The wind outside is ferocious. I'm worried about precarious tree limbs and the blizzard which is predicted to come. The weather inside me is ferocious too. I'm off today, in the middle of the work week, in order to use up one last floating holiday before the end of the year, but also to wrestle with EXPOSURES. It is, whether it gets published or not--whether it should be published or not--a real book. It's a thoughtful but provocative work. I've tweaked it a lot. It moves on multiple tracks which are interrelated, almost a congeries of sorts. Sex, thought, identity figure mightily in its matrix.

To properly read EXPOSURES out loud, it is about 50 pages, would take roughly the length of time it takes to make thoroughly improper love (whatever length of time that might be, it could be more quickly or slowly, depending). I've imagined it as a performance project-- to be read at various speeds only in bed (to one as-naked-as-oneself person at a time).