there's a picture of me as a little kid, probably no more than 4 years old. i'm sitting in my room alone, at my piano, with my headphones on. i'm looking over my shoulder, scowling: the most genuinely indignant face you've ever seen on a 4-year-old. the problem? my mother. who was (i'm told) behind the camera, interrupting my private time. how dare she.
this picture is often the gateway to a family dissertation on my lone-wolfishness. the lead-in to stories of all of those times i could have been playing outside with friends, but was instead sitting in my closet fort, recording radio shows with my imaginary students. all of the times i would rather read a book or play an instrument than interact with human beings.
it's a notoriety i'd like to abandon.
it's a hard habit to break after 26 years of assuming you are what you always were.
lately, i've never wanted to talk more than i do now. insularity is no longer cute and fun. i want feedback. i want dialogue. i want the comfort of another person's voice to hash out the kinks with.
especially if that person knows me as well as i do. and doesn't buy into the notion of childhood photos as portents.
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