She was born with a blue and white sticker on her forehead proclaiming: Future Artist. When she was one or two, she inhaled paint thinner and had to sleep overnight in an airtent at Corning Hospital. When she was three or four, she danced in the living room to her favorite music, either Powaqqatsi or Rite of Spring. When she was five or six, she sang singsongingly almost nonstop and wore skirts with motorcycles and rainbows on them.
When she was seven or eight, she built cities with her toys complete with class structures. When she was nine or ten, she experienced the pros and cons of belting out songs about altruism. When she was eleven or twelve, she could sustain meta-hysterical-laughter for hours. When she was thirteen or fourteen, she danced to 1950's advertising jingles in satin pants. When she was fifteen or sixteen, she stared longingly at the National Gallery.
When she was seventeen or eighteen, she spent much of the day in one room with her watercolors, favorite brush, and mix tape after mix tape. When she was nineteen or twenty, she carefully labeled hundreds of photos and slides for legend-preservation purposes. When she was twenty-one or twenty-two, she decided it was best to stare at balance sheets and tiny strands of beads instead.
When she was twenty-three or twenty-four, she toured the countryside and various landscapes of her heart and moved to Portland, OR. When she was twenty-five or twenty-six, she fell in love with gesamtkunstwerk. When she was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, after crossing back across the continental divide, with a BB gun in one hand and a No. 12 bright in the other, she invented and attended L'Université des Musées.
When she was twenty-nine or thirty, she communicated almost solely through pyrotechnics and lasers. When she was thirty-one or thirty-two, she felt like a giant knocking around in her childhood home and almost exclusively drew with plugged-in pens. When she was thirty-three or thirty-four, after a salaried stint of sniffing out digital criminals and giving them the stiff-arm, she forced herself to reconcile with her true calling and the prophetic wisdom of that blue and white sticker. When she was thirty-five or thirty-six, she gently tended to rejuvenating her roots, again getting used to that dark room that holds all the questions and all the newness.
When she was thirty-seven or thirty-eight, she endeavored to write satisfying endings to a series of chapters so that she could lovingly sigh and turn to a blank page. When she was thirty-nine or forty, she rite-of-passaged an impressive string of Big Life Events, all while sporting a KN95 and a new set of scars from the trial-by-fire that is infertility.