Surrealism could not be made up. It was the very electricity of the real.
One had to build shelters. One had to make pockets and live inside them.
To write a short story, you have to be able to stay up all night.
But family life sometimes had a vortex, like weather. It could be like a tornado in a quiet zigzag: get close enough and you might see within it a spinning eighteen-wheeler and a woman.
I've accrued a kind of patience, I believe, loosely like change.
Later I would come to believe that erotic ties were all a spell, a temporary psychosis, even a kind of violence, or at least they coexisted with these states.