Part I

During nights when I couldn't fall asleep, I invariably found myself at the computer. I cannot be sure of what drew me there -- perhaps it was the amicable glow of the 17 inch monitor or the glad-to-know-ya pop-up ads that checked in on me every two minutes.
One night in particular became longer as my eyes grew smaller, and I somehow rationalized soul-searching on Google. However, after 17 pages of James Brown photographs and chicken soup recipies, I realized that maybe my methods were misguided. I pried my increasingly numb ass from the computer chair, slid into my sandals and went outside for some fresh air and fresh ideas. Only when I got outside did I remember that I was in the city, where fresh air exists mainly at poetry readings and vague memories of childhood and Montana.
Not one to be easily dissuaded, I became even more determined to find those elusive fresh ideas. I looked in the bushes, between the branches and under the decaying leaves on the ground. Blades of grass bent at my will, but revealed nothing.
Suddenly I realized that my methods were madness, that the answer I sought begged a different question -- not where to look, but how.