In the beginning there was something.  In fact, there was everything.  For something entirely different and special to arise, there must be something old, common, and ordinary from which it grows.  An opposite, a completely different type of existence, on which, once forgone for the new, makes absolutely no sense.  Gravity repels.  Atoms, no longer random appearances of miniscule electrons, are predictable flows of filled mass.  Stars suck energy from the now teeming vastness of space.  Babies give birth to mothers, mortals rule over gods, and reason leads philosphopers to disconnected and concrete realities.  All this is impossible.  But that is exactly how it is in the beginning.  Random writings on napkins and scattered notebooks, stylistic tendencies and grammatical understandings formulated, coffee addtiction potentialities statistically favorable, and thousands upon thousands of stories melted into the mythological epic of an author’s brain.  But it is the beginning.  A step is made, the present is realized, and all previous steps are amalgamated into one giant black and white film reel, mixed up and played out of sequence according to the physical memory stimuli of the surrounding world.  The pile of books, the mess on the floor, the half drunk cup of cream and fair trade Columbian are all just there, existing in the beginning as an anomoly, a piece of life that just is.  And it starts.  The writing.  The pure, intentional, conscious, and beautiful writing.  Writing not for school, truth, or ego.  Just writing.  All that existed culminates upon this moment, this scene, this state of being.  The unmade bed with comforter tangled from last night’s twisting, sheets lost down the side of the mattress, only one of two pillows with a cover.   The Mexican gourd, a hollowed omniescence reflecting reality to the brain’s eye.  The guitar with liberal protest stickers.  The personal computer of privledged society.  The dirty clothes that mingle about the wardrobe among the half-folded, wrinkle-hanging clean ones.  The silence that accentuates the rattle of the table as the pen scribbles these words.  This is how it was in the beginning.  It just was.  Now the reality that could never have existed will take form.  I will fly.
January, 2006