The Mind Wraps Itself Around

In Fiction, I Exercise My Nosiness. I Am As Curious As My Cats, And Indeed That Has Led To Trouble Often Enough And Used Up Several Of My Nine Lives. I Am An Avid Listener. I Am Fascinated By Other People's Lives, The Choices They Make And How That Works Out Through Time, What They Have Done And Left Undone, What They Tell Me And What They Keep Secret And Silent, What They Lie About And What They Confess, What They Are Proud Of And What Shames Them, What They Hope For And What They Fear. The Source Of My Fiction Is The Desire To Understand People And Their Choices Through Time.

Shall I Tell You Something I've Been Noticing? The Mistrust This Society Has For Women. All Kinds Of Experts And Officials Are Terrified Because So Many Women Are Working. They Really Think That Women Have To Be Coerced Into Having Babies And Raising Kids.

The Moon Is Always Female And So Am I Although Often In The Vale Of Razorblades I Have Wished I Could Put On And Take Off My Sex Like A Dress And Why Not?

The Anger Of The Weak Never Goes Away, Professor, It Just Gets A Little Moldy. It Molds Like A Beautiful Blue Cheese In The Dark, Growing Stronger, And More Interesting. The Poor And The Weak Die With All Their Anger Intact And Probably Those Angers Go On Growing In The Dark Of The Grave Like The Hair And The Nails.

One Trouble: To Be A Professional Anything In The United States Is To Think Of Oneself As An Expert And One's Ideas As Semisacred, And To Treat Others In A Certain Way - Professionally.