I sat alone during the afternoon of a mild, early June day, on the floor of an empty apartment owned by a wealthy friend of a wealthy friend. Shade was drawn over its many windows, hiding my interior from panoramic views of Ann Arbor, while blotting out most of the sun…
It was summer break in a college town, and I was in my early 20s. I should have been outside, but was occupied instead by an urgent need to communicate with a person who could not hear me, because she was sleeping on the opposite side of the world.
This was when I began to write.
In public spaces and in private, using pencil and paper, I marked hundreds of letters, addressed to dozens of people. I wrote to individuals but was aware also, that I was writing mostly to myself…
It was correspondence. Sometimes I received replies which, like mine, also addressed their author.
At other times, I waited years for any sort of reply.
Well. I’m done with all of that.
No more letters. All further correspondence with myself will be addressed to everyone.
Chapters will be written spontaneously, within a range of topics. Many will be drafts, fragments, or experiments—either formal or informal.
There is no plan.
I’m not sure how many will read these posts, but that doesn’t matter to me.
I will write them all anyway…