I don't know where to place my body. Everyone notices that about me. I'm very restless.

In various memoir pieces, I have traced the trajectory of yearning through decisions made, good and bad, that had somehow kept the ambition on track.

It's why muse is so impatient with me. I don't ever go to her until after the teaching or whatever is over.

Philosophy is a bad master for poetry; religion worse; and politics self-serving will never serve the Muse.

The crows live in the world like you do. They are part of nature.

One should be able to teach adequately and feel good about it.

In short, for me - I'm kind of projecting onto you - distraction has become a modus vivendi, a way of life. Rather than complaining, I am recognizing that I couldn't do what I wanted to do because I'm distracted.