The world is full of stories. Stories of war, love, betrayal. Stories about la playa, the beach. Passion, desire, redemption. My stories lie between layers and layers of stories told every minute of the whole entire life of this planet, centuries of layers of stories. Witches burned, drowned, elaborate embroidery on their long dresses. Lost children and children lost, in grassy medians, on the sides of many, many roads, in ditches, in camps.
Early in the morning on March 3, 2002, I left the house and the things there still broken, the things I'd never now be able to repair, and drove westward, towards the Pacific ocean. I believed that morning, that my stories would come sooner, that once I'd left there, the house where many of them began and where even more of them continued, that I would, right then, begin the task of telling them. But that wasn't to be. Instead, I had to accumulate a few more, four years more of stories before I found this, a place to start.
2004, 2005, 2006
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