I Don't Want To Be

Construed As Turf, Home Just Seems A Provisional Claim, A Designation You Make Upon A Place, Not One It Makes On You. A Certain Set Of Buildings, A Glimpsed, Smudged Window-view Across A Schoolyard, A Musty Aroma Sniffed Behind A Garage When You Were A Child, All Of Which Come Crowding In Upon Your Latter-day Senses -- Those Are Pungent Things And Vivid, Even Consoling. But To Me They Are Also Inert And Nostalgic And Unlikely To Connect You To The Real, To That Essence Art Can Sometimes Achieve, Which Is Permanence.

I Had A Tourette's Period. And Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Things Would Get In My Brain That I Couldn't Get Out Of My Brain.

At The Exact Moment Any Decision Seems To Be Being Made, It's Usually Long After The Real Decision Was Actually Made--like Light We See Emitted From Stars.

My Father Died In My Arms. That's Tumult. That's Everything Exploding.

I Wouldn't Be A Very Good Writer If Someone Hadn't Taught Me How To Read.