It becomes harder and harder to speak without a pencil and paper in hand.

Un-pragmatic and non-linear. I do that real well.
So, how far have I ever been able to throw myself?

I feel the pull of retreat, every time this time of year. Not that I’ve been much out and about - but more or less. The shorter days call me indoors - to have longer sits and write meandering  sentences with bigger words. 

I’ve done a lot of installation work ... I’ve been inspired by great sculptors and their huge crafty ingenious works, … then mentally backing up, remembering - I’m sort of wanting to make something nice and smooth with the smell of ink. I’m hankering to make  an object I can pick up easily and read without getting splinters. The dream is to sit down at the same time everyday with a beautiful blank book. Without hesitation I will draw an inspiration and write something profound. Too often I’m writing while driving, scraping into the dust, or drawing hits with only a bad pen and a ripped receipt. Train myself to turn on inspiration by calling up a moment.

Art, then, is an elaborate dance around something that can’t be made. 

Add a muffled boom and a ring of smoke appearing at the bottom of the cartoon canyon.