TABLE MADE FROM A DEAD DOG

I’ve been going through boxes in the crawl spaces at Pineapple Hill. Some of them haven’t been opened in decades and so are like time capsules from the 1980s.

I’ve always thought doodling good for the letting the brain run free without a leash.

Maybe not a good idea to share where the brain goes…

…for instance, a table made from a dead dog.

Bad things happened, an entire run of them that shut me down, caused me to withdraw from everything except my inner self.

One afternoon, in a hammock, I took a photo of myself. Just my legs. But there was no one to send it to. No one to understand.

I needed a sidekick so I sketched an armadillo because they’re crusty on the outside but not within. I made him my butler. Crusoe’s manservant Friday.

We began interacting—my hammock photo speaking to that critter, that critter speaking back.There’s a folder of cartoons somewhere. For now there’s just this one. (LINK)

Eventually after that I began writing novels.

I’m still a hermit, marooned you might say, but leaving my shell more and more—my inner self seeking its freedom through writing.