what a joke. the day to remember your mother. not that you should, but, like she would ever have you forget. my mother liked shopping for pretty shoes. all everything else was: oh, mike. my shrink disallowed any mention of her, in my head or during those sessions finding a way to have faith in myself. the shrink banished the beast. so, after all, emotionally, financially, in practicality, including the hustle of finding a parking place in manhattan's mid-nineties before seven am, yes, after a grueling twice weekly five years, mother seized to exist. i cut off each overseas call before she could utter a word. i refused her mail. it was hard. after many a dark night, i began to forget her. i stopped hating her. in time i made peace with myself, though impossibly with her. she wouldn't allow that. she needed her very way owning my love, oh so dire. when she died her sister asked me back for the funeral. i couldn't go. i refused the house she wanted me to inherit. i thought her legacy simply non-exist.
it's now some twenty years later. i've lived with many a woman and was married to two. my friend jim would say that a man finds his mother in the woman he lives with. and so, one way or another, mother lived on. i stopped making photographs, destroyed most all of my work in an attempt to change my ways. i tried painting, sculpture, i sold used cars, worked as a short order cook, learned typography, i took a job teaching. resolutely i went for woman badly aslant from afore. was a time in a past not long ago a person looked me in the eye and proclaimed: once a photographer, always a photographer. though her call hurt, i refused mother's last quest.
i am much older now. i believe i am with a companion, aside being a woman, has nothing on mother. i don't know how she manages me, but her support of my life as an artist, photography aside, in my daily endeavor aiming to write, is simply marvelous. how she encourages me to find words and a story to tell. her patience with my complaints. her utter belief in me. her way of nudging me from my old mistress, the camera, the one paid for my life in so many a year. but she does. she staked five hundred dollars for my first story. her ways of dealing with the many frustrations, those days full of blanks, words failing, and her then cheering delight, when some first novel piece plays on my blog.
so, in this, my small way, i'd like to thank her, yes, indeed, on mother's day, for making me better, in those ways, and in those which we both can only imagine.