I Give Thanks For All That Has

Fate Is Trying To Kill Me. I Miss My Dog. What's A Doctor Going To Say? You're Not Ill, You're Mad As A Muffin? They'll Either Lock Me Up Or Tell Me To Get A Grip And No One Will Believe The Truth Anyway.

I'm A Century Old, An Impossible Age, And My Brain Has No Anchor In The Present. Instead It Drifts, Nearly Always To The Same Shore. Today, As Most Days, It Is 1962. The Year I Discovered Love.

The Facts Of His Existence Are Plain. I Know That He Will Never Silence Those Unspeakable Voices. He Heard How People Killed, And How They Died And Their Voices Infected Him, Coursed Through His Body, Poisoned Him. He Didn't Know How To Turn Off The Noise, Or Turn The Hate Back Out Onto The World Like The Rest Of Us. He Turned It On Himself. You Could See That From The Scars On Him.

Self-knowledge Is Essential Not Only To Writing, But To Doing Almost Anything Really Well. It Allows You To Work Through From A Deep Place - From The Deep, Dark Corners Of Your Subconscious Mind.

But All I Could Think Was In New York That Kid Would Have Been Stuck In A Straitjacket Practically From Birth And Dangled Over A Tank Full Of Educational Consultants And Remedial Experts All Snapping At His Ankles For The Next Twenty Years Arguing About His Special Needs And Getting Paid Plenty For It.