My path to what happened in Charlottesville didn't start here. I don't deserve the credit I get for what my comrades have been doing all along. My path winds through the capital cities of seven countries.
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This path goes from the windy streets of Staré Město, Praha, the parks of Washington, DC, the streetcars of Portland. It's hours of sitting at my kitchen counter. It's sad songs on repeat.
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It is reading thousands of pages of the most boring documents you can imagine.
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I still haven't quite figured out how I got to be here. I think I need to write this story just to figure that out.
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I'll write it one day, if for no one other than myself. But maybe there'll be something interesting to someone else in all of this.
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End of conversation
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I'd read it too. I bet many of us are on strange winding paths over long arcs, and hearing about yours could be illuminating and possibly reassuring.
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......? More coming, right??
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Chapter one!
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