I Think Artists Can Go To A

Ordinary Women Attempt To Change Our Bodies To Resemble A Pornographic Ideal. Ordinary Women Construct A False Self And Come To Hate This Self.

And If The Professional Rapist Is To Be Separated From The Average Dominant Heterosexual (male), It May Be Mainly A Quantitative Difference.

I Love That Moment In Writing When Language Falls Short. There Is Something More There. A Larger Body. Even By The Failure Of Words I Begin To Detect Its Dimensions. As I Work The Prose, Shift The Verbs, Look For New Adjectives, A Different Rhythm, Syntax, Something New Begins To Come To The Surface.

This Earth Is My Sister; I Love Her Daily Grace, Her Silent Daring, And How Loved I Am. How We Admire This Strength In Each Other, All That We Have Lost, All That We Have Suffered, All That We Know: We Are Stunned By This Beauty, And I Do Not Forget: What She Is To Me, What I Am To Her.

The Hope You Feel When You Are In Love Is Not Necessarily For Anything In Particular. Love Brings Something Inside You To Life. Perhaps It Is Just The Full Dimensionality Of Your Own Capacity To Feel That Returns. In This State You Think No Impediment Can Be Large Enough To Interrupt Your Passion. The Feeling Spills Beyond The Object Of Your Love To Color The Whole World. The Mood Is Not Unlike The Mood Of Revolutionaries In The First Blush Of Victory, At The Dawn Of Hope. Anything Seems Possible. And In The Event Of Failure, It Will Be This Taste Of Possibility That Makes Disillusion Bitter.