than waking up on an innocent morning, all sunshiney and new, upon first look in the mirror being pleased to see i’d even remembered to vaseline off my foundation.
no lipstick stains on the sheets. panties properly on the floor across the room, last night’s outfit in a single heap in front of the bed. keys? check. credit card? check. coat? check. both shoes? check. so far so good. look, an empty glass. i even drank water last night. so though my hands are shaking a bit and i feel as if i haven’t eaten in a month, i’m thinking, i must have behaved pretty well last night. i remember dancing all night long, the party being just right, the crowd being perfect, unable to sit down for any song, all the free drinks, all the pretty colors, and of course, high heels and flashing lights. i happily pause–i don’t think i spent a dime. i curl up on that sunday morning with some tea and a diary (this was before laptop days), and then the phone rings. my cousin asks if i’m alright. do i remember what happened last night? sinking feeling. what?, i think. she says, you are out of control tiff. you don’t remember anything? oh lord. if i were white, i’d blush. immediate embarrassment. fear. something is creeping up black around the edges of my brain. i have no idea what happened last night, but i’m getting the feeling it wasn’t good. it could have been the time i cursed out the man in the wheelchair. or the time i set the alarm off on the jewelry store downtown. or the time i left the club to sit on the stoop and quietly vomit. or the time i put that guy in the headlock. or the time i thought i was beyonce on the dance floor. or any other time she emerged from the buttoned down, single working mother i am lately, monday through friday, week after week…. lately, however, there are much longer spells between any such activity. it’s been a long time since i got a call the day after and was reminded of something horrible i did the night before. i am proud of the fact that i’ve never gone home with anyone i met out, and i’ve never woken up in anyone’s bed other than my own. i’ve never had sex with a stranger, or been out of the watch of a responsible (enough) driver. i am also proud of the fact that in my 30s, i’ve even been the designated driver a few times, keeping a close eye on friends i’ve found to be heavier drinkers and consumers than myself…holding my own and knowing my limits.
and still.
i started this entry hoping to avoid self-righteousness and to talk about what it feels like having been on this even keel so long when there is still a wildness inside me always wanting to pounce. sometimes it’s just artistic risks i want to take. often, they’re sexual. mostly, it’s just me wanting to get to the heart of the matter though. to get past all the niceties and PC appropriateness of life. i want to see life undressed. i want to know what lies beneath.
what do people say after a drink or two? what do people say when they can’t stop the words from tumbling out of their mouths? what do people act like behind closed doors? what secrets do people tell each other? what do people think about when they lie to their friends? what truths do people tell themselves? what do people look like behind the make up, name brands, girdles, and push up bras? what are they really thinking? who are they in the bedroom? who are they in silence? what do legs wide open look like? why weren’t nude self-portraits assigned at least once in undergrad? i remember being the only black girl in class presenting these nude portraits of myself (my pragmatic approach: i was the most available model when i studied anatomy, and later, i was the most available model when i studied portraiture…and much later…i was the most available subject when i wrote non-fiction… and…why not peruse thy self? well, now i know…some people don’t find that as practical as they find it vain…) and the all white, early 20s kids (none of whom were parents yet), kind of nervously looked from wall to wall to floor during critiques, relying desperately on the leadership of the instructor to ease the pain of discussing the charcoal lines of my labia or the dissymmetry of my breasts… the close attention to the composition of my face, the gestalt of my lanky body on the canvas… they kept it safe… we could discuss media (so you used charcoal over gesso?) or my expression (in this piece, she looks pensive..thoughtful…detached…), but never too much about the actual body. i laugh about it now. what did i expect? what did i want from them? nothing really. well, maybe a critique as engaging as the ones we had about their boring landscapes and still lifes. but i didn’t need validation or approval…i just enjoyed sketching myself back then, the big black afro, malcolm x glasses, and the naked, more-perfect than life body with a truthful protruding tummy. in grad school i wrote the same portraits, sketching true tales of an erroneous childhood, the daughter of a crazed jehovah’s witness mother and a pleasant if passive good dad with dim secrets. i found it quite natural to write things i knew my family would never read, and decided somewhere along the way, i could probably safely publish these things after their demises. but now that i think about it, my mom might enjoy bragging on a published daughter until someone pointed out the truths written about her. then again, she is easily amused by her own parenting faux pas…
nevertheless, i think i digress. i’m under some stress. i’m not sure what’s best. i’m feeling undressed, and put to the test. i made a decision that warrants precision. i’m leaving it hanging; i’ve done the proclaiming. you get some of my points–these are just shots in the dark anyway. there’s more to say, but i guess it’ll come out some other day.
Nonfiction Woman 