origins

i think about the origins of wargoon flishe, and wonder if i can even remember that far back. about how the epic of gilgamesh seemed to be a nice coat rack on which to hang bits of many other myths and national stories, including the great u.s. myth of rising from mail courrier to be head of the great beast of company. i think about writing that initial book in scratchy dark morning, in hotel rooms and moon colonies, and in the silence of that space station long ago. and the writing tools i had to use, the stones and chisels and ink by the oil barrel. how i wrote it on walls and the walls looked painted black but if you examined it with microscope you would reveal the tiny words. how i had to write it first in my mind like a tightrope waker, balancing that string from ear to ear and falling down the deep chasm of forgetting so many times. quite a few rubber bandages were necessary. i wrote with so many molecules, i polished the book with nuclear rags, and then i twas done and then i had hardly even started.