Let's talk about me now. I am at a place that, if I cross my eyes, appears to have several paths.

I think that's right.

Under my arm I carry a poem that I am to explicate and, in a week's time, teach myself how to explicate. I'll bring it wherever, until tomorrow, when it's due before midnight EST.

My brain is fuzzy--in a nice way--because of all the poem ingredients and the actual Adrienne Rich poem (about the life of the senses, which she titled it). It's got me very in tune with the relevancy of what is connected, separated by blinks.

Kind of raw when you've got three wee ones throwing buttered ditalinis across the kitchen ....

And there is my mind on food again. My defense mechanism since childhood. I've concluded that I am a large woman trapped in the body of a small one.

One path is eat those low-fat cinnamon graham crackers with low-fat Promise. One path is don't you dare. One path is moderation, which I'm afraid gray makes feel uncomfortable.