Saturday, May 24, 2008

My story

Preface


Some twenty years ago I started something. Something moved me to put my life in print. It felt like a possession. A damned life no longer wanted to be behind a dam so it began to break down the walls of years and tears gone by.

As the walls came tumbling down my memories moved me to write but I had nothing to write with or on. I had no pen, no paper... nothing but the will to write. So I bought a pen and paper, specifically a ballpoint pen and several loose-leaf booklets to hold what was about to unfold.

Then like a flood; my life, rife with strife, flowed fast and unfettered. The force of it overwhelmed me and my handwriting. My hand moved like writing in tongues. I cursed my cursive writing. It was ineligible even to my eyes but it didn’t stop me from writing. Within a week my booklets were full with what best can be described as a doctor’s dictum—scribbles slanting this way and that way.

Along the way I purchased a computer and transferred all of my handwriting onto it. It took some time but I managed.

Days turned into weeks and months as I fell asleep each night writing in my mind the next ten pages. Each morning I awoke to write at first light. It was all I could do.

After five or six months I had it all down.

I purchased a dot matrix printer. It pulled paper from a box. Each page punctured and perforated to the next as it rolled along knobs on a roller. Before I knew it I had an abridged account of my life... some one hundred thousand words.

When the time came to print—the printer printed a dash through every single letter, word and sentence; leaving the first printout of my life as ineligible as my handwriting.

Left with a biting memory; I saved it on diskette hoping I could come up with a better computer and printer later on... then review, revise and rewrite.

When that time came my computer failed to recognize any saved files on my diskettes. At the time I was living north of sixty in a log cabin heated by a wood stove with my wolf/coyote cross.

Cross; I threw my five booklets, my computer printout and my supposedly saved files on diskettes into the fire.

I had to wait seven years before being inspired to write again. Thanks to a wet, wild and wilful woman with a sex drive on overdrive. I came alive.

Like a second coming I thrived as she tempted my creative juices with her demented desires. I sired in her desire poems and prose like Shakespeare’s sonnets. It was as if gusts of lust made it a must for me to write.

And write I did as if a light got turned on. And on and on I wrote by rote as the words came to me like musical notes.

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