Every Doorway, Every Intersection Has A Story.

Beside Mama, In My Own Folding Chair, With My Feet Sticking Out In Front Of Me, I Thought About My Own Innards. Just A Few Months Before I'd Had No Idea Whether My Reproductive Equipment Worked. There Was No Evidence. But That Week I Had Become A Full-fledged Bleeder And Was Still Absorbed By This First Change In Myself That I Had Ever Noticed. The Click And Buzz Of My Synapses Kept Making The Same Connection. If You Can Change, You Can Also End. Death Had Always Been A Theory To Me. Now I Knew. The Terror Hurt Good And I Nursed It And Played It Like A Loose Tooth.

How Deep And Sticky Is The Darkness Of Childhood, How Rigid The Blades Of Infant Evil, Which Is Unadulterated, Unrestrained By The Convenient Cushions Of Age And Its Civilizing Anesthesia.

Sometimes All That Saves Me Is Being Willing To Make Mistakes. There Are Projects That Strike Me As So Beautiful, Important, Complicated, Or Just Plain Big, That They Convince Me Of My Own Inadequacy. This Awful State Of Reverence Leads To Paralyzing Brain Freeze. At Times Like That The Only Way Out Is For Me To Decide, 'to Hell With It. I Can't Do It Right, So I'll Do It Wrong. I Can't Do It Well, But I Can Do It Badly.' Sometimes, With Luck, While I'm Sweating To Do It Wrong, I Stumble On A Right Way.

Every Doorway, Every Intersection Has A Story.

Just As A Snowflakewent On To Feed A Puddle That Filled A Stream And Then The River, Thepumpkin Patch Is A Gathering Of Molecules From My Old Goats, Chickens,and Cats, Feeding The Underworld Of Dirt Creatures. And Somewhere, Myfather's Ashes Mingle With Birds, Air, And Sea.