Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me.

Why do I write?

Mostly because I will always be here, in these words, and in these pictures.

You can always find me here. Well, pieces of me, anyway. Definitely not all of me, but pieces of me are here. These words are me. These pictures are me.

Pieces.

You can't know the whole of it; you just can't. This forum is too one-sided for that kind of sharing.

And, quite frankly, the sum of all of these pieces is really a glorious mess, indeed. A fine, glorious, sloppy mess of contradictions, incidents, accidents, coincidence, and more fun than any human should have.

(In fact, noted luminary, Quagmire, recently turned to me, nodded with the weighty knowledge that comes with experience, and said, "A charmed life. A charmed life." It is. It is. It is. It is. And the best part is that I know it.)

Some of you, whom I have never met, write me wonderful, personal messages via electronic mail, simply because one of these pieces resonated with you, or made you laugh, or, most frequently, made you curious. Curious enough to reach out through the ether and make contact, tenatively, like the first steps on a frozen lake.

I love that. It makes me want to share a few more pieces with you.

I also love your comments, and great thanks to those of you who leave them.

Abrupt ending.