I will tell you who I am not. I am not the angst ridden, downtrodden spirit battling self. I am not the girl too weak to exercise. I don’t fear the indigo night, I get angry and I put on my new Nike shoes that look like they belong to Spiderman and I get out the door and run. That’s when I listen to Eli’s album. That’s when I find out who he is. I don’t hide my paints and pencils and new sable brushes in a chest. They come out every night and develop a human form in two dimensional form. I delight and think where I went wrong when the cranium is too big and the eyes are to close together. The nose is right on the money. I turn on an album I love and dance and move. I swoop levels and use my space. My living room is a stage for me alone. I imagine Bruce Springsteen singing for a crowd of a thousand. I think of some way that I felt like “Mary in high school” and I wring that feeling out of me when I kick a flexed foot forward. In my mind the form is raw beautiful. Bruce Springsteen at a democratic convention rally…crooning of hope and idealism. What’s so wrong with that? Dad’s my favorite dance partner. Dancing because its fun and you can do whatever you want. Democrats are generally bad, Republicans generally good. Liberals…evil. Conservatives…saints. What this country needs is one big free for all ball. What the world needs now is dance, sweet dance. Without planning the real me puts off laundry and takes the kids outside to gather veiny fall leaves. We make collages and spontaneously decide to make a pile which transforms into a big pot of stew. A melting pot. Then we jump in the stew. Some more of wha t our country needs. The shortcut to the bus stop and its leading lines and rusted foliage is my fallen memory. I photographed Katelin, leading lines, disappearing vantage point, age two there with her back to my camera and underwear.