I'm a collector, not a scholar. This is more evident as the years pass. Within its pulsing net, my consciousness captures moments, fleeting impressions, and ephemeral environments. Looking at my bibliography, I panic: the obviously digressive mind, lacking discipline - a generalist.

Let's not dwell on this notion. I've just finished an essay for an online news magazine and I need the beer I'm drinking. This afternoon I told Mom, on her birthday, that I was thinking of living with D. Of course there is silence, as mother-sister-Baptist wonders, What will people think?

Then we negotiate, at turns delicately and assertively, across the cultural divide. The age divide. The divide between mothers and daughters. Pragmatism wins, I think. I think. Why should I live with strangers, when I can live with someone who loves me? who wonders where I am? Mom: Ok, ok, but wait till you are divorced. (I find out on Wednesday, fingers crossed.)

Living with someone you love is not always safe, I think after I hang up. It should be a given. Love, in its obsessive, controlling form, can damage. Love has its perils.

Randomness: I don't have a head shot (requested by the magazine) without one or several of these aspects:
1) someone else, pressed close
2) a drink in my hand
3) me in a mask
4) a dark location, i.e. a pub, a field at night, interior of a dim train
5) me looking pensive, smirking, or pursing my lips to quell my laughter.

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