Have you ever wondered what truly makes you into who you are? I don’t mean your profession, or the numerous degrees you have accumulated throughout the years… No I refer to the core, the thin red line that has followed you all your life. It’s a question I am not totally unfamiliar with, although if queried a few years ago I would have found a great deal harder to answer. But then it became clear (during a lunch discussing dollars and the origin of Brooklyn).
And there was not just one thread, but many that together shaped the answer. My blog being an integral part, but so were the many people I met. The adventures I sought, the obscure books I read (Hypnerotomachia Poliphili springs to mind). At first I simply said I was a story teller. A 21st century troubadour. But it was more than that. Most stories were not even my own. I stole them from people I collected around me. So I became a collector…of people…and stories. And with that I suppose a curator and well…a thief. Because as the wise man says…every sin is a variation of theft. And I am no less guilty. It’s better to ask for forgiveness that for permission, right? Just do it, as C would say.
And I did. Often in the name of survival. It’s another trait deeply ingrained. Becoming an orphan made me a gypsy. A traveller and an outsider. The outsider who slowly worked to reach the inside. You catch my drift….perhaps not. As C so often says, my thoughts skipping from one thing to another. Never sitting still. That’s why I like him. He makes my mind bounce…
revealing, yet conceiling