Part I

I used to live in the jungle. I know, it sounds exciting. And it was, at least at the beginning, until I started to get really, really bored. When I confronted my parents with my dilemma, they had two different responses: My mom would smile at me with compassion and then change the subject and my dad would offer solutions that could keep me and my offspring occupied for a lifetime. He would say, "Write a book." Not write a story, write a BOOK! He would also suggest I write poetry; at 10, 11, I still had no interest in such an endeavour. "Learn to play a musical instrument." Of course all of these would have been extremely valuable ways of using my time had I had any interest in them at all.

I eventually became an obsessive compulsive reader. I would go into the room where we stashed practically everything from food to art materials to medicine and, or course, books and I would go through all our books looking for ones I had yet to read and separating those I had no interest in (there were few of those), I would then proceed to stack them in the order I would read them in, pick up the one at the top, settle in a hammock of preference, depending on presence or absence of guests and availability of hammocks. I would then read all day, taking short bathroom breaks, on my way back from which I would refill my coffee mug and settle back into my hammock. Later on, my reading was also interrupted by periodic outings for a cigarette, which involved getting out of smelling range from my parents. Once I had a separate "rancho" I would usually read and smoke there, specially after my dad built a huge roofless bathroom with a bench-bed; there was no longer any reason to go down to the house, except for coffee. I used to consider making my own little fireplace at my house so I wouldn't have to go down to the house at all. Not that I didn't like seeing my family, it just seemed so convenient.

Let me explain why I got so bored, while my parents didn't. Adults have a sense of purpose that keeps them motivated, that makes them feel guilty about sleeping in, that allows them to perform tedious tasks dutifully. Children don't have that sense of purpose, they don't really understand, until they're older, why certain things are good and others bad. My parents had and have an unquestionable faith in God and in service to humanity that I certainly did not understand at age 11. I wasn't at all sure what I believed in for many years. I was, in fact, very Nietzsche like in my questioning of the world and all that is accepted as good, correct and holy. I became more and more critical as years past by, climaxing with complete rebellion at 14, which then progressively dwindled to somewhat clear and open mindedness at 15-16. And then I became a seeker.