I Wanted To Write A Voice That

It Doesn't Ever Occur To You, As You Fashion Your Mask So Carefully, That It Will Grow Into Your Skin And Graft Itself, Come To Seem Irremovable.

I Always Thought I'd Get Farther. I'd Like To Blame The World For What I've Failed To Do, But The Failure - The Failure That Sometimes Washes Over Me As Anger, Makes Me So Angry I Could Spit - Is All Mine, In The End. What Made My Obstacles Insurmountable, What Consigned Me To Mediocrity, Is Me, Just Me. I Thought For So Long, Forever, That I Was Strong Enough -- Or I Misunderstood What Strength Was.

We Live In A Funny Time, A Funny Era, When Desire, To Be Adult Desire, Has To Be Conceived As Sexual. And That Didn't Used To Be The Case. Sexuality Is A Social Construction As Much As Anything Else And I Think The Realities Of Sexuality Don't Always Fit Into The Social Constructions That We Have, And We Live In A Goal-oriented Time - On All Fronts.

When You Are The Woman Upstairs, Nobody Thinks Of You First. Nobody Calls You Before Anyone Else, Or Sends You The First Postcard. Once Your Mother Dies, Nobody Loves You “best Of All.” It's A Small Thing, You Might Think, And Maybe It Depends On Your Temperament, Maybe For Some People It's A Small Thing, But For Me [...]

The Professor Husband Of A Friend Of Mine Has Likened Children To The Insane. I Often Think Of It. He Says That Children Live On The Edge Of Madness, That Their Behavior, Apparently Unmotivated, Shares The Same Dream Logic As Crazy People's. I See What He Means, And Because I've Learned To Be Patient With Children, To Tease Out The Logic That's Always Somewhere There, And Irrefutable Once Explained.