Art Is Too Long, And Life Is

Everyone, Real Or Invented, Deserves The Open Destiny Of Life.

This Hill Crossed With Broken Pines And Maples Lumpy With The Burial Mounds Of Uprooted Hemlocks (hurricane Of '38) Out Of Their Rotting Hearts Generations Rise Trying Once More To Become The Forest Just Beyond Them Tall Enough To Be Called Trees In Their Youth Like Aspen A Bouquet Of Young Beech Is Gathered They Still Wear Last Summer's Leaves The Lightest Brown Almost Translucent How Their Stubbornness Has Decorated The Winter Woods.

If You're Feminist, It Means That You've Noticed That Male Ownership Of The Direction Of Female Lives Has Been The Order Of The Day For A Few Thousand Years, And It Isn't Natural.

There Isn't A Story Written That Isn't About Blood And Money. People And Their Relationship To Each Other Is The Blood, The Family. And How They Live, The Money Of It.

All That Is Really Necessary For Survival Of The Fittest, It Seems, Is An Interest In Life, Good, Bad Or Peculiar.