an autobiography
11.9.2000
“Once upon a time and a very good time it was there
was a moocow coming down along the road and this
moocow that was coming down along the road met a
nicens little boy named baby tuckoo…”
-James Joyce (A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man)
The sand curls about my feet, spiraling as the wind spirals around my robes. I walk, shuffle, across the tiny stones; they glisten, as once did my eyes, sore now from the slashing and tearing of the incessant wind. Always, they look for others in the void, but the path, undefined as it is, lures few to travel. I stop, peering through serrated rock: habitation: a human home. I rest for the evening, saying little, gazing only to that greater force visible in the stars, and contemplate. Thus is the story of my life: a continuous wandering among homes that never are truly homes. I trust it is not in vain that I wander so, and presume that I have found myself: the nomad. O great reader, permit me to share my travels with you, and perhaps I may pass along what images and thoughts have been granted me, for they did not arrive, as I do not wander, by chance.
Notice: The autobiography that was here is now quite out-of-date. I may update this sometime in the future with more information, but for now, you will be left with nothing more.