I Am Part Of What She Thinks

Here I Am, Where I Ought To Be. A Writer Must Have A Place Where He Or She Feels This, The Place To Love And Be Irritated With.

All Of Our Actions Have In Their Doing The Seed Of Their Undoing. ... That In Her Creation Of Her Children There Should Be The Unspeakable Promise Of Their Death, For By Their Birth She Had Created Mortal Beings.

We Have A Huge Struggle For Our Sense Of What A Democracy Is. We're Not Living In Reality When We Think We Have Some Sort Of Democracy. We're Really On The Edge. We Have Two Presidents Who Lost The Popular Vote But Won The Election. This Is Not Working.

It Kills Your Writing If You Try To Manipulate It With Crude Politics.

Coming Down Off The Trail, I Am Lost In My Own Thoughts And Unprepared When A Bear Chugs Across The Path Just Before It Gives Out On The Gravel Road. I Am So Distracted That I Keep Walking Towards The Bear. I Only Stop When It Rears, Stands On Hind Legs, And Stares At Me, Sensitive Nose Pressed Into The Air, Weak Eyes Searching. I Have Never Been This Close To A Wild Bear Before, But I Am Not Frightened. There Is No Menace In Its Stance; It Is Not Even Curious. The Bear Seems To Know Who Or What I Am. The Bear Is Not Impressed.