know:
Until one day in January of '84 when I sputtered gloriously out of a contracting crotch and into a fluorescent-lit room, my parents fully intended to name me Wolfgang.  Thank God, then, that on that day I pronounced myself a girl.  They named me Samantha (and four years later my sister Alexandra) so they could call us as "Sam & Al," which to them endearingly suggested a pair of slapstick-ready mechanics on Long Island.  Maybe one of us would end up really fat and one really scrawny, and we'd bicker a lot and constantly hike up grease-streaked jeans to avoid giving unwarranted glimpses of our respective asses.  Well, both of us ended up scrawny, but the androgynous nicknames persist.

I escaped Nashville three years ago armed with a high school degree and an uncanny knowledge of its back roads.  Now I'm back in New York numbing my toes in a brownstone's fifth floor.  Eventually I'll return to Nashville with the requisite guitar case and a sense of direction.  For now, transience suffices.

My posture is chronically bad, my teeth inexplicably healthy.  I've had huge cheeks since birth, when the doctor proclaimed that I could "live for three months off those things," and until I was eight, I had to take speech lessons for swallowing my r's.  Thank God I'm a fucking English major.

I'm aloof and thrive on words and hope.  I observe and analyze everything very closely, but not too closely.  (I am keeping things wondrous.)  I'm a little obsessed with the spaces between words, with everything that slips in between the gaps of what's written.  I cling to vague ideas of solitude and autonomy, solidity and movement, ephemera and transition; I can't help myself.  I crave openness, convergence, and those times of day when the air is thick and static.  I live and I write in fragments.  I feel, I care, I try, and I wonder.  So it goes.
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