Already I am no longer looked at with lechery or love.

I who have gone the gamut from an almost angry rejection of my dark skin by some of my brainwashed brothers and sisters to a surprised queenhood in the new Black sunam qualified to enter at least the kindergarten of new consciousness now... I have hopes for myself.

We don't ask a flower any special reason for its existence. We just look at it and are able to accept it as being something different from ourselves.

I like the concentration, the crush; I like working with language, as others like working with clay, or notes.

I've always thought of myself as a reporter. When people ask why I don't stop writing, I say, `Look at what's happening in this world. Every day there's something exciting or disturbing to write about.’ With all that's going on, how could I stop?

What, what am I to do with all of this life?

Writing is a delicious agony.