For years, I wrote as if without stop—like lines of spore in a dish, the letters of thealphabet would come out of me,like tiny antlers out of my head,like branches, twigs, stems of a tree,it seemed to be who I was, the thornysinging. But when the elkhornjoint of my upper femur was removedfrom inside me song went quiet in me,as if my hair stopped growing—no moretendrils of thought out into the air,down onto the page. Who had I thoughtI was, that I could write what I wantedabout my family? Now I feelas if I have lost my court caseagainst my mother and father, and the greatforked tongue of my thighbonehas been taken in forfeit. I always wantedmy life to be a comedy,now I feel in the grip of somethinginexorable. But…
