I was terrible at any sport. My brother was fantastic. Recess would find me playing chess or short games of Dungeons and Dragons instead of playing kickball. My good friend, Jo Jo, would join me in these more mentally esoteric exercises. We would explore the Gold Coast in our minds guided by our dungeon master friend as the more physically endowed kids ran upon the playground. Around age ten I discovered drawing. I had a talent for it and would sketch scenes in my sketch book with chalks and pencil as other children gathered around to watch. I remember feeling so proud that I had a skill as enviable as throwing the touchdown pass.
My father has been watching a series on Public Broadcasting called The Power of Art. He wants to reinvigorate my artistic leanings and fund my desire to start painting and drawing again. "That sketch of Princess Diana you drew as a child is still hanging up on our wall," he told me last night. "You have a gift and I would hate for you to squander it." I have been amiable to his suggestions and will give it a try. I want to do sketches of small town southern life.
"What would we need to buy?"
"Oh, we need to visit an art shop in Atlanta and see what is available. I want chalks and charcoals and nice sketching pencils and pads," I replied.
My father promised me this weekend we would make a road trip in search of artistic endeavors. I am actually excited about it. Excited to have another hobby that will tickle the creative side of my personality. I will try and put up some of my sketches on the blog if I can manage to get a camera sometime soon.
"Are you and this woman an item now?" my father also asked me last night bringing up a little talked about subject between us.
"That is my business," I said tersely, but with an air of kindness.
"She has a storied past."
"So have I."
"I just worry about you. You've come so far in two years."
He was worried that the rigors of a new relationship would drive me back to my old drinking ways. He wasn't necessarily worried about Rosa's colorful past as he wanted me to believe. I joked with my father saying, "I wish I was a dickless orphan," in that I wouldn't have to deal with emotional/sexual urges and family desires and pressures. It would be the perfect upbringing for social anxiety riddled mentally ill young man. It certainly would have made my life much easier, but I would have missed out on so many of the joys in living life. Love. Sex. Relationships. All things that are so integral to the human experience.