The rarefied moments in Evanston and Bloomington. Packages of photos I just uncovered, the young Maximin at 19. Old writing. Typewritten journals from Budapest--they are enormous. The last year in Bloomington, typewritten journals. Damn it, I knew they existed.
I was far beyond where I am now. If we can somehow get around the ontology of the problem of saying I am still those fucking boxes, with those photos and that god damned writing, then there is great hope for new work to come, despite the last distractions the matrix insists on tossing my way. That is why I kept those motherfucking boxes all these years. A reminder from my self in the past to never give up.
2012 will still be a great year. Much great exploration to come, much great writing.
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