Can I talk about the first handshake I remember?
How I met my first friend.
I was seven, we had moved often, I had lost count how many times.
I knew this time we were staying for a while. My dad had built the house. It was stable. And I sat in our kitchen staring across the street at a kid my age playing in his yard. My mom asked “are you going to go ask him to play?” I didn’t know what to do. She insisted, “go across the street, tell him your name and ask if you could be his friend.”
I did. His name was Matt Jackson. And he was my first friend.
We eventually did move again, and again, and then again. My father was chasing the American dream. And I saw America from the backseat of our family Oldsmobile.
I played hockey.
I played (and lost) in high school against Chris Drury (New York Rangers). I scored a goal. I was captain of my team, and I was a leader.
I daydreamed of being a goalie. The goalies were the weirdos, they had strange rituals. You left the goalie alone before the game, even as a rookie - YOU LET THEM BE. They were spiritual guides, smoking weed or doing psychedelics in the woods during the off season. At this point I was old enough to understand I was different too. I was a “weirdo” - if only I had been a goalie, things would have made more sense.
I walked away from a college scholarship to pursue a drive across the country after high school. A long stay in Phoenix learning who I was as a young man was followed by a drive through Sedona en route to San Francisco.
I had found home. And I had set out to work. I was going to make art and be an artist.