When You Really Think About Your Hand

How Badly I Want That Nameless Thing! First There Must Be An Idea, A Feeling... Maybe It Was An Abstract Idea That You've Got To Find A Symbol For, Or Maybe It Was A Concrete Form That You Have To Simplify Or Distort To Meet Your Ends, But That Starting Point Must Pervade The Whole.

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.

The Earth Is Soaked And Soggy With Rain. Everything Is Drinking Its Fill And The Surplus Gluts The Drains. The Sky Is Full Of It And Lies Low Over The Earth, Heavy And Dense. Even The Sea Is Wetter Than Usual!

The Memory Of Cumshewa Is Of A Great Lonesomeness Smothered In A Blur Of Rain.

It's All The Unwordable Things One Wants To Write About, Just As It's All The Unformable Things One Wants To Paint - Essence.