It’s all Mom’s fault.

I was asked again, recently.

“How is it you see things so DIFFERENTLY?”

Some people look at things and see what is there. Me? Typically, I see whatever it is that I want.

For those of you that may not know, my mom is an author. I still recall those days long ago. The Apple IIe sitting in my parent’s basement, the computer desk a great castle for my GI Joes. While my mom sit down and write. (or at least try to, what with us kids…) Back then, that’s what I thought writing was. It took many years for me to fully understand the gravity of what it was to be an author.

Once a quarter, my mom let us have a free day. A day off from school to do with as we pleased. Provided our grades held. Looking back, I recall fondly my days were often spent stopping at Burger King and heading to the county library with mom. Learning to use the microfilm/fiche machines, mom would be looking up god only knows what. I was typically looking up Bigfoot sightings in the papers, or books on how to build castles. The Library was a magical place, only rivaled by our trips to the comic book shop.

This thrill of discovery, of research has never left. Why are things so? What’s the reason behind them? A little known fact is that each year, with the yard, we’ve explored a different society, and their particular means of sacrifice.

As I grew older, I learned to people watch with her. Just go sit and watch folks in the mall. Each have their own story. Each their own motives. What are they, why are they there?

This passed on to walks, car trips, anything. Hey, what’s in that black bag on the side of the road? Maybe it’s a dead body dumped there by the mafia.

NOTHING is so fascinating as watching people FRIGHTENED, though…

This passed on to everything, including my daily chores. I wasn’t mashing cans to recycle. I was firing artillery at the army of zombies coming down the hill.

This kind of thing was often encouraged, even. And, whatever my interest as well.

Not many kids can claim to have (unintentionally) gotten high off rubber cement and moth balls with their mother as we spent hours putting some finishing touches on a bug collection.

It didn’t really strike me that this may not all be quite “normal” until I was 16. There’s something about walking through a prostitution museum with your mother, featuring profilactic methods of the 1800’s that does kind of hit you as maybe a bit odd, though.

So, why is it that I see things so differently?

I don’t see what’s THERE. I see what COULD be there, and must ask WHY and for what reason?

If it interests me enough, I’ll research the dickens out of it. And, if that bears out, I might just MAKE something to add to the yard as well.

And, it’s all Mom’s fault.

Thank god.