October 2001, Manhattan
I catch myself calling myself a human before “American,” but no one seems to understand, or at least acknowledge, that. And I wonder if I am human, and I wonder if the other things I call human are human. The mythology is thick, and it’s hard to distinguish truth from mere tales that have not been toppled by time. Maybe there’s no difference. I’m getting close to summarizing an argument for the importance of discussing these things. . . . Somehow I think that the light is inside the conflict–the confusion–on which I spend most of my free time.