My Job Is To Have

Your Life Doesn't Mean What You Have Or What You Get. Its What Your'e Willing To Give Up.

Maybe I'm A Serial Regional Writer. First Here, Then There, Across The Map.

Humans Generally Get Out The Gist Of What They Need To Say Right At The Beginning, Then Spend Forever Qualifying, Contradicting, Burnishing Or Taking Important Things Back. Yor Rareley Miss Anything By Cutting Most People Off After Two Sentences.

My Father Died In My Arms. That's Tumult. That's Everything Exploding.

Construed As Turf, Home Just Seems A Provisional Claim, A Designation You Make Upon A Place, Not One It Makes On You. A Certain Set Of Buildings, A Glimpsed, Smudged Window-view Across A Schoolyard, A Musty Aroma Sniffed Behind A Garage When You Were A Child, All Of Which Come Crowding In Upon Your Latter-day Senses -- Those Are Pungent Things And Vivid, Even Consoling. But To Me They Are Also Inert And Nostalgic And Unlikely To Connect You To The Real, To That Essence Art Can Sometimes Achieve, Which Is Permanence.