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But I dont buy things. Since I was little, Ive kept field notes and made diagnostic flash cards. I am particularly drawn to skin disorders, which I photograph only if the subject (and one of my parents) isnt looking. My second interest: plants. They are living, grog, reproducing, pushing and pulling in the ground all around us at all times. We accept that without even noticing. Open your eyes, people. This is amazing. If plants made sounds, it would all be different. But they communicate with color and shape and size and texture. They dont meow or bark or tweet. We think they dont have eyes, but they see the angle of the sun and the rise of the moon. They dont just feel the d; they change directions because of it. Before you think Im crazy (which is always a possibility), look outside. Right now. Im hoping that your view isnt of a parking lot or the side of a building. Im imagining you see a tall tree with delicate leaves. You catch sight of swaying grass in a wide field. Weeds pushing up through a crack in the sidewalk are in the distance somewhere. We are surrounded. Im asking you to pay attention in a new way and view it all as being Alive. With a capital A. My hometown, like a lot of the central valley of California, has a desert climate and is flat and dry and very hot for over half of the year. Since Ive never lived anywhere else, whole months of days where its 100 degrees outside seems normal. We call it summer. Despite the heat, there is no escaping the fact that the bright sun and rich soil make the area ideal for grog things once you add water to the equation. And I did. So where once our house had a rectangle of grass, there is now a fortyfoothigh stand of timber bamboo. I have citrus trees (orange, grapefruit, and lime) next to my yearround vegetable garden. I grow grapes, a variety of vines, annual and perennial flowers, and, in one small area, tropical plants. To know me is to know my garden. It is my sanctuary. Its sort of tragic that we cant remember the earliest of the early years. I feel as if these memories could be the key to the whole Who am I question. What was my first nightmare about How did the first step really feel What was the decisionmaking process when it came time to ditch the diapers Ive got some toddler memories, but my first sequence recall is kindergarten; no matter how hard Ive tried to forget the experience. My parents said the place was going to be all kinds of fun. It wasnt. The school was only blocks from our house, and it was here that I first committed the crime of questioning the system. The instructor, Mrs. King, had just plowed her way through a popular picture book. It featured the hallmarks of most preschool literature: repetition, some kind of annoying rhyming, and boldfaced scientific lies.

I remember Mrs. King asking the class: How does this book make you feel The appropriate answer, as far as she was concerned, was tired, because the overly cheery instructor forced us to lie down on sticky rubber mats for twenty minutes after lunchtime picture book. Half of the class usually fell deeply asleep. I remember distinctly a boy named Miles twice peeing his pants, and, with the exception of a kid named Garrison (who Im certain had some sort of restless leg syndrome), everyone else in the room seemed to actually enjoy the horizontal break. What were these kids thinking That first week while my classmates dozed off, I obsessively worried about the hygiene of the linoleum floor. I can still hear Mrs. King, spine straight and shrill voice booming: How does this book make you feel She then made a few exaggerated yawns. I recall looking around at my fellow inmates, thinking: Would someone, anyone, just shout out the word tired I had not uttered a single syllable in my five sessions as a student, and I had no intention of doing so. But after days of hearing more lies from an adult than Id been exposed to in my whole life time everything from how fairies cleaned up the classroom at night to insane explanations for earthquake preparedness kitsI was at some kind of breaking point.

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