Survival for another ten or twenty years is the last gift and the only one we can count on. Survival is, I see, the last revenge. When I come here to write I cannot say who it is that calls me. Nor can I promise to tell the truth. For when one writes her truth shifts with the perceived eyes of the imagined reader and her pen moves reticently, reflecting the role which she has agreed or not agreed to play.
Women hide almost everything from themselves and each other.
They smile plastic smiles when they hear a fact heretofore suppressed. They think no one knows about these unspoken contracts yet it is clear everyone knows. They see twisted men rifling through trash containers and they fix their smiles for posterity. Yellow wheat moving slowly like a large animal to the sound of the wind. And sky the color of cornflowers uninterrupted by cloud or bird or plane just blue blue.