The beginning was a response to all sorts of things which take way too long to explain and involve awakenings of desires that can't be fulfilled even with insomnia and vapid longings for things that don't actually exist. The fan zine, the pages can't turn, tactile sensations relegated to numb fingertips. Fan fiction about sex. That was how that one phenomenon started and the dumpy television exec who wrote that book about bondage is laughing all the way to the bank. They also say write about what you know. I've been doing that. It's just not connected with any coherent through-line. I am not the greatest mind of my generation must-read designation given by Toni Morrison. Namely because I have not written a book. Surely if I had and she had read it, she would have an opinion about the nature of my thought process, and that notion made me irreparably sad for a while so I left it alone and went on about mundane existence like everybody else. There were tales of woe. Tales of delight that can't be measured. I don't know if I want to do that anymore and yet I know there's some sort of market for fantasy world relationships which I can create better now than when I first started writing stories I didn't understand at 19 years old but now, unfortunately, have detailed information gathering collected on many facets of things I wish I hadn't had to experience and now don't know what to do with that knowledge in the first place. It's just there, sitting there, with no one to pass it on to, no degenerates, progenitors, descendants, pets or true lineage to give the advantage of rich life experience to, as a special guide to life. It has all been for naught and hence, in that light, somewhat tragic. IN the other, pathetic. Mostly, irrelevant. Never obsolescence. That would presume unequivocal relevance in the first place and right now it's gone astray in the sideways existence where it's clear what I don't want to do today and I'm going to be doing it very soon. I haven't stayed up like this in a long time and I don't know how today will go being back in the saddle of polishing a turd. It's been weird, but it's suggested some semblance of normalcy and made me realize that I would like to be my own keeper and the zeitgeist is engineered to squeeze us out of our own heads -- so despair can obliterate the possibilities that await us, in the name of fear, we live to regret. It's a blankety blank form of limbo I don't want to know, am not interested in. One world has opened for me while many others have morphed into dust, completely slammed shut only to open ajar, is it taunting or inviting me to come forward and try again? To live the emergent existence I could have had based on what people tell me are the qualities I am floundering in my current choice of industry. I am not sure what to do and what is going to happen, I have been living week to week to month in my head, saying if no job by August-September after what happened last year--I have to get the hell out of dodge. That's where 'I'm at' -- that's as far as I can get. Books, money, jobs, bills, DMV business never actually ends and I am confounded by the supposed 'givens' beside. I am as on the fence (slowly sliding off to the side that leads to easiest to run away) as I can be, romantically. Surely that accounts for motivation, a good beginning, if I weren't so damn distraught. Or is it scattered, numb and in denial? Can't tell yet, think it's a combo of denial moving into more denial and sadness, a tinge of anger, overly rushed acceptance (coz zen) which backfires and becomes existential loneliness. And always ends the same way -- back pain. Which is where I am now after always struggling with the counter-intuitive nature of this site, but I am re-awakening it because I am thinking of making something cohesive here that is going to make as much if not more than that 50 shades dreck. Or Harry Potter fluff. No Belovedhere no Howleither Not even dharma bums or post office. is it worthy? who can tell? should it be expressed nonetheless? who knows? what's the requirement for that? I want to write the right story. I never have that settled. I feel like John Cassavetes in a Godard film with jump cuts galore. Galore. Who came up with that one?