My father owned a church converted to a house, in Woodstock New York, and he and my mother were both artists, so after I was born, they took all four kids, two from my mother's previous marriage, their son, my brother Christopher, and myself, the only one not born in Kingston, New York, and the one who always felt she was born to the wrong family somehow, not an unusual feeling, back to the church in Woodstock, to live. I did not feel this way as a small child, although I knew my sisters were closer to each other, than to me due to our different fathers, but even today, now that Dad is gone, I don't feel close to any of them, except my mother, and occasionally my brother and oldest sister, who scarcely know that I am alive, I think.
Shortly after my birth, they moved back to Woodstock, to the church, which I remember well, even though I only lived there until I was four, when we moved here.
My father had a studio, in the graveyard adjacent to that church, and I would sit on the floor when he painted, and draw, and I remember this. I also remember, not their finding out of Baba, really, but my father, who used to lie around on his bed, and listen to talking books as much as I do, because he had retinitis pigmentosa too, and went totally blind when he was fifty, sang me a Beetle song, but changed the lyrics to, I'm so sad and lonely, 'Baba' take a chance with me, rather than, baby take a chance with me.
So we moved here, and lived on the Meher Center, a gift from Baba, but to me just a life, and I will spare you the details of growing up in the bible belt under such circumstances, but enough to make anyone bitter.
I graduated from high school one year early. College was like finishing school for me. I learned to wear make-up, style my hair, and what to wear with what.
Soon after transferring, after my third year, I met my husband to be, a Baba follower. I was going to Coastal Carolina, working at a clothing store, and once he came back from India, in '82, he moved in with me.
I had my own apartment by then. I was only twenty.
Now, he is a born again Christian, but Mehera J. Irani adored him, and kept us together. Like many things, I think she was about the only glue to hold things together, in an abstract sense. Like so many things in this world, we crashed and burned, after her death, so to speak.
When I was pregnant with our second child, my parents divorced, and Dad lived on one side of the house, Mom on the other. It was that way until Dad died.
Before they moved here, Dad was discovered in the New York art scene, and had shows in Manhattan. Celebrities attended, such as Norman Mailer, who was actually my mother's sister's ex husband, and my cousin's father.
He gave it all up, for this, for what, to die a pauper, at the Meher Spiritual Center, where we have all been put down, pushed around.
If I were to stand there, and pretend to be a la di da Baba follower, I would only be making a mockery of myself, because when Mom dies, even if I were to try to live in our family home, they would just give me an eviction notice. So, there you go. So much for love and spirituality. My parents bought the land, payed for the house to be built, and payed taxes and insurance all the years, as well as designing, as well as paying for the building of the road that goes through Sheriar Gate, the Ott gate, my parents' gate, while the Meher Spiritual Center payed zilch in terms of their own taxes, because of their so called church status, and you wonder why you rarely see me there? And, they want a house that someone else built and payed for, payed taxes on for forty-seven years, as well as purchasing the land, for which they also payed taxes on for forty-seven years?! That's why. Church status - politics status. I don't care if no one likes this article. The truth will set you free, according to Jesus. Don't even look for a way to lecture me, because I will cut you to the quick. The truth needs to be known, no matter what anyone says, and I am not doing anyone a disservice, only the opposite, by exposing the truth. Truth.
No comments:
Post a Comment