May 2, 2000: Dear Lynn Payne
What do you want me to write? What else can I say? For three years I’ve been at your store and now I feel like its time to rest. It’s not that I’m tired, I’m just never home. I love being home by 7:30, to cuddle up on the sofa—maybe be out by 7:31. It’s not that I love to sleep, it’s not that I’m running away and it’s not that I think I’m a brilliant poet…but rather—I’m in need of un-commitment. The heart says it’s time to let go.

Note: I can’t help but believe that after twenty-one years of radio, I’ve finally reached a point where I’m lost—there’s no reflection in the mirror. I have become what I hate most—the angry stepfather, his moods a barrier—a warning signal to stay away. I’ve become what bothers me most, someone who’s always in a hurry. Rather then leave radio, I chose to walk away from my circle of poets at the book store. I remember telling them, “I’m an injured artist.”