The first of my personal pages to be posted to this blog. I tend to write whatever comes to mind and shape it so that it is at least legible to the reader.
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My first brush with my creative side was when I was just a young boy doodling and coloring with the magical box of 64 Crayolas. I always thought it was odd that the “skin” color crayon resembled no one in my family but I brushed it off and simply ignored its bold and assuming presence.

Reaching for the brown, I swore I saw it frown but it was not in my nature to give in. Clutching the comfortable and familiar weapon, I began to create a geometric masterpiece.

After four carefully planned strokes, I stepped back to admire the sharp 90 degree angles of my square. Once it was duplicated just above and to the left, I approved the plan to connect the corners of the respective squares to construct that oh so mysterious box.

That’s right, the first kid in my neighborhood to create such 3 dimensional genius. Perhaps I was truly a forerunner because as I grow older I notice its popularity spiraling out of control.

Just yesterday I noticed it on my employment application when I was asked to check the “appropriate box” for my Race. After carefully considering whether this would aid my cause or not, I waived the flag of pride once again by checking all of the boxes, “that will throw them off” I thought.

But maybe that was a mistake because now they will know I am trying to confuse them and the only ones with a reason to confuse are usually the ones abused and taken for a ride. So I let it subside and dealt with the consequences of no phone call for the indecisive applicant.

The next day it was no coincidence that I refused to call a box a box anymore. In fact I resisted the urge by changing its name and redefining its stigma. I’d call it a Block instead … that would do the trick. That is, until I turned on the news and saw a 7 year old kid named Mikey shot over a game on his block.

My block, your block, his block, our block…I still can’t shake this shape and I just want to escape to a place that embraces circles, spheres or cylinders. My childhood must have been a foreshadow of my life but how do we find meaning without the strife? Optimism is the new cheek I will turn to in case you wonder what I’m gon’ do.

I’ll imagine that box/block to be a cage constraining my would be frustration, allowing me to repress all that is negative; forcing myself to accept the half full glass. Now if I can be limited to a box but not free on a block, I’ll surely have better luck with this logic. After all they are reserved for animals and wild beasts not forward thinking artists capable of drawing with such geometric precision.

But by now it should be no surprise and this time I saw it with my own eyes. It was the same old shape when I went to visit “T” upstate. Now a cage, I feel the rage building in my veins. This is an organized attack on my mental well-being and I’m sure the culprit must have learned of my childhood invention. There seems to be no prevention from its attacks or perhaps I just lack the common ingenuity necessary to alter the situation.

If a box, block or cage doesn’t change my day, then I’ll re-edit the page and call it something tricky. “A clandestine container…that should do it”…And without a hint, they’ll have no idea, my lips are sealed. But so too will the container in no time…28 years on this earth is stretching the averages … Take a guess what’s inside!?!?!