"How small could my world get?" could be the question. And the smaller it gets the more fascinating intricacies I find, so that the old woman version of me could spend each day marveling over a different section of the twists and turns that brought me back to where I started. (I just read The Stranger, sorry for the plagerism, Camus.)
Where did I start? Two months early; too small for the world, I was born anyway, not at all willing to let a silly physical ineptitude stop me. And, a little later, I was holed up in an incubator while my body caught up with my desire to be a part of it all.
Where am I now? One reading of the events could say: One year early. Not yet physically ready to be a part of what I was so desirous of. Recovering (still), not yet ready, trying to catch my physicality up with the feelings that what is here now right in front of me is what I want, if only my body would say yes just as much.
However, what I really meant to say when I started this entry was that I wrote some words that were published in something that went on paper and was was distributed to many people. And, in a strange twist of fate, the subject of my interview article was a professor at the school which I left a year early to come out to this fabulous City and try new, real-world, non-academic things. Like, apparently, writing about one of the professors from the school.
One final statement: ah, never mind. It's late for this old bird.
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