Pantheon of Porcelain

Thematic relevance: Digging through treasures in my dad's basement....

The basement is crammed wall to wall with stuffed bookshelves. Of course my father's library is completely boring and outdated. Christian theory books from the 70's, gardening manuals, etc. I need shelves in my apartment, and am thrilled to gut the inferior literature from these perfectly fine pieces of furniture.
Some shelves have little collectibles on them. I find a cute figurine of a reclining woman on a triangular shelf...interesting. My mother is trailing behind me at times in the flesh and other times as a ghostly voice: either way, she is bemoaning all of the injustices my father inflicted on her during their marriage, that he deserves none of these things, why do i even want any of these things?, but it's good, she supposes, that I'm here and in the process of healing my relationship with him. Still, something in her tone implies that my very interest in being here is a monumental deception...the only thing she could never forgive me for.
I try to tune her out but, as usual, the pull of mothering mother is too strong to just ignore.
She prattles on.
I find a shelf with a number of porcelain figurines. Their features are soft and painted on with delicate strokes, slightly faded.
There's a green-gowned lady wearing a halfmoon on her head. I turn it over to see what stamping it has: Europa.
Then a Wonder Woman figure, in full leotard/cuff/whip attire. Her stamp says "Artemis". Ha ha, I think, someone took pop iconography to the temple! That's perfect! Archetypal figurines! And who left these to my dad in their will? He does tend to take strange neglected things from the houses of parishioners who've passed.
Another figurine is wearing pink exercise garb a la Jane Fonda: she's supposed to be Hera, of course. There are others I can't connect or can't remember. A leopard-skin swathed jungle lady, one in front of a microphone, a saint, etc.

This dream fades into another. It's Halloween and I'm 14 years old. My mother has wrapped strands of my hair with silver paper. At the end of each tendril is a little silver skull (damien hirst eat your heart out, for the love of...). She has invited two musicians, both male and older than myself, to stay at the house. (Much like the days we'd have travelling poets come through to enlighten our small town bohemian outpost and fall in love with my mother in a matter of hours regardless of their age.)
I'm fascinated by them, naturally, but being a teenage girl I hole up in my room. I change the music a million times, trying to come up with something cool enough to entice them. I tear down the wall decorations and paint and glue and cover the walls with new art that would show how very mature, astute and artsy I was for my age. I cultivate the atmosphere of a toothsome lolita and drench the air with premature gasps, mouthing the words to songs. I start to remove the wrappings from my hair to find that they've bleached it almost white...
Knock at the door.
Oh, it's just my brother. Beacon of purity. I instantly feel a little guilty and turn the music down. He's offering me some fresh ginger-pear concoction, graceful and oblivious to my sinful climate. I sit with him and start to calm down. Guitars down the hall plunk on.