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This perversely fetching cape that flutters and slithers behind me is my past. There are very, very ugly bits to it, but it’s all I’ve got. I haven’t even written about the half of it, of course. We never write about it all. We write about what we want to see, or what we make up, or what we can understand, and what gets left out is so much.

I hate that I have hurt people, but to pretend I haven’t does them an even greater disservice. Writing is what I do, and I don’t want to hurt anyone with my words here, but I don’t see a way around that. It’s this dilemma that takes me away and brings me back, over and over and over again.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.