Stress Is An Ignorant State. It Believes

The Deepest Secret In Our Heart Of Hearts Is That We Are Writing Because We Love The World.

Life Is Not Orderly. No Matter How We Try To Make Life So, Right In The Middle Of It We Die, Lose A Leg, Fall In Love, Drop A Jar Of Applesauce. In Summer, We Work Hard To Make A Tidy Garden, Bordered By Pansies With Rows Or Clumps Of Columbine, Petunias, Bleeding Hearts. Then We Find Ourselves Longing For The Forest, Where Everything Has The Appearance Of Disorder; Yet We Feel Peaceful There.

Finally, One Just Has To Shut Up, Sit Down, And Write.

Creativity Exists In The Present Moment. You Can't Find It Anywhere Else.

I Told All Kinds Of Stories About Going To Japan, About Playing Ball With My Father... I Wanted To Record My Life In Case It Was Going To End Soon. So, I Wrote That And It Was Very Comforting To Have That Practice In The Afternoons In My Living Room. I Just Wrote About My Life.