My Worst Is All Out In The

There Are Parts Of Texas Where A Fly Lives Ten Thousand Years And A Man Can't Die Soon Enough. Time Gets Strange There From Too Much Sky, Too Many Miles From Crack To Crease In The Flat Surface Of The Land.

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.

In Our Struggle To Restrain The Violence And Contain The Damage, We Tend To Forget That The Human Capacity For Aggression Is More Than A Monstrous Defect, That It Is Also A Crucial Survival Tool.

There Are The Those Whose Own Vulgar Normality Is So Apparent And Stultifying That They Strive To Escape It. They Affect Flamboyant Behaviour And Claim Originality According To The Fashionable Eccentricities Of Their Time. They Claim Brains Or Talent Or Indifference To Mores In Desperate Attempts To Deny Their Own Mediocrity.

I Remember, In Hot Floods, The Way He Slept, Still As Death, With His Face Washed Flat, Stony As A Carved Tomb And Exquisite. His Weakness And His Ravening Bitter Needs Were Terrible, And Beautiful, And Irresistible As An Earthquake. He Scalded Or Smothered Anyone He Needed, But His Needing And The Hurt That It Caused Me Were The Most Life I Have Ever Had. Remember What A Poor Thing I Have Always Been And Forgive Me.