![]() ![]() My dad was friends with Bob Dorough, an old jazz guy who wrote all the songs for Multiplication Rock, an educational kids’ show and Schoolhouse Rock’s maths-themed sibling. Drawing was too bold an act of creation, too presumptuous. I retreated into fantasy novels, movies, computer games and, eventually, comedy – places where I could feel safe, assume any personality, fit into any space. In public, until I was eight, I would speak only to my mother, and even then only in whispers, pressing my face into her leg. I got good at being small early on – socially, if not physically. You starve, you run until you taste blood in your throat, you count out your almonds, you try to buy back your humanity with pounds of flesh. ![]() So, what do you do when you’re too big, in a world where bigness is cast not only as aesthetically objectionable, but also as a moral failing? You fold yourself up like origami, you make yourself smaller in other ways, you take up less space with your personality, since you can’t with your body. There were people-sized people, and then there was me. ![]()
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