I Can Write Anywhere. I Actually Wrote

Something Settiled Inside Me, Something Heavy And Hard. It Stayed There, And I Could Not Think Of One Thing To Make It Go Away. I Thought, So This Must Be Living, This Must Be The Beginning Of The Time People Later Refer To As 'years Ago, When I Was Young'.

I Was Then At The Height Of My Two-facedness: That Is, Outside I Seemed One Way, Inside I Was Another; Outside False, Inside True.

In My Writing I'm Trying To Explore The Violations People Commit Upon Each Other.

I Wrote Home To Say How Lovely Everything Was, And I Used Flourishing Words And Phrases, As If I Were Living Life In A Greeting Card - The Kind That Has A Satin Ribbon On It, And Quilted Hearts And Roses, And Is Expected To Be So Precious To The Person Receiving It That The Manufacturer Has Placed A Leaf Of Plastic On The Front To Protect It.

In A Way, A Garden Is The Most Useless Of Creations, The Most Slippery Of Creations: It Is Not Like A Painting Or A Piece Of Sculpture-it Won't Accrue Value As Time Goes On. Time Is Its Enemy' Time Passing Is Merely The Countdown For The Parting Between Garden And Gardener.