is there anybody alive out there?

i don't know how to write on computers. i have a problem with the concept. i was a fan, at a young age, of anne tyler, because the preliminary love scene in accidental tourist was the most awkwardly gorgeous thing i had ever encountered in my young young life. in college, while i was supposed to be reading something else, i clutched one of her mass market paperbacks in my hands as the admissions administrator leaned over the table in front of me, her big eyes startling me out of my own reverie.

"i love her, too. do you know," she said,"that she writes everything she publishes on legal pads in long hand?"

i did not know that. but my eyes widened in admiration, as i remembered all the papers that were demanded of me later that night, later that week. the admissions officer, after dropping that idea upon my head, looked into my eyes before turning, with great portent, to the stairs that led to the dining hall. i wanted to be able to have that confidence and, more importantly, to have someone else translate my handwriting to the printed word. those were the only words the admissions officer spoke to me, or the only words that i remember, despite dealings i had in her office later that year. the only thing i remember of her is curly, framing hair, and this short, one-sided conversation.

this was in a time that teetered on the border of then and now. i could have easily written my papers on typewriters, but even those were only peripherally available to the studious impoverished. i know that i did actually write a few papers on friends' typewriters. miserable, the process. i tend to change my mind a lot, and typewriters only lend themselves to that idea when the author has the time, or the presence of mind, to gently insist upon the finality of their end result. instead it was a far superior idea to borrow time on friends' computers, with word-processing programs barely adequate, even then, for the job. i found that with the luxury of constant editing, it took some time before i taught myself to refrain from editing to the point of nonsense. i have gradually learned, through practice, how to write on typewriters. but still, to this day, i have problems with writing directly to computers. sigh.

what this remnant of the past has to do with the very drunken and blurry now is almost a mystery. why this fragment occurred to me, though, is much clearer. my oldest friend in the world, a person that i apparently would drop everything for, a person who i would maybe perhaps die for, got in touch with me tonight. we haven't talked in 6 months, and i demand an infusion of his words into my brain periodically, to keep me traveling upon this path of life with a modicum of humility, or inspiration, or salvation. lately i have been starving for these things. i started to talk about my new weblog. i think he may have been confused, as i did not have the time to explain this site to him before he professed knowledge of what i was talking about. perhaps he is psychic. perhaps he was talking about something else, some lesser site where my ramblings are slight and diminished. it does not matter. what does matter is that he asked me, with worry of offense, if i planned for something ... well ... more. he wanted to know if i was planning to publish, if i was planning to make something of my brilliant talent.

he stammered over what he was sure was an uncomfortable question. actually, it is not. the answer is that i do not know. i don't know what the hell i am doing these days. i am happy to self-publish my grandiose words for the rest of my life. still, i often feel like i am forcing myself into missing something. perhaps i could get it together. perhaps there could be more.

i don't know. perhaps this blog is the first step in that idea of something else, something beyond.