So, the beginning. Everything has one. Even the tiniest ones. How should I start? My web page designer said I need to figure out who would follow me? What is my niche audience? He mentioned something about Charles Bukowski. About how it wasn’t only his words. It was him. It’s what he signified. I am no Bukowski. But I’ve been through a birth. Maybe even two. Actually, probably three. Who knows!? It depends on what you would say is a birth.

There was my own. I just don’t remember it. Funny how our minds do that. Block out the important bits; filter the essence of struggle and pain into a black void of forgetting.

Then there was Avah, my Avah. My ten year old; solace of my eyes. I don’t really remember that one either. The drugs were good. And thankfully she didn’t come out the natural way. It was a cesarean.

My friend gave birth the natural way the other day. She remembers. The neurons haven’t yet fired the memories into the dark space of timelessness. They gave her an anesthetic. Damn, medical science is so awesome. She said all she felt was movement. Like a bowel movement but the other way. Man I am happy someone cut me open.

This website. This blog. Well, It feels like a birth – except it’s not in me. But it did come from the void. Some people say artists channel the muses. I sort of believe that. You tune into it, to them. They say writing is a verb, it’s an action. You’ll never be a writer. I like that. It’s less pressure. Almost like if you said Jesus was an action, not a person. It takes the pressure off the poor guy.

So, I’m going to be writing. I’m no Bukowski. I am no writer. I just like to channel shit. But not real shit. And I don’t want to have any more births. At least not the natural way.