I am tired of the political shit. That has to go. The truth is that I thought: my private anger has so many political branches. My individual painful experience is echoed in so many large ways. Let me become this politically aware writer. Let me write about these great subjects. Let me, somehow, by this gift, change this country. Perhaps. In time. I thought, “If my man left me. Or refused to admit he was my man, or wasn’t even much of a man then let me make a great political action for every queer. And if for every queer, then women too. Let me be galvanized and liberal and serious about everything. I was burnt out and burning up with the need for this thing called serious political action.
Look, the only subject is me. And the only geography I am changing is that in my own body. Look, every story, every novel is like a Frida Kahlo painting. I am drawing myself, over and over again. I am my subject. I fill my eyes. I am delighted and horrified by myself. I cannot get away from him. Not even in sleep. He creates and creates.
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