Two years ago, I ran away to join the circus. The circus broke my foot and laughed me out of France.
Today, I have found my circus. These are my monkeys.
Twelve writers on a train from San Francisco to Chicago. All met through twitter. All different sorts of writer, from ghostwriter to anthropoligist to sci-fi nerd.
I’m now – at 3:35am – leaving this perfect context. The last time I recall feeling like I was exactly perfectly in the right place was arriving to Chicago to interview at art school seven years ago. I would not attend that school, but I would meet one of my dearest friends.
Out of 173 applicants, we 12 formed the perfect crew. If this is my community, I’m happy as I am. If we convene on twitter, I need to be there.
I met a woman: we began falling in love. She might come live with Nikki and me. I befriended a man who will join us at easter services.
Of the 13 on the train, a shockingly high percentage are those with whom I would delight at further connection.
I slept only 3-4 hours per night. Last night, I slept 11:30pm to 3:15am. Somehow, I have been following my Path.
I wasn’t looking for a helicopter to save me from the rising floodwaters. But I sure adore soaring.
