To Be Of Mixed Blood Is A

Now That I Knew Fear, I Also Knew It Was Not Permanent. As Powerful As It Was, Its Grip On Me Would Loosen. It Would Pass.

Add There Was That Moment When My Mother And Father Walked In The Door Disguised As Old People. I Thought The Miles In The Car Had Bent Them, Dulled Their Eyes, Even Grayed And Whitened Their Hair And Caused Their Hands And Voices To Tremble. At The Same Time, I Found, As I Rose Form The Chair, I'd Gotten Old Along With Them.

I Feel Myself Becoming Less A Person Than A Place, Inhabited, A Foreign Land.

Cold Sinks In, There To Stay. And People, They'll Leave You, Sure. There's No Return To What Was And No Way Back. There's Just Emptiness All Around, And You In It, Like Singing Up From The Bottom Of A Well, Like Nothing Else, Until You Harm Yourself, Until You Are A Mad Dog Biting Yourself For Sympathy. Because There Is No Relenting.

You Really Need To Approach Each Book As If You Have Been A Failure. . . . If You Start To Believe Your Flap-copy, You're Finished As A Writer.