I was born without the top of my skull. As an infant, my dad would spend hours looking at the top of my brain wondering what he could do. A construction worker by trade, his approach was physical, tangible. “I will weld a brace that can be mounted with screws, maybe eventually skin and hair will grow over, and my boy will be normal. If not, I hope he likes the Washington Redskins, because he might be flaunting this hat for the rest of his life” My mother, terrified by what had grown in her womb had a more sinister approach. “Maybe we can drown it. If I suffocate it with a pillow, do you think they would find out?” Meanwhile, I lay hooked up to an array of tubes, wires, machines, and monitors all tuned to a unique variety of hums, drips, and clanks, and sometimes complete silence, swirling around jumping and retreating in an anxious yet fluid way. I was unaware of my deformity, I didn’t care. I had just been born. Not sure how 26 years later Zane created the score to my strange entrance to hell (earth), but here it is.
-Kyle Flanagan (6/19)