1. 

 You can only dig into the past so much; the vein of rich ore dwindles and

 then you're picking through mine tailings, sifting for flecks and grains that

 might have been missed.  You have to wait for younger jewels to settle into

 the muck, buried, changed to stone and maturity by time.  If the now is

 fallow, you have to be generous; you have to wait for the field to rot,

 compost, nourished by worm shit, catastrophic flooding, ex-boyfriends,

 tides of life and circumstance.

 2. 

 There seem to be an overabundance of books about terrible fathers and how

 they fucked up your childhood.  Terrible parents.  Daddy dearest, mommy

 meanest.  It's easy to blame the parents between the pages.  When you're

 a child, they're the vast ocean you're stuck in, floating on a raft of fly paper.

 All you have is some stale Saltine crackers and some rainwater you've

 collected and half an oiled tarp to keep the worst of the sun off.  If the

 sharks choose to come or not to come, what can you do about it?  You

 make do.  Sometimes you lose a leg or an arm, but that's why you have

 two.  You make do with what you have; you muddle through the years until

 you can find solid ground: the fabled father land, the missing mother country.

 3. 

 Everyone’s compass blood misses the sea; wavering, needle-sharp

 yearning for the salt in the air like the salt in sweat.  The blue distance that

 pulls the eyes to the horizon.  Everyone has a sea that the flesh wordlessly

 remembers, an ocean that lives on only in our cells.  Water that's warm and

 taut, the skin of the drum I stretch across the world; water that holds me up

 when I walk across it.