My Earliest Works.

Last weekend my father came into town for a visit. He brought with him a box of my elementary school assignments that he and my mother had saved. There was a variety of stuff in that box, from writing assignments to drawings. Whether it was a simple exercise of learning how to print letters, or a crude mathematics work sheet- it was saved. We had a lot of fun going through the papers, and I felt a strange sense of vulnerability as I picked through it all. I don't think that any of it was work I did after age eight, and much of it was from kindergarten through second grade. It was strange how little recognition I had for any of it. If it hadn't been signed with my name by my little hand and collected by my parents, it could be the work of any small kid. But then again, I have physical proof that some psychological characteristics stay consistent over time. Truth be told, there are elements of a strange darkness right from the start.

A few of the drawings depict eerie looking clowns. They are fairly well-executed for being done so young, but they are cetainly not what you would call innocent. I seemed to have a penchant for the seedy side of the childhood psyche. There was also an absurdist drawing of a duck in an oversized glass. It is titled "Solid", and is captioned "I do not take the shape of the container". A very strange selection to represent something with mass and density. It was M.'s absolute favorite of the drawings. I favored one of the clown drawings, as it relates to certain similar portrayals by local "outsider" artists, yet with better articulation. That one got a frame.

Most interesting are some of the writings. On one page with over-sized lines there is the shortest story I have (probably) ever written. It is signed with my first name and last initial, and goes like this:

"One time a ghost was nere-by (sic.) But the ghost was good. And he saw a bunny. And he came up. But he did not see the ghost. The ghost saw him. The ghost still saw him.
the end."

To my mid-thirtyish sensibility, that's pretty damn evocative. How did I know the ghost was good? What was I saying about the nature of spectres, and their relationship to bunnies? And why did I insist on emphasizing the ghost's observation? I'll never know the answers.

There was also a collection of poems that a "visiting poet" put together for the school district. I have two pieces included. It is dated 1978-79, so I know that I was eight years old when it was put together. Looking through the little booklet, I see that most of the writing is all sweetness and light. Here is an example by one William Todora, called "My Pets":

I have two gold fish, color orange,
Their names are Sally and Sam.

I feeed my guinea pigs lettuce and
carrots.
I give him fresh water.
My mother cleans the cage.

I have ten cats.
Their names are Candy, Caffin, White
Petter, Blacky, Pudding, Tuffy,
Kitty, Kitty Kitty, Puss.

Pretty cute, huh? That's about what you'd expect from a grade school kid. Watch your face fold into an involuntary grin at the words "Kitty Kitty". This little kid seems well-adjusted, if a bit crowded in his domestic surroundings.

Here's my first one in the booklet (note the tone set by the first line...):

Death is very dark.
Thought is by the fire or candle.
Reading in bed when it is raining.
Jesus in the morning is very relaxing.
There is no sight on Christmas night.
Quiet is not talking
Or at least not talking to someone
else.
Quiet is asking a question to a watermelon.

WTF?! At least I gave props to the Son of God. But we've now established that I had already started talking to myself at age eight. What a literary journey... I got from "Death" to "watermelon" in 52 words. There is obviously some hint of a disorganized personality here.

Ok... here's another selection from another kid to get things back into focus... this one is courtesy of a very young Danny Gonzalez:

Wind is quiet.
Socks are soft and a teddy bear is
soft.
A cracking fire is like the sand.
A candle is like a nat (sic? no clue here)
A rug is like a flower.


Great. Do you have your inner calm back? I hope so, because here is my other inclusion in "Poetry... the Gift of Words (1978-79)":

A Dream

My dream is a nightmare.
I've had it five times at least.
I think I'll have it again.
My mom asked me if I wanted to go in
a shoe outlet.
I said no.
Then a robber cracked a window
dressed in tan,
Blonde hair and not beard or scars or
anything like that.
I hollered "No! No!" He got captured
and I talked to the mayor.
Then I went home.

Once again I set a bleak tone right from the start. And yes, I do get around to a happy ending... one might assume. I got to talk to the mayor! And all I had to do was survive an abduction. My description of the perp is telling... maybe this is why people with blonde hair set my jaw on end? Maybe this is why I avoid shoe outlets? The sad thing is that I somehow knew that this dream was going to keep recurring, even after I put the words down on paper. I actually do remember this nightmare. Odd how it's the fears that seem to stick the longest.

It was so very strange to get a glimpse into the mindset of a child... and to know that this particular child was me. The thoughts and emotions contained in these pieces have long been forgotten. And yet somehow I recognize them as something familiar at the core of my self. It's invaluable to have these artifacts of my past. I'm grateful to my parents for having saved them.