The best punishment for my naughty child is to be sent to my room.
In pre-school I ran down the grassy slope to inspect the chalky paint jars set on easel's ledge with large sheets of paper pinned and ready above. I touched the brush and moved it to see if it was real. I left no mark.
I registered myself for kindergarten, one child not holding his mom's hand. As I got out of the car, she said I knew where to go and what to do. I took my place in line and without fear stood independent in pride. I found I missed nothing in the act performed not as others had. I had no choice, nor did they, I suppose.
I took a test in elementary school. I had "analytical aptitude." I didn't know what that was good for, or what it was. My show-and-tell was confiscated by the teacher. After class I asked for it and got it back, her silence filled by my standing up before her in her habit.
Around eight, I wrote my first poem, something about happy alone. Be sure--not lonely.
In prep school, a visiting expert career counselor (former football great turned Jesuit) said I had better find a trade. I was not "college material," although I had been prepped. I surmised he had mixed the student folders. Who was in line before or behind me? I was the class president, wasn't I. But not been back since nor was I ever invited. They lost me or I lost them. Now they ask for money I don't have to spare. Mixed review on their teachings or what I learned.
For the life of me I could not master college survey courses as I blindly aimed at a profession I never practiced full time and thus never mastered. I'm now too ill and too old. Unseen connections put me with future college teachers at the time. I was stone silent and felt alone, intimidated by the loquacious ones. I told a professor of history in his office that there was no such thing as history, which I now realize is correct, the explanation too long for today's philosophy. He was too committed to listen to my mind.
A big name in the subject of my dissertation refused to sit on my committee. I had "nothing to offer" him he said. He equated the physical with the metaphysical. Silly "prig" (his self-description for something he once did, and now my word for his arrogance and confusion). Faculty members dozed as they from lunch sated and sat to hear my master work's outline. Later one conducted my comprehensive examination by phone. He congratulated me without committee members gone missing, and without any questions. I am unsure I earned a Ph.D., but I no longer question, or much care.
I have circulated conundra like this to silent readers. I keep writing but now ignore the public(ation) of any sort. I will leave no mark. So consider this an exercise of a fearless child, happily playing in his room. He may or may not have been courageous or worthy in the face of odds and impediments. He has no money to spare, but he is a generous listener for those who need him. Matters metaphysical occupy his time as does history in the making. He works to know his self by talking to his Self, at times counter-productively in the third person.
