At the unrelenting insistence of an old friend, I have decided to trek down memory lane in a series of upcoming posts. If nothing else, they will serve as a retroactive diary. For a variety of reasons, these entries should be considered fiction.
These forthcoming submissions will be primarily chronological. I haven’t thought of a title for these entries, and I don’t think it really matters. I prefer to name the post after the thoughts are concrete. Anyways, here goes.
I was born an only child, and I stayed that way (for better or worse). As a brand new soul thrust into the care of random strangers, one never thinks to question the normality (or insanity) of their newly introduced corporeal flat mates. I eventually learned that my circumstances were indeed very different from that of my peers.
Early on, I came to the realization that my mum was the boss. Crossing her would not only disrupt the delicate familial harmony, but my bottom would soon redden with the repeated strokes of a wooden hairbrush. My father was an endearingly jovial right-brained outcast who spent his days writing, painting, and banging the ivories in a most hypnotic fashion. They were the Yin and the Yang, mania and calm, emotional tirade and passive resistance – which is why they worked together.
I managed to synthesize their varying traits into a unified new whole (me). I adhere to the tabla rosa philosophy of childhood development. I believe that we are shaped and directed primarily by our earliest influences, the ones in the home having by far the greatest impact.
I was a quiet, introspective, and contemplative child. Though I developed early childhood friendships, I always felt a certain tinge of remoteness from those who populated my environment. Since I did not have any siblings, I spent a good bit of time alone. Looking back on those years, what comes to mind is a sense of empty longing.
To be continued…