Cracking Creative

Since I was old enough to hold a crayon, I have been creative. To be honest, I was creative before I held a crayon. Smelly art however, may not count.

My mother told me a story of, coming home to an awful smell, overpowering the house and my father, blissful in his ignorance, hadn’t noticed any smell.

I am giving you fare warning, if you have a weak stomach -- stop now.

“Oh god, Roger, what the hell is that smell?”

I am sure my mother held a hand to her face, trying desperately to block the odor. He most likely just shrugged, wondering why she asked. She proceeded to my nursery room finding me, happy -- enjoying my first masterpiece of creativity.

“Jesus Roger.”

I know my mother pretty well; I am truncating what you might have heard. Her spoken words would have had more flourish, (meaning, a truck driver would have blushed).

The white walls and crib were now a subtle shade of greenish brown and so was I. My diaper had been my first palette and the walls and crib, my first canvas. Luckily enough, I don’t remember this every happening. I only have the word of my mother and she wouldn’t make this up. Who would make up a story this horrifically wonderful?

I was the Picasso of poop.

I'm sure it wasn't long after that, crayons made their appearance on the scene, then pencils, acrylic and finally oils, with plenty of paper and canvas thrown in for good measure.

I am an artist in the truest sense of the word. I have created all my life, in multiple mediums.
Writing was thrown into the mix somewhere on the timeline of 45 years, probably during Jr. High School. Writing wasn't something that came easily to me, nor did reading. I stumbled around in the darkness of words, unintelligent in their meaning.

A wonderful English teacher in 7th grade opened my world and mind to the written word. The first story I remember breaking through the darkness was, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe -- by C.S. Lewis. The door cracked open and blinding light shone through. I was engaged in the story, which the teacher dutifully read to us each day in class. The characters came to life in that classroom. My mother purchased the rest of the stories for me, which I devoured with a voracious appetite. I was starving and didn’t realize it.

I sat, unmoving for days, lost in worlds completely foreign to me, saturating my minds eye with images of magical places, beasts that talked and children who were brave beyond measure. I was hooked, a story junkie looking for my next fix.

High school brought with it the classics, Dickens, Melville, Steinbeck and Homer. Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, Withering Heights and the Tale of Two Cities, were lost on me. I didn’t appreciate them. I didn’t know how to appreciate them because I was new to the written word. It wasn’t until much later in my life that I grew to love the classics, thankfully.

I bravely brandish a shirt, which states, “I read banned books.” A philosophy I happily live by. "Those who don't know history are destined to repeat it." Edmund Burke (1729-1797). All books and art are part of our history. The good, the bad, and the ugly (idiotic idea -- banning things -- censors, argh).

Writing starts in lower grades, but I didn’t become competent in the concept of writing until High school. Essays -- WOO HOO. This is where you learn serious organization of thought into coherent sentences and paragraphs on a blank page. Most people I knew hated essays. For me, it was a place for creativity. I was given a blank canvas and words colored my new palette.

Blue ethereal skies filled with beetle black ash, vomiting forth in volcanic explosions of words. Who could not write with a palette like that? They are vibrant, multi-hued expressions of what we see, just like a painter with dollops of paint on his canvas; the writer paints a picture, allowing us a glimpse into his or her perceptions.

Beautifully creative.