A lot of people have asked me (in real life) why I've pursued a hiatus. I think if I'm as unreserved now as I tend to regularly be, I'll leave a bunch of negativity out there in cyberspace that should be kept in more private records. That said, I thought of something today that I felt excited to share (taken from a page in my sketchbook):
The signal that marked my "growing up" was a shift indoors. From the time I could run I became a dirty ragamuffin. I ate milkweed and clover, hopped ditches, tore my pants on fences, chased cows, stroked horses' noses, formed mud pies, removed leeches from my ankles, climbed trees, created mazes from stacks of hay bails, tromped through corn fields, caught snakes, and ran so hard during games of hide & seek that I could taste the burn of adrenaline in my throat. It was the discovery of talking; connecting with people indoors that sucked me away from that seemingly surrealistic world.
I've felt guilty for years. When I walk through that setting of so many childhood games and experiences; in the place that really reared me, it feels like visiting a neglected family member. Visiting with those who are strangers to it feels like an introduction more than a stroll; like I'm bearing something personal. I judge those strangers by how they react to it; similar to the way I would upon introducing someone to my mother.
