Like Father Like Son, Like Mother Like

One Day I Was Living Silently In A Personal Hell, Without Anyone To Tell What I Felt, Without Even Knowing That The Feelings I Had Were Possible To Have; And Then One Day I Was Not Living Like That At All. I Had Begun To See The Past Like This: There Is A Line; You Can Draw It Yourself, Or Sometimes It Gets Drawn For You; Either Way, There It Is, Your Past, A Collection Of People You Used To Be And Things You Used To Do. Your Past Is The Person You No Longer Are, The Situations You Are No Longer In.

The People Who Invented Race, Who Grouped Us Together As "black," Were Inventing And Categorizing Their Ability To Do Something Vicious And Wrong.

The Sound Of Words In A Novel Is A Pretty Amazing Thing, And I Am Concerned With The Sound Of Every Word I Write.

A Psychiatrist Once Asked Me To Draw A Picture Of My Family. This Is When I Was A Member Of A Family Of Four. I Drew The Three Other People In The Family First, Bodies And Heads. And Then, Last, I Began To Draw Myself - But Gave Up.

In Isolation I Ruthlessly Plow The Deep Silences, Seeking My Opportunities Like A Miner Seeking Veins Of Treasures. In What Shallow Glimmering Space Shall I Find What Glimmering Glory?