One of the unusual things that my family does is put things into well-labelled boxes for storage. This, perhaps is not so unusual in itself, but if you were to look at the labels, you might realize what I mean. Here's a list of some of the boxes in my parents' basement::

Vacuum attachments, Carrying Straps
Seat Cushion, Space Heater, Broken Clock
Artificial Flowers, Deely Bobbers, Witch's Hat
Candle Making Supplies
Piano Keys
Orange Tiles
Knobs and Hooks
HSK Good Clothes, ASK Baby Clothes.

I, of course, am HSK, but ASK is my grandfather. Think about that. Somehow my mother has a collection of her husband's father's baby clothes. My father is no better - beyond his guns, antlers and collection of antique typewriters, he has boxes labelled Good Rocks, Trout, and (most ominously) Dad's Specimens.

Recently, I was perusing the collection of boxes in my own bedroom. There is definitely some strange stuff in there, like an old hornet's nest and the cast from when I broke my arm in 1st grade, but the strangest item, which I didn't know my mother was keeping track of, was Hugh's Intellectual History. I wasn't aware that I had an intellectual history, but when I opened it, I found that the first few files were old papers, latin tests, math projects. This is a sort of intellectual history, I thought (pompously).

As I went deeper, however, the box became less and less intellectual. The box begins in 1995, when I entered kindergarten. After looking through it, I'm surprised, based on the schoolwork I was capable of back then, that I am the intellectual giant I am today, capable of such feats of intellectual wizardry as spelling "definitely" without having to look it up or even think about it for very long.

The most interesting discovery was a small notebook with a striking cover.

This book contains some very early attempts at writing. It's not very clear why I was writing these things, but it seems like I was doing this at home - there's no way any of these things could fulfill any school assignment. In fact, my first attempts at writing seem to have been pure postmodern poetry. I seem particularly interested in questions of God, mass media, and insulting my sister. Consider this example from the first page:

FAS CO
GRIS
I KEEP HAVING MEDIA APARt
GOD

NO ELLAS

Here's another:

Plug into reading
Carrboro Read
Ego | Worm
Panasonic | Sony

A FISH OUT OF
WATER GOOD MORNING
Im blind to ARThur
ANd I KNOW
head
The BIBLE TUS TUSAS
DISK 1996

Some are very short, but intriguing:

ISAWEAGLEINHOUSE

As time went on, my style became more accessible, but the poetry continues to retain its subversive nature. Consider this entry:

Hugh Koeze
Ella Koeze
Mom Koeze
Dad Koeze
Dog Koeze

Later on, the work becomes more confessional:

1. Ella can't spell a! Ha! Ha! Me and T.J. are making a radioe show about Ella! Heh! Heh! I can't whit! We will! Have Fun!

Below that I put a picture of a tank fighting against a phone. "Ring! Ring!" screams the phone, and the tank, with its prominent "ON/OFF" switch and seemingly formidable laser weapons, seems to be fleeing. From this point on, the diary becomes increasingly visual. There are small notes, here and there ("P.S. We killed the pinata"), but mostly it's pictures of tanks, spacecraft, and treasure maps marked heavily with skulls and crossbones. The entries end 15 pages into the notebook, and the last 80 pages are blank, except for the very last one, which has an oblong circle surrounding a strange shamanic symbol.

I'm not sure what to make of this notebook. It reminds me strongly of Basquiat's notebooks, which I saw in a museum once, and are considered to be great art. This makes me uncomfortable because I'm not one of these people who think modern art is like finger painting ("Priceless modern art!? My five year old could make that!"). I don't agree with that. I think lots of art, old and new, is incredible to see and really profound. I love going to museums, especially freaky modern ones, because I am always amazed by what people can create. And yet, what I made as a child, in the right context, might work as art. I suppose the only conclusion I can draw is that children are basically postmodern artists - they are tiny, creative, compulsive, skeptical beings in an essentially strange, highly unknowable, and completely incomprehensible universe. They are driven to explore what they do not understand, and cannot help but create art as they go.