1 In The Beginning was the Command Line

I have always been fascinated by The written word.

That words, composed on a page have the power to transport us to another times and places. And even into other minds. I spent many hours in the local library reading book after book. On anything.

Walk down an aisle, pick a book at random and read. I found much to capture my interest. There were things I had no idea even existed. Words I had never seen. Books and words became my next love, after painting. My soul’s delight.

I even stole books from the local library beyond the three the card allowed.
Always took em back ofcourse… had to. Gotta steal more books…. such is hunger.

I now know a lot about a few things. A lot more than some people And I also know a little bit about almost every thing. Although these days it is becoming harder and harder to keep up.

I begin to imagine that I know less than I thought I did, but judging by the internet – MORE, and about more things, than some three billion of my fellow citizens.
Ah! The conceit of genius – but then somebody has to be right. Right?
I make up random sentences in Google – I get all there is to know.
Type any word and there it all is. What’s to know?

At the end of the journey is another beginning. That of writing the story…

Some people keep a diary. A record of their lives as a datum of events. They even include some small bits of poetry, A few half remembered dreams and some half forgotten disappointments. Some profoundly earth-shattering ideas: sacred wishes and profane desires – and several thoughts about all the above.

 

I have here the out line of a Novel.

A novel in the form of artificial fragments. A novel in diary form, in epistiolary form, in note book form.

In the form of notes with photographic evidence; a novel in the form of miscellaneous documents, a novel in the form of a novel.

The tradition is that no one who believes he is loosing his mind – is really loosing his mind.

In the tradition that people who speak too much of suicide are talking themselves out of suicide, or
into committing it none the less. Hmm?

 

I, am, on the other hand weaving a tapestry of the history of my life as seen through the eyes of a court jester, based on accounts by other people.

My life as viewed by others in vicarious disbelief. Told to me as a jest with a question marked innocence…”is this true?”  – is written on their common face…like wind on a sand dune.

There. For all to read..

 

“Comprehension of course, is something else…”

                                         Life in MyFathers House: