30 April 2005


For months when I passed the open stairwell in the hallway, I pictured myself plummeting down the steps: sometimes head over heels, sometimes careening into the walls, sometimes breaking bones. I knew it was irrational, even pessimistic, but the fantasy persisted unbidden nonetheless.

As time passed, I felt my imagination was dooming me to actually trip, stumble, or slip into the thump-thump-thump down the stairs. Finally my will revolted. Surely I could make a conscious choice to think of something else. As I walked past the stairwell, the wings that never quite turn out right in my sketches hung from my shoulder blades, long, powerful, balanced. I'm still just walking, but there's no falling.