Tuesday, 8 January
I've begun drawing a bit.
It’s like a journal, maybe a diary.
For me it is better than words.
Words honestly used often reveal too much. I prefer the obscurity built into
pictures. People provide their own
stories when viewing pictures. Is a
picture ever meant for just two eyes? If
so, it would be like telling a story into thin air, where there are no ears to
hear but one’s own.
Happy Birthday Justin!
Twelve is a popular number.
It even has its own unique name.
You’re a dozen years old. Next
year comes the incredible Baker’s Dozen – thirteen cookies in a bag meant for
twelve. If you think twelve is great
just wait till next year when you become Super Twelve – which beats having to
say thirteen. Some people feel thirteen
is a lonely number. It gets blamed for
all kinds of bad things. Have you ever
been in a building that didn’t have a thirteenth floor? I have.
The elevator went from the twelfth floor right straight to
fourteen. You have to wonder what you
missed. And try finding out anything at
the Information Desk. Excuse me, how do
I get to the thirteenth floor? There
isn’t one? You’re telling me fourteen is
really thirteen? How does that
work?
I can’t make this up.
Humans are really an amazing breed of animal. We’re so smart we like to indulge in
practical jokes on ourselves. The
official explanation is that if there was a thirteenth floor people wouldn’t
want to visit it or have their place of work there. Scary things happen. People wouldn’t be allowed to have scissors,
for one thing. Pages would be put
together with string because staplers can cause blood to emerge from tiny holes
in fingers. Can you imagine all the
painful paper cuts that would happen on a thirteenth floor? Think of all the resulting infections, too,
because you don’t want antiseptic around.
It might get in someone’s eye.
Then there’s the constant stings from static electricity that sneaks
into your body from walking across ordinary carpet. Your chair breaks or you fall over in it and
bang your head because it swiveled back too far. You get burned just minding your own business
because someone stumbled with hot coffee in their hand. And you’ve lost track of the number of times
you’ve bumped your shin on the coffee table in the reception area.
Now that I think about it I can now see the sense in
avoiding a thirteenth floor. What a
jittery place to work. I’d probably get
an ulcer.
Why talk about thirteen, anyway. You’re twelve! You’re incredibly fun. You’re happy.
You’re smart – smart enough to know to go from a wonderful
twelfth year straight into glorious fourteen.
I did. Look how I turned out.
Happy Birthday, Justin.
Love,
Dad
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