preface

You need a title, it says to me, the little voice behind my thoughts.

small wood volumes, (I fill this in later.)

Up awake, at hours when the company I keep is made up of figments and
fragments. I write because words keep coming, that is, the thoughts
are neverending. I eat crumbs that are the remains of yesterday. The
transition time between then and now, thoughts racing before the dawn
of another day. The frenzy takes me and I must keep going, I must not
stop. I have to write, about all of them. Those who know their place,
the ones who live with damaged goods, whose only dream is to come up
even on the karmic scale. My heart goes out to them, and their
restless thoughts. Pollution of hurt and grief spills out like split
trash bags on the sidwalk. This is an essay on nothing, no thesis body
to be found. An example made in maps on walls, delineating who we are
by where we live. Status and circumstance, the rise and fall of a
nobody, no name given.

Music sits softly on my ears, headphones hug and comfort. I make up a
fiction to dilute the facts of this life. My story is simple and easy,
so I'll begin there and take you someplace else.

It's not that my history unnerves me, it is just that it has been so
long since I've sat down to write seriously, I don't think I can tell
the truth without boring myself, so I must fabricate and you must
settle. You found these words, and continue reading of your own
accord.

I lived in a town called Small Wood, on the coast of Oregon. I moved
from there three years ago after many endings occurred all at once. I
kept a diary while I was living there, collecting scraps of what I
thought to be history, art, and a living fiction of the town I lived
in. I write this in recollection and add the remnants from the old
life where their place belongs. Know this is all a puzzle to me,
thousands of pieces all touching and connecting in so many ways.

I'm not sure which piece goes first.

This is a story not as it was, nor how I wanted it to be, it is the
story of ghosts that live on, failures that haunt, peoples that
persist, and death that goes unremarked upon.

There is no structure to the telling of this story, there is no one
medium for ideas to stick to.

Such is life.

A beginning now, to set the stage, to pull the curtain back, and have
our narrator come in on cue.