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The Diary of the Chameleon part II
By Birgitta Jonsdottir
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Rated "PG" by the Author.
From my novel that was published in November 2005 in Iceland. I am still working on the English version of it...
Your footsteps heavy but firm
down to the river,
the deep dark river.
Your angst heavy and uncertain
down to the river,
the deep cold river.
Your body heavy
floating in the water.
Your soul light
peace at last
down to the river
the deep warm river.
This morning I felt peace move my heart. I knew that my father was feeling better. When he died I felt something snap in my heart. Now I understand why I stood up with chill in my heart and took of my Christmas cloths long before we had our little ritual of unwrapping the packages after dinner. During the ritual of the gifts, we all pretended nothing was wrong, that he was just having tea with his new girlfriend or something like that. I have been in some mysterious way clairvoyant around this. It was me that suggested he might have taken his own life. My mother thought it was a preposterous idea when I suggested it.
My father came to me during dreamtime last night, he looked healthy and he smiled to me. He wrapped his arms around me, titled his head back and asked, ďCan you forgive me?Ē
I wrapped myself around him, tight, and said, ď I will always love you, also now. But I donít understand why you had to kill yourself.Ē
He vanished into a bluish and bright mist. The silence didnít give me any answers, only more questions.
I have to be strong. My brother needs all the comfort and encouragement I can possibly give him. I really hope that the people from the rescue squat will find his body soon. Death is unreal if you donít have the body to verify it.
I knew something would happen around these Christmas. The scent of death pungent. My father never crossed my mind.
The nights are long. Try to find a reason for all the victories over the crow of pain. Strength. In the role of the chameleon I glow like an angel of salvation while my soul screams in silent agony. I wont allow anyone in. I have to get away from this island. I have created an image that I can't be.
My role has grown over my soul.
I have been dreaming of death as prince of charms on a white blazing horse. I know that even if death is a possibility and even tempting that it could never free me from myself. I am the only one that can do that. Old memories are caving in on me. I donít want to remember them, not here where everyone knows everybody. I donít want anyone I know to see me small and vulnerable.
I can feel the breath of those memories so close. I know I donít have a choice. I canít keep them within me like a stone child in my womb.
It is amazing how strange life can be. I was sacked from work, the reason: I showed up late one morning. I think that my new boss is afraid of my computer skills, not because I am some sort of a nerd that knows an awful lot, but because I know a bit more then him. It is ironic to think that the only times I have lost my work is when I am too able. I am not happy about this, it is the last thing I need now. I find the element in the human being to kick those that are already down really sad. Even if I am good at hiding my feelings, then I am still catching on this thing with my father. A part of me denies too believe that he is dead. I am numb, but lucky me got another job right away. The woman that originally hired me at the magazine also got the sack a few months ago. She hired me again at her new company. My mom told me that she had originally hired me because she thought I was such an amusingly cool type of a person. It was lovely to work at the magazine when she was the boss. Everyone had the same relevancy, but not anymore. Patriarchy here to stay and the softness turned hard, like wax.
I moved away from mom. There is too much happening in her world. She is totally broken; I think it was the Eurovision song that was the final straw. Her husband has found himself a new woman. She is young and beautiful. My moms flat, smells of angst and nervous brake down. None of us knows how to handle the disappearance of my dad. I stride the city streets and make sure that no one will notice that I am about to burst from grief. I smoke pot, not because I want it but because my flat mate is a pothead and he is always tempting me. I collect excess weight and try to find a way out. I do not dare look at myself in a mirror. It feels as if this play of strength deforms me.
Watching above the ocean, walking on water, sinking to the bottom.
I have moved to another country. Denmark. I don't know anybody here and nobody knows me. I am going to create a nest where I can rip the chameleon off me. Start the quest to find myself beyond the layers.
It is good to get out of the patterns of habits. I went first to London, but it didnít feel right. I lived in the living room of a mate of mine in the far north of London. Ironically then he turned out be a pothead as well. I find pot to be the most boring thing in the world. You sink even further into yourself, and loose the ability to trust others, even your own rationality. I think that these days that I am incapable of being around other people. I have to do something about that. I have to do something radical. Perhaps a little revolution in my heart is the key.
I live in a small village. The ocean hugs it from three directions, moss campion and soft yellow sand. Perhaps I will find the courage to lift the burden of my shoulders. Perhaps I will have the courage to face who I am and why I am so full of self-pity and martyrdom.
The memories are uncontrollable as they flow into visibility. I canít and I wonít stop them. The more memories come into vision, the lighter I become. -More space for new.
I am standing at a towering cliff and my future whispers, ďjump into me, permit the unexpectedly miracle to carry you to your core.Ē
I jumped and landed at the beginning of my past.
Cuts a hole in membrane of the sky.
One heart beats.
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|Reviewed by Aberjhani
|A psychologically intriguing and poetically engaging read. Congratulations on the upcoming publication of your novel.|