A book.

One of my first memories when I was a child was when I took my baths. Baths were the only times when I remember very clearly when I would play with toys, to the point where I would create entire new worlds that had events carried on by myself. I'm not sure how much I played with other children, but in the bathroom, taking a bath, I was alone. The basic setting was the same; a great ocean and the characters remained rather in place; a submarine, an octopus and a mirage of lower tiered characters. Sparked by such stories as Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and the many trips to the coast where my family kept our sailboat and would sometimes visit the museum in New London that housed the first atomic-powered submarine, my stories were usually about a submarine that, after many heated battles in War, or with giant Octopi, would find itself traveling beneath the North Pole.

It's very simple to understand why my submarine would find itself in such frigid conditions. I felt that I was sometimes in a submarine, alone; that I was insulated by vast quantities of water and that no one really could find me, even if I wanted them around. That, and my Sister, or Mother, or Brother would simply forget that I was in the bathtub, whose water would slowly become cold and I, clammy. Even at this age of perhaps three, I never liked asking for help and wasn't too too bright on actually getting out of the tub myself, since this was against the Rules. It had to come to a point of absolute torture for me, before I would cry out,

"Mom!",

knowing before my cry for help would be answered what the message of assurance would be:

"Minute!",

And, I would be forgotten for about another fifteen minutes, or an hour.

Or two.

I can fuzzily trace two characteristics of myself from these early events: One: I have the amazing skill of being able to take cold weather conditions with ease. Many days in highschool, I would negate the use of a coat on the walk to school. I used to go on ski trips, forgetting gloves and barely bat an eye. The second thing that happened, was that I got curious of what was around me and my imagination got even wilder. I think if anyone was stuck in a cold, wet, 5' by 4' room, they'd need something to get them through.

So I began reading the magazines by the toilet. I would later take the magazines and make collages out of them; the first real Thing I can remember I was "into". As well as magazines, we had one book called, "The World of Michelangelo". A very peculiar book to have around ancient copies of Woman's Day and Country Magazine, but obviously, the most interesting.

Flipping through this book was how I introduced myself to Art. I immersed myself in cold water and in the great fresco paintings and heroic sculptures. I was bedazzled. I knew what painting and sculpture were it seemed and seeing that level of the two was just magic. It probably still is.

One time, when my Mother finally did come and fetch me, I had the book out and asked her silly questions, like, what particular parts of the human anatomy were and what they did, since well, Michelangelo, if anything, was a Master of the nude. It was sort of the first time I understood the difference between a boy and a girl. Sometimes my Mother would change the subject and flip to the first page and point to the last word in the last sentence of the last paragraph and state, "See, Michelangelo's Father had the same last name as you do, 'Simoni'."

And I thought:

"Wow."

Even though I didn't know the dates of these paintings, I knew they were Old; even though I didn't know where Italy really was, I knew it was Far; but, here was a link from this man to me that was as straight and solid as crystal. This was probably my first feeling of dumbfoundedness. I couldn't believe that there was a major chance that this man was somehow related to me and that I, as well, may become a great painter and sculptor.

I got busy as soon as I could; I felt very serious when I drew and all I can remember from drawing at a young age, was that it was fun and that when compared to other students, I wasn't amazing in the very least. I was, if anything, sub par and that developed the first fracture of an inferiority complex I still have.

But, I can still look to that book, which is now in my own bookshelf, and think that it may have all started there. That maybe my life was changed because of that one book-

And really long, cold lonely baths.