§ 1 ~ Out of the Blue Mountains, Preface

An autobiography written, published, and revised in 'real time.'


Writing online is disciplining. That someone might be watching creates a mirror to story telling, a reactive mirror. I become both author and reader, speaker and listener, and I critique every thought as it's laid out. 

Probably that's how most authors (of novels, articles, and blogs) work, consciously or not. But for me such necessary awareness has a potent effect.

I am 75 years old. One day I'll reveal my identity, which will matter only to the odd surviving relative, such as my adopted son, who might, following my demise, suddenly become curious about a father whose life had ticked by in the background of those busy days, as is the case for most of us while young and middle-aged.

And suddenly that person is gone, and you're torn with regret that you never properly knew that parent, or anything about their life, other than they were there while you got on with yours. And suddenly they weren't.

That is one reason for an autobiography. 

The other is primary: I wish to review my life by printing it out, keystroke at a time, to force a review and test of those fragile memories, to seek an understanding of a self that has long lain ignored in the "to do" list of mental imperatives, and to measure any significance at all of what is - well, what was - clearly an insignificant and very ordinary existence. 

To which one might add the forlorn hope of thereby grasping some faint inkling of the meaning of life, the universe, and everything. One of my most foreboding terrors is an insistence that the universe isn't just an improbability, it's an impossibility. Envisaging its self-creation, or creation by a god, brings forth only the mind-curdling dread that even if it could arise from a non-existence we term the Big Bang... exactly from whence?

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