There Is A Long Time In Me

…i Go Through A Story For Lies. I Might Discover The Lie Of Trying To Show Off. Sometimes They’re Lies Of Character. Sometimes They Are Lies Of Writing The Most Beautiful Sentence In The World That Has Nothing To Do With The Story.

I Didn't Intend. The Word "intend" Is The Wrong Word For What I Do. It's Just That It's Something You Do, And You Can't Not Do. If You Want To Do It, And You Don't Intend To, You Do It Anyway. The Word "intend" Is Wrong. The Word "pressure" Is Right. It's Like Any Art Form.

This Hill Crossed With Broken Pines And Maples Lumpy With The Burial Mounds Of Uprooted Hemlocks (hurricane Of '38) Out Of Their Rotting Hearts Generations Rise Trying Once More To Become The Forest Just Beyond Them Tall Enough To Be Called Trees In Their Youth Like Aspen A Bouquet Of Young Beech Is Gathered They Still Wear Last Summer's Leaves The Lightest Brown Almost Translucent How Their Stubbornness Has Decorated The Winter Woods.

Sometimes You Find That What Is Most Personal Is Also What Connects You Most Strongly With Others.

I Believe In A Kind Of Fidelity To Your Own Early Ideas; It's A Kind Of Antagonism In Me To Prevailing Fads.