The Work Of The World Is Common

Writing Is A Futile Attempt To Preserve What Disappears Moment By Moment. All That Remains Of My Mother Is What I Remember And What I Have Written For And About Her. Eventually That Is All That Will Remain Of [my Husband] And Me. Writing Sometimes Feels Frivolous And Sometimes Sacred, But Memory Is One Of My Strongest Muses. I Serve Her With My Words. So Long As People Read, Those We Love Survive However Evanescently. As Do We Writers, Saying With Our Life's Work, Remember. Remember Us. Remember Me.

I Want To Be With People Who Submerge In The Task, Who Go Into The Fields To Harvest And Work In A Row And Pass The Bags Along, Who Are Not Parlor Generals And Field Deserters But Move In A Common Rhythm When The Food Must Come In Or The Fire Be Put Out. The Work Of The World Is Common As Mud. Botched, It Smears The Hands, Crumbles To Dust. But The Thing Worth Doing Well Done Has A Shape That Satisfies, Clean And Evident.

We're Herded Into Schools And Terrified Into Behaving. Taught How We're Supposed To Pretend To Be, Taught To Parrot All Kinds Of Nonsense At The Flick Of A Switch, Taught To Keep Our Heads Down And Our Elbows In And Shut Off Our Minds And Shut Off Our Sex. We Learn We Can't Even Piss When We Have To. That's How We Learn To Be Plastic And Dumb.

I Never Thought Of Myself As Explaining Cats In General. I Simply Viewed The Cats I Have Known As Characters In My Life, Often As Quirky And Complex As The Humans With Whom I Have Spent Time.

If What We Change Does Not Change Us We Are Playing With Blocks.