To Work And Suffer Is To Be

The Unconscious Wants Truth, As The Body Does. The Complexity And Fecundity Of Dreams Come From The Complexity And Fecundity Of The Unconscious Struggling To Fulfill That Desire. The Complexity And Fecundity Of Poetry Come From The Same Struggle.

No One Has Imagined Us. We Want To Live Like Trees, Sycamores Blazing Through The Sulfuric Air, Dappled With Scars, Still Exuberantly Budding, Our Animal Passion Rooted In The City.

In Order To Live A Fully Human Life We Require Not Only Control Of Our Bodies (though Control Is A Prerequisite); We Must Touch The Unity And Resonance Of Our Physicality, Our Bond With The Natural Order, The Corporeal Grounds Of Our Intelligence.

In [family Snapshots] The Flow Of Profane Time Has Been Stopped And A Sacred Interval Of Self-conscious Revelation Has Been Cut From It By The Edge Of The Picture Frame And The Light Of The Sun Or The Flash.

We Are, None Of Us, 'either' Mothers Or Daughters; To Our Amazement, Confusion, And Greater Complexity, We Are Both.