It was my original intention to label this section “Postcards”, my idea being that postcards could deliver messages to myself from my past. Vignettes, reminiscences, memories expressed in words in the form of postcards with appropriate images on the other side. This did not turn out to be very practical because I found that I could not contain the number of words necessary in anything resembling postcard size. Some of these entries are pages long. And coming up with all the necessary images to suit the prose seemed to be an impossible undertaking. So: bad idea.
Automythology is in blog form with each new entry at the top, descending as new entries appear. Notebook is in book form with the first paragraph always remaining at the top, new entries continuing at the bottom.
Though superficially similar these two forms are not the same, although the differences may appear to be not always readily apparent. Automythology is intended to be my exploration of consciousness. It will have to be mine because I live in here, its only inhabitant. It is generally aadvised that a writer should write about what he or she knows best. The closest thing I come anywhere near knowing anything about is my consciousness and what lies therein. So, in a variety of forms and subject matter, that is what I am going to write about here.
Biographies, autobiographies and even their cousin, histories, usually follow the well-worn guidelines of novels involving characterization, plot structure and other standard features to heighten reader interest, making them in fact a form of fiction, mild or intense. A central property seems to be that they all have a beginning, a middle and an end, or strive to. What follows has no order or organization whatever; it is not chronological. It is, however all related, all parts to all other parts. It is not merely chaos or arbitrary although there is no theme herein beyond the consciousness of things that have happened, been imagined, remembered or dreamt, or simply thought. I suppose I might be making an attempt to create a sense of a life in a form resembling Pontillism. Antecedents will abound. If I live long enough I hope to connect them, like the dots of an elaborate extrapolation. Not likely.
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