The Folks I Read As A Kid

Granana Doesn't Understand What The Big Deal Is. She Didn't Cry At Olivia's Funeral, And I Doubt She Even Remembers Olivia's Name. Granana Lost, Like, Ninety-two Million Kids In Childbirth. All Of Her Brothers Died In The War. She Survived The Depression By Stealing Radish Bulbs From Her Neighbors' Garden, And Fishing The Elms For Pigeons. Dad Likes To Remind Us Of This In A Grave Voice, As If It Explained Her Jaundiced Pitilessness: "boys. Your Grandmother Ate Pigeons."

I Have Friends Who Are Capable Of Writing A Very Rough Draft And Then Going Back And Embroidering - They're Sort Of The Cathedral Builders Of Fiction. I Never Really Know What I'm Doing, And All My Pleasure's On The Level Of The Line. It's A Weird Way To Move Forward. It's Kind Of Like A Way To Caterpillar Your Way Through These Great Woods. The Best Ones, Whatever I Feel Like I'm Writing About, Some Other Secret Thing Will Begin To Come Into Focus.

What Passes For News Is Just Morbid Speculation Or Cartoonish Screaming, Followed By Diaper Commercials.

There Are Certain Prehistoric Things That Swim Beyond Extinction.

Hopes Were Wallflowers. Hopes Hugged The Perimeter Of A Dance Floor In Your Brain, Tugging At Their Party Lace, All Perfume And Hems And Doomed Expectation. They Fanned Their Dance Cards, These Guests That Pressed Against The Walls Of Your Heart.