This is the beginning of my story. The year was 2009. Everything was coming apart and I didn't want to believe it. I avoided detection by scurrying beneath the detectable income line, and ate so little it appeared I was in great shape. I'm sure ill-advised decisions were made, but the greatest decisions I ever made happened too.
Skip years into the future. I am avoiding failure like I cheated on it, and I am doing so well I am learning new ways to fail. I don't want to be writing this. Every time I drive in the car - the old, old, old Animul - I am reminded of my haste, drive a little bit faster, pay a little less attention. I would like to get home and write. Write on my typewriter. Hear the loud, jagged, disjointed keys hit the paper irregularly. I would like to watch them get stuck. I would like to watch the letters misfire and hit the paper incorrectly. I would like to write in a room filled with smoke (I don't smoke) in black and white. I would like to write the last great manuscript to be sold or hung in someone's parlor for millions of dollars. In fact, that is what I need to do, and I will do it as soon as I get home.
I seem to like losing my nerve when I need it the most. I don't want to be writing this right now. My head, my mind, is so very far away from my body right now.
I have many poems to write on here. Many poems that need to be put on here.
My computer crashed a few days ago. For weeks before that I knew it was coming. My plan was to place them here, so I could have them somewhere.
Thankfully my computer was fixed, so I don't have to do all that copying and pasting.
That would take too much time.
This is as brief an image as we get. It is as thin a glimpse as we can muster right now. There is nowhere else for this to go. There is so much more we have to do.
Try to make me proud.
