You think I’m here. You think I’m a goofy physics teacher who writes essays on the weekends, but I know better. I’m Schroedinger’s Cat, and this is only one of the little boxes that I live in.

On Wednesdays, I am a French-Canadian singer-songwriter with a devistating 3 octave range and a trill that will melt you. On those days my father, the truck driving songwriter, didn’t die alone in a parking lot in Atlanta.

Thursday I will be an illusionist named Leslie. I will make the child that my sister gave up for adoption appear out of thin air. Think it’s hard? Not when you know the secrets of Quantum Theory.

Like an electron, we are everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Just don’t open the lid and let the secret out.

Think that’s me driving into the faculty parking lot on Monday? Guess again. I’m a photojournalist. Pictures really do freeze your soul in time and space. I have proof.

Grandma is a quilter. She understands how cloths of different patterns make the matrix of a life. Ask her.