Stacey Levine, Frances Johnson; Lynne Tillman, Haunted Houses; Ander Monson, Other Electricities; Tony Duvert, When Jonathan Died; Kenzaburo Oe, A Personal Matter; Marie Redonnet, Forever Valley.

Other things I've read.

I walk with an upright body carriage (172.8 centimeters at full erection), which frees my forelimbs for gesturing, pointing, and manipulating objects, a development which might have spurred the rapid evolution of the brain and the capacity for speech and abstract reasoning. Despite this I often sit, without speaking or reasoning abstractly. I sit in Portland, Oregon, a city in the northwestern United States halfway between the North Pole and the Equator that is only notable for being the birthplace of Sally Struthers. I am left-handed and receive many left-handed compliments. I am told my friendship has surprising laxative properties. I am simultaneously skittish and phlegmatic, voluble and dysfluent. (Occasionally my mouth dilates but no interpretable sound issues even though I am bursting with news.) I am rarely bursting with news. I am an awful display of hesitations, liable at any time to erupt in a suggestive concatenation of gestures. I have no hobbies since giving up those ill-advised chinchillas but on weekends I do struggle sportingly to free myself from the atavistic attachment to hoary twentieth century notions of an integrated self, followed by pie or maybe apple brown betty. Apple brown betty is not a filthy euphemism. My thoughts are often interrupted by grotesque erotic disturbances. I am an aficionado of the male wrist. My cat's name is Sam.