Translated…
I looked at the downward drooping eyes and mouth of that kitten, and it’d looked, more and more familiar to me, it was like, I was, seeing the younger version of myself, worrying. I once was (or still am now?), with this sort of a facial expression, facing the outside world…
That small tabby, squatted in front of a round plate, and, as it was, licking up the milk from the plate, it was, as if, it’d, heard someone call out to her, it’d, lifted its head up to look around, with the big, round innocent eyes, making us feel bad.
As the teacher posted the picture, everybody exclaimed, “How cute!”
But, the next sigh that came was, “It was, so hard to draw!”
How do we, model our instructor’s work, to draw out how shiny, how fluffy the coat is, the layers of the fur, the color, the texture, the messages passed through our cerebral cortex, and, we’d immediately connected in our minds, that smooth feeling coat, and we were all able to feel that small tabby rubbing up against all our ankles right then, watching how she’s watched you, with those, amber-colored eyes, as if, begging you, for that ball of yarn to play with, or the stick too, making you want to embrace her in your arms, to put your face next to its………for a beginner art student, it’s too distant a dream, to draw this feel.
And, in my mind, I couldn’t help, but connect to all the instances of famous artists’ works with this sort of fluffiness, A Young Hare by Durer, with the layers of coat drawn separately, with that warmth, that softness to the touch, with the eyes so bright, reflecting the room it was, looking into, but couldn’t get any closer, and can only, stealthily, getting closer, and the viewers can, almost feel, the hare’s heart beating fast, underneath, it’s, warm body……this was, originally, my thought, that I’d not only drawn a cat out, not just its curly coat.
But I wasn’t at all that good in the techniques of copying, the work I made, was so far from the original, as the sketch came into being, I’d gotten up from the desk I was working at, took a few steps backward, and found, that what I’d drawn, was a stray cat with the worried looks, all alone, like it was, worrying that the food in its bowl was about, to be completely gone, it was about to start “meowing out of misery”!
It took me a very long time, and I’d finally sketched it, but, I didn’t know how or where, to start making the sketches better, like how a failed life can’t have a do-over again.
I’d looked at the drawing of the cat, feeling more and more depressed, the downward turned eyes and lips, it’d looked, more and more familiar to me, it was, as I, I saw my self looking worried and upset. I once was (and still am now?) looking like this, wearing this expression, for the outside world to see.
And, the numbered family photos are the best proofs of this, I’d always kept my lips tight, with a frown on my forehead, and, was, out of place, in the group of children making the faces, grinning, ear to ear, I’d looked, very, out of place. I couldn’t recall, whether if this facial expression, I’d learned from someone else, or, did I, come up with it myself?
And, it might’ve happened like this. My father had been long time absent from my life because of work, my mother was ill a lot, and, my grandparents were no longer alive, and so, my parents can only take us back to live with my maternal grandparents, with my uncle’s family too. And, I was, an older, but innately more childlike middle child, there were always younger, crying children, my older sister would act up, and, I got, ignored a lot, nobody cared what I want or need, my grandmother favored my older sister who was the eldest granddaughter, took care of my younger cousins, and just felt, that I should, hush more.
And so, unknowingly, I’d picked up my grandmother’s expressions when she looked at me, when she wasn’t frowning, she’d carried that uncaring look?
At which time, I’d often, retreated to the side, and, gotten into the habit of, touching my own earlobes, and, curling my tongue, sucking, and, slowly, secretively, regressed, into an infant who’s still inside her mother’s arms. Back then, the pacifier that was seen as not fitting for me had already been, plucked from my mouth, I’d found myself a surrogate, no longer would I cry like the young kittens anymore. When nobody’s paying attention to me, I’d become, quiet and self-satisfying.
Until the adults found out about my tricks, and they’d started making fun of me, shame on you! You’re already, older, and still…
Shame on you!
We were all hurt like this, growing up.
But, I’d especially, held on, tightly, to these minor details of my younger years, was it because I was, naturally pessimistic? Or did I learn it, from somewhere else? Don’t matter, but, I’d always, worn that, worried look on my face, and I’d never known, how my frowns made others feel, or what it would cause to happen to me?
Until we’d, moved out of my uncle’s house, once, I’d begged my mother, to allow me to visit my uncles, that I can play with my cousins, way better than sitting at home, bored.
At which time, my mother was squatting on that small stool, working hard, cleaning off the laundry, trying to, ignore me. But I wasn’t letting up, started purring and rubbing against her feet, “can I? Can I?”
Finally, my mother had, stopped washing, lifted her head, and opened up her lips, I don’t know what she was about to say first, but, as she saw how I looked, she’d changed her face. I’m quite certain, that she’d changed her mind in an instant.
What I heard was, “Looking at your upsetting looks, you’d known, that I wasn’t going to, let you go!”
As I heard this, I felt shell-shocked, does she mean that I can’t go? Is this, a reason, to deny me? I can’t understand, how those words came, out of my mother’s mouth at all.
I was probably, seven, or eight, in the first, or second grade back then.
My mother’s words alarmed me of how my expressions can displease others, and later on, I’d gained a better understanding of how other people’s cold glares toward me, was actually a mirror, reflected my own empty facial expressions. And, although I’d learned this, there was, nothing I can do, I can’t, unlock that frown between my eyes no matter what. A s I got older, I’d started frowning when I studied, talked to others and frowned, and, based off of what I’d been told, I’d, frowned in my sleep as well, and even if my face was completely expressionless, there was still, that frown between my eyes, this look I wore often made others feel that I was, high and mighty, above them. And, it was, as if, I’d become, this self-fulfilling prophecy, worked hard, to grow, taller, taller and taller, to the point, I’m, very tall. But, I’m not at all aloof or with pride, and only I alone, know this. And every time I’d met a new classmate or friend, they’d taken, a very long time to prepare, to finally, talk to me carefully, (if they have the patience, to stick around for that long to observe me, and not gotten frightened away), then, they’d, opened up to me, that I’m nothing like they thought I was, that when I’m quiet, I looked aloof, but, as I opened up, I’d become, crazy like the rest of them.
And, I’m pretty sure that my teachers or elders had, hated the way I’d, looked down on them as I stood up to answer their inquiries? That posture said that I was, challenging their authorities, and maybe, they’re all, like my birthmother, everything they’d wanted to say to me, was, squished flat, by my serious looks, and all that remained, were, those, thinned out, words. I saw a glimpse, of that dying look, and made my mind up, I’ll just sit and answer their questions the next time. And, as I sat and answered, I still got that dissatisfied look from them, and the eyebrows were raised, and eyes sharp, with blame: how can you sit and answer to the inquiries of your elders?
As I was examining my own painting, it’d, roused up all those, yellowed, and chewed-up memories, and, it was, as if I’d only picked up a small thread of it, and, pulled out even more messy thoughts, is this, art therapy? In the process of drawing, some of the memories that were originally already buried were, dug up again, like that game we used to play as children, placing a piece of paper on a coin, using a pencil, or a crayon, to rub on the sheets, the heads and prints slowly, formed, the stronger the force we used, the more apparent the patterns became. The sketching pencil became like a till, digging up the buried memories of old, forcing us to, pick it back up, to recognize, to face and deal with it. So, there’s, that part of us that’s gotten lost here, buried there, and, we all, grew up, without knowing, these scars inside of us all.
As I’d started making it on my own, I thought I was finally, able to, draw my life out on the pages, and, as I was planning out the artwork, and, there would be those accidental numbers, faces that showed up, turns out, the things that were originally, underneath the drawing papers, those matters big or small that were, covered up, already determined how my paintings would turn out, and as I started, these features became like ghosts, that I’d not planned to draw out, the harder I’d tried covering them up, the deeper their features became. And, no matter what, I just, couldn’t, erase them.
I can’t be cured. I thought.
Not matter what the occasion was, I’d always carried, my expressionless face to finish what I ought to: school, work, family, living this simple life. But, I’m not satisfied, living like this, I’d started using some simple ways, to fill up my spare time, like, practicing calligraphy, I’d taken home a huge stack of large calligraphy paper, locked myself in the room, to cut the papers up, and, started working; the heaven and earth became chaotic, and, the maker was, within that………I’d, written, for hours every single day, until my shoulders stiffened, my eyes sore, and because I enjoyed this, and because compared to how I’d needed to struggle whether sitting down or standing up would be proper when I faced others, to remember, to grin……much, easier. It’s just, that this sort of stupid torture wouldn’t accomplish anything, including making me more skillful at calligraphy.
I’m still, chaotic, couldn’t understand it, my consciousness became so dark, like that bottle of ink I wrote with.
Before I finished calligraphy writing, I’d, turned to writing, slowly, exposed my self, from head, to toe, from past, to present, in the different levels, I’d started digging up those scars, hidden, underneath, and some would puss, I’d, expected, that after I’d dressed these wounds up, my wounds would slowly heal, and, begin to scab, and it didn’t matter if the scar never goes away anymore, I’d no longer minded that anybody sees me, covered in my scars anymore, I’d not wanted to maintain that external calm, while feeling raging inside, from before, it’d, hurt me constantly, but now, I, can no longer, hold it in, it’d turned into, this anger without reason, and, these arrows of anger would, shoot out at anybody around me, and, those who were wounded by my arrows started questioning me, with their innocent looks: what do you need to feel dissatisfied about your life?
And even so, it’s like that peroxide on the tissue papers, poured, onto the wounds that they don’t see, bubbling, with that rancid white smoke rising from it.
(We’re all hurt this way. And, we’d learned how to, hurt ourselves, and others too.)
Then, I’d picked up art.
Art was, like for the sake of returning to my old ways, and, I’d, kept it away. But as my pencil touched the papers, it’d, called back, my long, lost memories.
I’d gotten used to, and enjoyed, looking at the past, in a distance, and maybe, that, is how I looked upon my present too, and, people are right, about how cold I am, they’d understood me, more than I do myself. And, toward the coming on of this huge mess, at the moment, I’d become, flustered, my mother’s words were like a curse, sent over to me, from my distant, long ago, childhood.
I’d kept, regressed, back into my childhood years, sucked on my tongue secretively, wanting some small comfort, quiet, and self-fulfilling. Only hoped, that I don’t get found out again.
And, I can never explain my real self, “Looking cold on the outside, but, actually, numbed, slow, chicken, passionate, with a tender heart”. Just like this cat with the worried looks, couldn’t defend itself, that it was, satisfied with its life, having just been fed, was about to, leave that milk plate, to chase the yarns.
Don’t know why, my memories became, a strange sift, no matter how beautiful or wonderful, the memories would all, fall, through the sift, and, blown away by the winds of time, and, all the unhappy moments would, drop like rocks, piece, by piece, onto that sift. And now, as I sketched, I’d picked up the pieces, and examined them closely, I may be able to exercise my creativity, to paint the rocks, to turn my pains, into objects that inspire others, or, I can, use the rocks to throw them parallel to the waters, so they can, bounce off, one by one, then, sink, into the depth, perhaps?
So this, is you, trying to, get rid of your bad memories of your childhood years, and, the adults are so cruel at times, with a total disregard, of how their words of behaviors can hurt their young, and because that, is how insensitive the grown up all are, because they weren’t treated with kindness by their own parents before, how the FUCK (feel free to take an offense!!!) can any of you, god DAMN parents, LOVE your own young the RIGHT way, huh???