Inspired by today’s Lisa essay I dug
up some older Lisa pieces.
February, 2006: All About My
Mother. She told me everything — the two times she'd tried to masturbate
(with a hot dog and a cucumber), the one time she'd tried to give a blowjob (to
my father, and she threw up after). All her thoughts and dreams and
philosophies. So many times we'd remain sitting in the car listening to the
engine click and sigh, still talking as the sky grew dark, reluctant to open
our creaky doors and break the spell. "It's you and me against the
world," she'd say. From her strained smile, her hand squeezing my thigh,
the love-look in her eye, I knew that must be something good, something loving
— and I must be so defective, that I wanted to run screaming from her, this
person so grateful for my companionship, for my very existence.
April, 2003: Lying with My Father.
I never knew when or how he'd be near me. He didn't observe normal patterns of
behavior. When I hurt myself and cried, he'd just sit there and laugh. He liked
to walk in the bathroom when I was taking a shower. I became perpetually aware
of the nakedness just under my clothes and the mental helplessness just under
my preternaturally large vocabulary. My senses sharpened. I looked for clues in
everything. I was unsure all day long, and all night.
