When Women Age Into Their

To Think About Love And Passion And Political Correctness All Together, It Doesn't Work. Art Has To Go Way Past The Political To Be Effective.

At Times The Whole Sky Was Ringed In Shooting Points And Puckers Of Light Gathering And Falling, Pulsing, Fading, Rhythmical As Breathing. All Of A Piece. As If The Sky Were A Pattern Of Nerves And Our Thought And Memories Traveled Across It. As If The Sky Were One Gigantic Memory For Us All.

I Feel Myself Becoming Less A Person Than A Place, Inhabited, A Foreign Land.

When We Are Young, The Words Are Scattered All Around Us. As They Are Assembled By Experience, So Also Are We, Sentence By Sentence, Until The Story Takes Shape.

The Story Comes Around, Pushing At Our Brains, And Soon We Are Trying To Ravel Back To The Beginning, Trying To Put Families Into Order And Make Sense Of Things. But We Start With One Person, And Soon Another And Another Follows, And Still Another, Until We Are Lost In The Connections.