Monday, December 20, 2010

Conversations at the Breakfast Table
How My Mother made me into a Thinking Person

Kofi Fosu Forson

The street philosopher proceeds with will a means of conviction. He is not afraid to speak even if what he says has no cohesion and can't be fully understood. It doen't resonate. But he is excited to express himself and in doing so he possesses an excitable demeanor. Language is at his desposal.

What continues to disappoint in this modern world of faux personalities and extra curricular activities always can be found in social networking or the activity of texting where educated people are inspired to massacre the modern language. By all means chatter do let the thinkers think please allow the semioticians moments to philosophize. It's abominable what has become of speak or the potential to communicate and express ones-self.

In the movie Love and Other Drugs a female character says to a male character at a cafe table "This is where you talk about when you graduated and what you majored in..." or something to that effect. That old adage of women study literature and men work with machines has never been more true.

Commercially men are thought to keep their emotions hidden. But in truth the street philosopher who possesses extreme machismo is first to express his emotions that a fury of ideas once set to thinking ending up in speech with passion supposes a governor from those in the corporate world. CEO's have people who think and work for them. They represent a higher status but much of the backbone is within the corporation itself.

And how wonderful was it to see Obama give a speech. That in the history of the world there has never been a man so eloquent. Presidential speeches aside I have great recollections of my mother and me at the breakfast table. Ours was special. Mine as an artist and hers as an educated woman in the corporate world, a chef and clothing specialist in fashion design brought us many topics to hammer.

Unlike the torture with which people disassemble modern language ours was constructing a dialogue by hammer I would imagine a carpenter or architect designing a room or building a table. It requires skill, attention and dedication.

My conversations with my mother at the breakfast table has helped shape me as conversationalist and thinking person.

My mother always kept me close as the eldest of her four sons. In retrospect I have fond memories of us traveling together by car or foot. Somehow it was never with my younger brothers. It seemed as if she was grooming me for some improbable future.

It never occurred to me what attraction there was between my mother and me until I got older and formed a sense of sexuality whereby she would chastize me. Or surreptitiously I see her partially naked whereby she would look like a nude from art history. When we fought as mother and son I became turned on. Our argument would bring a rise out of me until I fawned over her or as honor I would confess my love to her.

In the darkest momemts of my life she was the only person who was there. Having to survive a bout with depression she accompanied me to doctors, served as my friend and at times offered what I now know was emotional incest. She confided in me a wealth of feelings and emotions. Some strangers thought we were a married couple. My father was jealous although he benefitted when my mother came to bed relaxed and overjoyed after spending most of the evening chatting with me.

Certainly my mother has had a great influence on me. My strained relationships with women as art muses all stemmed from my mother. She Eva Forson was the original art muse.

I have exorcised our relationship which is basically now pleasantries and topical conversations. I see that when we talk she burns. I excite her. She welcomes the challange to capture who we were. Our discourses so beautiful her friends would wonder how a mother and son could have such an engaging time talking. Just talking.

Putting words together with sound. It's the simplest thing.

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