I Don't Know What Psychotherapy Does. I

I Thought, Frankly, That It Would Be More Pleasant To Write A Memoir Than It Was.

As An English Major I Was Familiar With The Stories Of Dozens Of Writers Trying To Get Their Work Done Among The Multifarious Diversions Of The World And The Hurdles Of Their Own Vices. A Professor Had Said That What Saved Writers Is That They, Like Politicians, Had The Illusion Of Destiny That Allowed Them To Overcome Obstacles No Matter How Nominal Their Work.

I Was On The Verge Of Jumping Into One Of Those Holes In Life Out Of Which We Emerge A Bit Tattered And Bloody, Though We Remain Sure Nonetheless That We Had To Make The Jump.

Wherever We Go We Do Harm, Forgiving Ourselves As Wheels Do Cement For Wearing Each Other Out. We Set This House On Fire, Forgetting That We Live Within. (from "to A Meadowlark," For M.l. Smoker)

Everybody Has A Gun In Their Car In Detroit.