The Interviewer: Introduction

Nearly my entire process. Child to adult. From Aunts and Uncles to co-workers and business relationships. I'm often accused of being conceited. Stuck on myself. An ego driven maniac. Yet not one person. Not even my Mother. Those tossing out the accusations like candy at a Thanksgiving parade have stood next to me while getting dressed in the morning. Watched as I wash my hands after a held back finally let go long ass pee. Or studied martial arts which requires students to blend into the visions the reflected path beaming back from the mirror. Conceit. Ego. Endless eye connection with a mirror. I've never had it. The outside description of my inner self feels no need to lock lids and share conversation. My mirror. A writing instrument. If I could change it. I would've done it in the second grade! It's the invisible growth that pops out of your skull at awkward hours. Usually 1:15 am to whenever the body gives out some eighteen hours later. It took me until 1994. A trip to Montana to take note. My body, mind and soul were being followed. By an out control desire to write. I had always written. Not just pages of poetry and song lyrics. Books! The second grade and beyond! Tablet after tablet stuffed into bent up, beaten to hell cardboard boxes shoved into the attic because I feared having this disease. I didn't know how people would accept me. The more I wrote. The easier it was for me to hide. I became the actor! I played out the roles the writing instrument danced into existence. Only to learn...it seemed my actions, reactions and vividly wild imagination had earned a name: Conceited. Ego Maniac. You've got the wrong face. That image doesn't belong to me. I find no time to dine in the arms of such energy stealing abilities. But...my writing instrument is a different story. I call him. Her. It... The Interviewer. No matter the day. Night. Impossibility. Victory or tiring bull crap journey forced into play by robbers of this gift to write. The Interviewer has the balls to step up to my page. Demand. Command and Deliver every cartoon character swimming through my eyes to fall freely about the world and land on his page. The bastard! The View From The Writing Instrument. The Interviewer will scrape from the surface of any soul the wisdom of a hundred years. Place it in a jar and let it cook under a southern sun some 100 degrees or more. Then open its lid. Sniff its present. Laugh out loud. Burp. Suck down a second lung full of shamelessness. Then whisper, "Grow a pair." The Interviewer. The View From The Writing Instrument. What I write. Come from darkness. My purpose in life is to locate light.