I Thought My Mountain Was Coming This

There Is No Right And Wrong Way To Paint Except Honestly Or Dishonestly. Honestly Is Trying For The Bigger Thing. Dishonestly Is Bluffing And Getting Through A Smattering Of Surface Representation With No Meaning.

I Thought My Mountain Was Coming This Morning. It Was Near To Speaking When Suddenly It Shifted, Sulked, And Returned To Smallness. It Has Eluded Me Again And Sits There, Puny And Dull. Why?

Bless... The Two Painting Masters Who First Pointed Out To Me That There Was Coming And Going Among Trees, That There Was Sunlight In Shadows.

The Biggest Part Of Painting Perhaps Is Faith, And Waiting Receptively, Content To Go Any Way, Not Planning Or Forcing. The Fear, Though, Is Laziness. It Is So Easy To Drift And Finally Be Tossed Up On The Beach, Derelict.

Last Night I Dreamed That I Came Face To Face With A Picture I Had Done And Forgotten, A Forest Done In Simple Movement, Just Forms Of Trees Moving In Space. That Is The Third Time I Have Seen Pictures In My Dreams, A Glint Of What I Am Striving To Attain.