Neither my mother or my father were the screaming types around our house when I grew up. They had cause to be, as we kids were handfuls. Like all children we took our parents to the bursting point at times, and their faces turned into a likeness of Edvard Munch' masterpiece, "The Scream." Could we all be reflections of our parents silent anxieties? Or could it be that we are the masterpieces that rise out of our howling, swirling, twirling lives?