June 1, 2000: Introducing—departure
A bolt of sadness has crept my way—but is it sadness or loneliness? Is it the body trying to wake? Just because I’m not up…does that mean I’m down? A hollow emptiness felt first in the stomach easily convinces my hand to start writing. But what does it write? Questions… The mouth of many rivers but which do I choose? No fallen trees, few hopes, little decisions, therefore I write and write and write—about nothing. Scraped from the pits of hollowed emptiness comes my form of one hundred percent nothing. Silent? Who me? I’d rather fight to take on the devilish child, the mask and the unheated rule breaker—not to tame, cage or tie up…I only want to listen to better understand why…

--Goblets of extra giblets--

People constantly ask me, “Where do you get the energy to do all that you do?” One day I’ll ask them, “Why do you spend so much time asking?”

Must a grown dream die with its keeper? Is there some way of handing it through? Are the words I write stories of my creation or do they belong to the long lines of people waiting to use my phone booth?

I love to write—it’s a sickness that helps ease other sicknesses.

The unheard sit with me in hopes of getting one thought captivated on canvas.