Writing Is The Delicate, Difficult,

We Must Learn To Speak The Language Women Speak When There Is No One There To Correct Us.

By Writing Her Self, Woman Will Return To The Body Which Has Been More Than Confiscated From Her, Which Has Been Turned Into The Uncanny Stranger On Display - The Ailing Or Dead Figure, Which So Often Turns Out To Be The Nasty Companion, The Cause And Location Of Inhibitions. Censor The Body And You Censor Breath And Speech At The Same Time. Write Your Self. Your Body Must Be Heard. Only Then Will The Immense Resources Of The Unconscious Spring Forth.

She Alone Dares And Wishes To Know From Within, Where She, The Outcast, Has Never Ceased To Hear The Resonance Of Fore Language. She Lets The Other Language Speak - The Language Of 1,000 Tongues Which Knows Neither Enclosure Nor Death. To Life She Refuses Nothing. Her Language Does Not Contain, It Carries; It Does Not Hold Back; It Makes Possible.

There Is No Greater Love Than The Love The Wolf Feels For The Lamb-it-doesn’t-eat.

Me Too, I Make Do, I Anoint What Cannot Be Fixed.