Why I draw what I draw

I was born in Alabama in the University Hospital (I had belived until recently that the hospital was Carraway Methodist but my mother corrected me by saying you didn't come out of me there!) which is in the hilly city of Birmingham. Named after Birmingham, England I suppose, the city of steel and smoke or at least it was in my youth. Actually on most days my first memories was of a bright place with streets crowded with the 1960's Fords and Chevrolets and sidewalks crisscrossed by white shirted men, tall-thin farmers in faded overalls, and women in floral patterned dresses of cotton and a few proudly shopping in polyester slacks. My mother was a tall, thin woman with a high cheeked boned face and she watched the world in fear (fear because she had been since a young girl molested by her father so that later she was to become a tense, neurotic woman) from large algae colored eyes prosceniumed with a mass of black curls controlled with half a can of hairspray.
Her talent begin as doodles whilst talking on the party-line telephone (earlier really I believe in her middle school years but this is my remembrances of her talent) quick as a flash renderings of bouffant haired women modeling puffy blouses and thin leather looking skirts. One, then two finally an entire sheet of paper was trashed with the "girls" as she called them whilst sipping ice tea and placing the sheet away someplace. I looked and looked but I never discovered a single sheet of those drawings which by the time I was in high school must have numbered in the thousands and now writing in my forties I still possess only a few drawings that I almost had to guide her hand to get her to finally do them.
All my life I have drawn (often not very good) often the impulse then the act was a retreat from harsh surroundings and it served to close down my mind to a single black line. Black, always black as the shadows and the nights where the creatures and monsters waited to suddenly ease up beside me and tear my fingers and toes off. But witches and warlocks resided in classrooms and in hospital, the beige hallways, the stainless steel reflecting the misshapenly figures on their path to sterile rooms where the love one waites bathed in the jokes of the eternal television sitcom.
I stop writing to think how to put down in words the single event that (I think, me only, talking to others seem to distill the posion from hemlock to caffeine) which was like my mother's figures coming to life and using their fabrics to block all color from my world only one hue was left- blue, the color of electricity...it continues