Oh I Do Want That Thing, That

I Have Been Sent More Ridiculous Press Notices. People Are Frequently Comparing My Work With Van Gogh... I Do Hope I Do Not Get Bloated And Self-satisfied. When Proud Feelings Come I Step Up Over Them To The Realm Of Work, To The Thing I Want, The Liveness Of The Thing Itself.

Writing Is A Splendid Sorter Of... Feelings, Better Even Than Paint.

Sometimes I Could Quit Paint And Take To Charring. It Must Be Fine To Clean Perfectly, To Shine And Polish And Know That It Could Not Be Done Better. In Painting That Never Occurs.

I Wonder Why We Are Always Sort Of Ashamed Of Our Best Parts And Try To Hide Them. We Don't Mind Ridicule Of Our 'sillinesses' But Of Our 'sobers'.

The House Begins To Be A Home. The Unfamiliar Places Are Beginning To Fold The Familiar Objects Into Their Keeping And To Cozy Them Down. Objects That Swore At Each Other When The Movers Heaved Them Into The New Rooms Have Subsided Into Corners And Sit To Lick Their Feet And Wash Their Faces Like Cats Accepting A New Home.