a digital zine and an experimental memoir for ALW395: Writing Lives
Danielle J. France
This is a digital zine and an experimental memoir, exploring themes of gender conventions, the unexpected changes in adulthood, and the grounding processes of creation. I tend to only create mixed media projects, and with the use of illustrations and collage and writing, I felt very comfortable mashing these forms together into a zine.
As I looked through photo albums, searched my family’s Facebook, and contemplated old memories, I realised these visitations to the past came to me in fragments. My story is not linear, nor is my art making. I dismantled photographs of myself and re-imagined them in an illustrative and collage format, purposely completing one composition, and collaging others to be incomplete or cut into pieces, and writing in both prose and poetry form, to express the non-linear, fragmentary moments in my life.
As well, moments in my day-to-day life prompted pieces of memories to arise, giving me the time to explore and navigate the form in which I wanted to express my story. I noticed that some of my writing was invited onto the page in effect of my art making, and vice versa. This is clear to me in Recreated, which dumped itself into my brain after spending some time making pages of art, this art being intended for Gently, Now and Acne (Vulgar)is. Mandarin Seeds came about because mandarins are currently in season and prompted a memory from my childhood about my friend and
I wanting to grow mandarin trees, but the thought was promptly ended simply because of a child’s forgetfulness, and swiftly moving onto the next thing. This small memory felt honest in depicting the fragmentary style I intended for my memoir.
I was heavily inspired by Mary Karr’s Why not to write a memoir (2016, p. 27-34). It gave me the reassurance I needed to write confidently and without hesitation when revisiting old memories or sensitive subjects. I was careful in my visitations, only venturing to places I felt comfortable, or making sure to take a light with me in places I was not prepared for. She recommends to ‘just apply your ass to the chair’ and practice getting out of your head and move into your body (p. 31). This was a great way for me to practice preparation and patience. I knew that I just needed to sit down and write, which is something I have never given myself the chance to do, and it felt a lot like journaling. The moment I started painting or writing without thought, that’s when I knew I was doing it right.
At first, I was hesitant. I wasn’t sure how I would go writing a memoir, but in retrospect, I have never felt more comfortable picking myself apart and pulling out the most grotesque and sensual experiences, and I’m even more excited to share it with the world. I feel like I have found my voice, and I cannot wait to see what I create in my lifetime.
Sharing sweet and blissful mandarin pieces, we waited for the bus.
How many seeds does it take to grow a mandarin tree? I asked Momo, throwing the sour skin to the grass.
I think we need lots, she said.
I devoured whole moments and spat out the seeds into the disposable container she used for her lunch that school day. The clouds were hiding the sun in slices.
I was nine, and I had no idea how many mandarins I would eat in my lifetime, but the seeds have always been spat out and the skin thrown aside.
My bus arrived first, and I forgot about growing mandarin trees.
See you tomorrow!
Danielle Jane Mohr, eleven years of age
In the mirror:
me scissors jeans
dark blonde hair and some white eyeliner
Oily, Curly, Knotted
In the blade: desire the scissors a last chance and very - brittle - ends
Dry, Orange Dye
In those scissors:
stinging black shirt
tiny prickles and the root cause
Cursed, Gripping, Sweating
In the painting there is pigment, cat hairs, dust, memories, saliva. And there is a picture of me, scribbled, frantically, indeterminately me, but also very obviously me—to me. Strong nose, acne scars, small lips, long eyelashes.
I am not what is in the photograph. You only see half of who I am, digitally blurred. The other half is falling to pieces in a photo album.
Will I only ever be perceived through someone else’s lens? Predetermined, interpreted, unpainted.
I want to collapse onto my brushes, pierce myself into the canvas, swirl in the water jar, and permanently spin with the world.
If I die, and I end up buried deep underground, what will you remember me by?
Not small pixels, not awkward smiles, frozen in time.
There’s a little bit of you in there, too. Your perspective, subjectively viewing. The years that I have spent on my bedroom floor, contemplating, sleeping, playing, touching, exploring, romanticising, creating, constrained by inexperience.
I was never clean and I won’t come back innocent.
Cremate me and imagine what I already am; blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin, slender fingers, warm legs, chipped nails—and then I’ll crumble into recreation.
Full of colour, full of life, full of laughter, full of pleasure, from birth until death, minerals and colour, floating in darkness, depth within my bones, and that is just a glimpse of what is possible, of what will be out of touch. Difference, sameness.
I will create myself, even if I lose all sense of placement. That’s the way I want to be remembered.
I am immortal in the indeterminate scribbles:
Of colour, I am there, and I remain me, taking up the white.
Pulsing feverish red dots grotesque in size. I want to scrape itch it cut it out. One, then two, then
I’m drinking tears, eyes distracted. Take the pill, she says, cover that up.
Careful of the head. Treat it, bury it, thrash it.
I can’t see me behind that glass buried under those layers of dirt.
Remedy after remedy.
Do my pimples disgust you?
and blood-stained cheeks.
Picking and scabbing
I pull out the weeds and wretch at the sight of a rose inside. Wide eyes, watching flowers grow, rooted deep inside.
Smudges on the mirror
Gently, now, I follow the moon, never failing to read the chart at full moon and new moon; it is like a clock, and I’m watching the crescent bend. I am bending with the hands as they tick, tick, tick.
There was a time I wandered the sky without fear, and I can’t remember getting lost. I was aware of my being, but it never occurred to me that I was supposed to be something woman, something other than other. I wasn’t playing girl, I wasn’t playing boy, nor was I a celestial thing. I was not the sun, nor was I the blue sky. I just knew I was dotted with all the white against the black, glistening beneath my moon.
Once,
I was embraced by trees and twigs and leaves; I was covered in mud, and I was whole, eating from the fruit, devouring the sweet salty flesh of humanity, I was soaking it all in, then it was time to stop playing.
Quietly.
Then, I looked back at the clock, aware of time passing; the earth
was darkening, and the clouds were hovering close above. I became pebbles and weeds and brown. I wanted to collect the fallen leaves and keep them somewhere safe, I was desperate for their return, but they cracked and crumbled. I was looking in the wrong places. I was not all me.
Now, I want to go back to the earth, smooth and moist in the depths of the soil. I’ve wanted to go back for a while. Now, I am baptised in the light, in forests of new. The moon has brought me back; the flowers, the fresh air, the animal, and I have become cleansed of all worry and doubt.
I am the earth, I am myself. I am non-woman, embraced by the moon and the stars in the sky, non-woman in the folds of the earth, crust and decay and found and born and life and green. I am more than that.
I am full when the moon is full. I am when the moon is. I am green. I am.