America Is Woven Of Many Strands. I

Eclecticism Is The Word. Like A Jazz Musician Who Creates His Own Style Out Of The Styles Around Him, I Play By Ear.

That Which We Remember Is, More Often Than Not, That Which We Would Like To Have Been; Or That Which We Hope To Be. Thus Our Memory And Our Identity Are Ever At Odds; Our History Ever A Tale Told By Inattentive Idealists.

It Took Me A Long Time And Much Painful Boomeranging Of My Expectations To Achieve A Realization Everyone Else Appears To Have Been Born With: That I Am Nobody But Myself.

The Act Of Writing Requires A Constant Plunging Back Into The Shadow Of The Past Where Time Hovers Ghostlike.

Please, A Definition: A Hibernation Is A Covert Preparation For A More Overt Action.