Trying to concentrate on writing new short story, but I�m surrounded by cuties in striped scarfs and tiny heels. Oh my. Who wants to think about dead skin and state terror when a heart-shaped face looks over your shoulder, her cheeks cold-flushed? �
November is about one thesis on notions of national identity in black Caribbean literature, a portfolio of short stories, and a film about Berkeley: �in transit(ion)� with the brilliant Joe. Many lunches-for-two-or-three and nights of dancing feet, too, so that I stay sane under a growing mountain of papers and books.
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Me, I don�t mind the chaos. I think better when I�m messy or at the mercy of language. Precision is neat-o too, but blurry photos and scarlet spray paint before rulers and calculators and state-of-the-art cameras any day.