little miss interpretation
When all one has is scripts, signs and signifiers one needs an interpreter, an oracle, to help make sense of it all. Of course, putting yourself at the mercy of others’ wisdom is fraught with danger. What am I blathering on about? Well, I have a certain amount of evidence and – now I come to look at it again – I realise that I’ve taken my mum’s explanations as fact when they are no more than an interpretation of the evidence. Her narrative has been convincing, and as a result I’ve woven much of it into my sense of self, but that doesn’t mean it’s true.
So, did I scream and run away from a man in white overalls who’d come to fix the boiler because I’d had a traumatic time as a baby at the hands of doctors (men in white coats) in hospital? It’s plausible, but now I’m walking around with two complexes for the price of one. Perhaps I was just a grumpy and territorial toddler who didn’t like strangers opening the airing cupboard – the cupboard where my dad kept his shoes – perhaps I thought this man was a shoe robber? Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, eh?
Maybe all my so-called man issues really are all innocent misunderstandings about man shoes that somehow got twisted into a dark tale of abuse. Wouldn’t that be a turn up for the books?