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The world, every day, is New. Only for those born in, say, 1870 or so, can there be a meaningful use of the term postmodernism, because for the rest o...more

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We are unusual and tragic and alive.

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Oh I could be out, rollicking in the ripeness of my flesh and others’, could be drinking things and eating things and rubbing mine against theirs, spe...more

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I was born into a town and a family and the town ad my family happened to me. I own none of it. It is everyone's. It is shareware. I like it, I like h...more

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If you don't want anyone to know about your existence, you might as well kill yourself. You're taking up space, air.

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She needs a new journal. The one she has is problematic. To get to the present, she needs to page through the past, and when she does, she remembers t...more

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Hand, nobody told me about the weight. Why didn't our parents tell us about the weight?—What weight?—The fucking weight, Hand. How does the woman Ingr...more

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No. There is no balance, and no retribution, and no rules. The rules and balances you blather about are hopeful creations of a man fearing death.

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The country he had left thirty years ago had been a realistic place. There were political realities there, then and now, that precluded blind faith, t...more