Poor Margaret

Oh, the practical jokes our bodies play on us in adolescence. If you're male, maybe you leave eighth grade as a boy and return in ninth as a braying, acne-peppered jackass with the libido to match. For the girls, perhaps you experience an awkward growth spurt where you're taller than the boys' basketball team for half a year, and in 3-D. 

We all pass through that budding stage of youth, but there are those who experience the changes more acutely in a sort of biological boot camp.  I felt sorry for those kids in school even while I was almost one of them. To those genetically unlucky juveniles, life's just a hot, humid storm of hormones, man.

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Leaving Saul

I’ve always been moved by the dreamlike unknown. In sleep, our minds conjure imagery and plotlines with enough coherence and linearity to make some sense, but enough strangeness to make our imagination tingle! That synaptic in-between space is the sweet spot of creativity, the place I live to inhabit.

Engaging art balances clarity with vagueness, allowing room for the viewer to contribute. Without that dynamic personal investment, the expression is a static, closed loop, and I’ve yet to experience a deeply affecting fiction that spells out the mystery, the monster, or the motive.

So, I’ll leave it to you to compose this backstory...

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