When it comes to practical matters I have always been a screw-up and a failure. And so what? If I was a strong, reliable man would I be a writer? I can't even comprehend being a strong, reliable man. I'm too imaginative. I'm either playacting, maliciously complying, or creatively improvising the task out of bounds. In other words I am, at heart, a romantic. But this is okay because romantic can also mean rake.
Even in Kindergarten I never played with the other kids. I sat in the Northeastern corner of the room - the sun was beaming through - and played by myself (but not yet with myself.)
Yes, I always thought the people around me were morons. Why should I change my way of thinking now - after 22 more years of research?
There was an angel back then, a pretty little Spanish girl (do you see the roots of my current romantic and erotic obsessions?) who was beautiful and better than them.
She chose to separate from them (the Herd) and spend all her time playing with me. And I could think of no better playmate - no way - than her. Love, an angel, had chosen to spend her coveted time with me.
I never saw her after that year. She must have moved. But I'll always remember her. I could use her now, as a matter of fact.
She could remind me that we're all in this together. She could make me feel better when I realize that "we're not in Kansas anymore."
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