I like to think of myself as being clever and insightful. It is the least I deserve considering the almost casual destruction of my father by lung cancer when I was twelve. I considered the tragedy an exquisitely unique drama because, by social accident, I became his main caregiver. While my mother working I stayed alone with my father while he melted away. I was born in 1946 and lived in the great plain states tucked east of the rockies and west of the Missouri River. The stew of emotions brewed up by such a childhood trauma was considered a meal to be consumed in secret back then.
Now, however, it is common knowledge that childhood traumas forever stamp a permanent pattern of destruction and despair on young brains. Childhood traumas are a reoccurring backstory in almost every form of entertainment. Therapy and discussion groups are as common as churches, which renders my youthful adventure a more common experience than I had thought. But at the time I needed to feel clever and by great good fortune a drawing would occasionally pop out that would make me feel as if I were. It was wonderful while it lasted, thinking I had mastered surrealism