I am not a writer; I do not have the discipline. Type, re-type, edit, re-write, and edit, throw-it-away, start again. I’m not a fan. I was raised by an English professor, who tells me that writing is very rewarding and that it pays little-to-nothing; paradox. However, many people (I) craving a creative out-let suffer, they (still I) have failed at mastering the guitar, consequently, (Still-yet-hopeful-with-a- three-chord-progression-of-Bob Dylan) writing seems to be a viable, and, painful solution. Writing is (or-at-least-used-to-be) remembered, this is attractive to me. Written words: to be interpreted-deconstructed-debated-hated-never-forgotten are malleable pieces of relativistic dough to be stretched, shaped, conformed to, interpret, create, and negate. So in writing, I control everything. The truth remains, I am no writer, and my “relativistic dough” contains universals which as sacred, holy, sacraments-separated from time will live forever. If these words are remembered, do they (still I) live? The words of God have been breathed into us; His words remain, but what about the frail, naive words of this days youth?

-cw