She Herself Is A Haunted House. She

Sad; So Sad, Those Smoky-rose, Smoky-mauve Evenings Of Late Autumn, Sad Enough To Pierce The Heart.

I Think It's One Of The Scars In Our Culture That We Have Too High An Opinion Of Ourselves. We Align Ourselves With The Angels Instead Of The Higher Primates.

Nostalgia, The Vice Of The Aged. We Watch So Many Old Movies Our Memories Come In Monochrome.

Not Many People Can Boast A Photo Of Their Grandmother Posing For Kiddiporn.

And, Oh God, In My Misspent Youth As A Housewife, I, Too, Used To Bake Bread, In Those Hectic And Desolating Days Just Prior To The Woman's Movement, When Middle-class Women Were Supposed To Be Wonderful Wives And Mothers, Gracious Hostesses.... I Used To Feel So Womanly When I Was Baking My Filthy Bread.