incubator

Rocks at the river

I grew up not far from a river. It was a broad, dirty green water stream, not at all as romantic as in Huckleberry Finn. But as a nine year old you are not picky about running waters. Every place that provides a hideout to stroll around and play with your life is a magnet to a boy.

I was often sitting on the big rough rocks they had put at the riverside to keep the stream in line. I had stored and later lost my treasures in the carves between the rocks. Some of these were caves that big, half of a nine year old would fit inside. We often used them to play our adventure games.

On many hot summer days, equiped with a ball pencil and a small notebook in the backpocket of my jeans, I took my bike and went to the river. I imagined that this was all you needed to become a great detective. I used it to draw down my plans for star ships and write up little stories that came to my mind. In any case, from my point of view then, a ring notebook and a ball pen seemed to be a great investment into the future.

I guess most of the times I just sat there and dreamt away, until the last sun beams strived the tree arms stuck in the turmoils of the water. Then I knew I’d be in trouble coming home that late. Who cares, I thought. Trouble was nothing to stop a great detective. Before I left I always safely stored my treasure between the rocks.

One of those long summers ended with a big storm. After almost a week of rain the river had reached a record mark. By the time I said good night to my parents, they talked about it on tv, and I feared the worst. Sure enough, as soon I was able to return to my secret place, nothing but sand was in that little cave where I had left my treasure.

I think the only reason why becoming a detective didn’t work out in the end was because I was that bad at finding things. I never found my notebook and that ball pen. But until this day I could describe the look and color they had.

They say the first couple of years of your childhood shape your personality. Those hours at the river, the trees caught up in it, the rocks and my treasure lost in the gaps between them—that all has become part of myself.

Today I don’t have a river to carry my dreams away, but I have this, my new publishing tool, safely stored in the carves of the Internet. It is not the same thing and certainly means a lot more work until you can finally use the damn thing the way you want to. But who cares. Trouble is nothing to stop a great detective.

• November 08, 2005
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