years ago when I first began this ongoing story of mine, told as diary and story merged together with fiction and autobiography confused into one, it was during my years growing up in the Netherlands and I would dream out the windows of trains through the cities and trams through Utrecht, The Hague and Amsterdam, and inspired by how the tram underpass went right into Central Station I would imagine James Bond scenes….
part of the stories took on the literary poetry of my favorite authors but mixed with this was one movie star icon—Garbo— I guess I recognized a sort of kinship for the way she averted the world. I’d see those long range angled photos of her taken by the paparazzi, kind of fuzzy, so far in the distance, though it was unmistakably her; she was always so obscure and well hidden, yet glamorous in her mystery; shrouded under a hat with upturned coat collar.
Then later in my life when I was a bit older, was the other I felt closely identified with for her manner of method of thoughts blended with scenes; Anaïs Nin whose perspectives on life and the world felt so much like my own.
And so, as my story evolved over the years, as a dyslexic who thinks in picture, well, it always seemed my story had to be a film ….told with her voice like a diary but with the narrator, like Garbo, always obscured

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