Here is the beginning of the book:
We wake up, and we realize we are on a voyage. That we are
traveling in this ship of human form... a rare opportunity. Gradually we
learn that the Kiss is the only treasure worth the rigors of this journey.
We stand our watch. We tend the rudder of our mind whether it is sun or
cold. We sail toward the constant Kiss of unchanging Love where there
will be relief from suffering. For us. For many. In this life. In any others
that might follow.
Sunday, May 1, 2005, 10:20 AM On The Road from Takrit to Kirkuk
The hard wooden seats of the M-35, in which I ride, bump, bump, bump
against my coccyx. You would think, with all the fat surrounding my tailbone,
that it would be cushioned from such pain. If you believe that, you are
unfamiliar with Iraqi roads and the suspension in an old Deuce and a Half.
(i dream of the susquehanna night after night the cold water as sharp as steel snow with the
gift of forgetfulness the summer celebration of the trees rain)
There are soldiers on my right. Soldiers on my left. Soldiers in front of me.
Once I thought they were the good guys. They are not. Many in the world say
they are the bad guys. They are not. As my story will certainly demonstrate (it’s
the same tha ‘ole world over), good and bad cling to one another in an embrace of
such passion, it is impossible to tell the lover from the loved. Cut open the
good guys, you discover a bed full of evil. Shake the bad guys, and good runs
laughing into the street. Oﬀer either of them the right price, and he will
strangle the good as she sleeps. Never have I seen an exception to that rule.
As the truck bumps, I tap, tap, tap this thin black box, and I supplicate the
gods of wire and electron to bless me with the words to build a ﬁre in your
mind, so you might be able to see that you stand, every second, on the edge of
an abyss. Look! Look at it. You are surrounded by shouts and tears and anger.
See. See in the glare of the ﬁrelight. That stranded creature is you. See the fake
claws and plastic fangs. That is your true self.
This life is perfectly constructed to ﬁll our pockets with promise. Then rob us
of hope, steal our faith and break our spirit. It is a joke.
More about that in a minute.
I type more slowly than you read. Since only my two index ﬁngers possess the
skill to tap my thoughts into words, all the heft of trowel and hod descends on
these two, thin and delicate digits. (to be able to hit the right keys in the pitch and yaw of
this smelly truck is a salute to the skill of these very ﬁngers) I am told I have beautiful
hands. Women have called them lovely. Men call them queer. They are a
draftsman’s hands. I draw very precisely and very accurately. I can draw a
woman so lifelike you believe you could pull oﬀ her panties and ﬁnd her smell.
But do not call me an artist. My drawings deliver meaning to your reason. They
do not ﬁre your heart or excite your soul.
I remember how, as a child, I phantasized myself as one of the good guys. I
wanted to be the savior of mankind. I was the Lone Ranger. I was Superman. I
was an Old Testament Prophet. I trailed the bad guys through canyons and
rivers. I grabbed airplanes just before they plunged into the ocean, and I
returned them safely to land amid the grateful cheers of the passengers.
I stood, in my imagination, as a Sentinel to warn people away from evil. Direct
them to the good. Now I stand as a lonely Observer beside the turbulent river
at the entrance to the land of death. I am not Superman. I am not the Lone
Ranger. I am not Jeremiah. I do not lecture you on Truth, Honesty and the
American Way. And never, never would I say, Forgive, and you will ﬁnd the
universe as bright as a Jewel. When I was a child, I spoke with the foolishness of
a child. In captivity I put away childish things, and now I can whisper to you
this warning: Soon. Very soon. You too will come to realize that your view of
the world is partial, small and obscured. It is true that you see through a glass
There is a reason for that. The gods love a good joke. They want you to indulge
the natural optimism that seems to infect mankind. They are planning an
event, and they do not want to spoil the surprise: When you come to your ﬁnal
moment, all the gods will gather round you on your death-bed and laugh,
uproariously, as you slip away. They live to see the look of shock and surprise
on your face when you realize the utter emptiness and futility of your life.
Welcome to my Diary.
Attached to my loved ones, I am stirred like an ocean in storm. Hating my
enemies, I burn like fire. Darkness and confusion rush in. I forget what to
keep and what to discard. If I unlock my grip on my loved ones and my
enemies, we are all drawn into the embrace of the constant Kiss of
Monday, August 15, 2005 4:33 PM Hudson, New York
It is raining. To the West, the Catskills shake and ﬂash. I sit on this vinyl seat.
My computer and my recorder set on a formica and chrome table top in this
deserted diner as I transcribe the tape from this morning’s interview with
I want to drink. My throat is closed. I want to dine on rich cuisine. My
stomach refuses. I need to get laid. My secret friend will not cooperate. I have
had no sex since before my imprisonment. Something within me has gone to
sleep. I seek only the nakedness that populates my memory and my longing. A
woman of real ﬂesh frightens me. I am angry. I wake up angry. I wake up afraid.
This interview with Touches made me angry. The salt has lost its ﬂavor. My life
is tasteless. Will it be thrown out? What else do you do with tasteless salt?
Enough of my regurgitation. That cannot be pretty on the page. I have seen
and smelled enough of it. And you? Alright, let me tell you what I have been
doing these last three months. Nothing. The needle of my compass continues
to spin like the spokes on the wheels of a fast car. Yet, somehow, as I tumble
down the range of life, I keep working on this diary. There are spectators in the
bleachers of my mind who ﬁnd that enterprise absurd.
There is so much I do not understand about El-Al-Shem and what occurred
there. What really happened? Someone knows. No one is talking. Or the
journalists are tickled with their latest endeavor to curry favor with the
Pentagon: they are telling stories that are patent lies intended to create the
illusion that, although it smells and looks like the rear end of a pig, it really is a
I completed this interview with Touches about two hours ago. I have an
interview scheduled with Bobby Montana in October. I am attempting to
arrange an interview with Jane. (come oh wind plover ﬂy to me) I am looking for
leads as to the whereabouts of the terrorists who survived. I am even
considering interviewing Ryan’s mother.
Do I have unspoken motives for these interviews? Of course I do. I want you
to like my work... so zealously that your approval creates a tidal tribute of
money, women, prestige and prizes. I will employ these interviews or any
device I might discover or fabricate in order to add value to my endeavor. The
way creative and unscrupulous miners chose a gold mine that was played out
and worthless and salted it with $10 worth of gold to give it a million dollar
appearance. Maybe interviewing the souls who suﬀered the price of attendance
at El-Al-Shem last May is my way of picking up a shotgun and blasting a few
gold ﬂecks of suﬀering into these words in order to deceive you into believing
there is value here. I hope it works.
Piece of Interview with Touches-Lightly-like-the-Breeze, the 83 year old
Mohawk Indian in the story:
How’s yer patriotism, Sam, huh?
(again i feel as small as a mouse on on the paw of a lion i do not like this man i did not like him
in iraq i do not like him in albany whenever he speaks to me i see myself shrink water boils in
the iron of my bowels i do not like this feeling i squeak i do not talk i squeak when my
mouth opens squeak squeak i should eat porridge and cry for my tit throw toys and wail i
will not be treated this way)
My name is not Sam.
You do not remember my name, my feathered friend. It is what I expected. That
your tobacco burning and herb gathering would have accelerated the inevitable
tyranny of senility. I look forward to seeing you drool and stare vacantly into the air.
I think yer Uncle Sam. (laughs felt he stared into my naked brain he looks like a big sack
of squirming cats laughs cat heads bang against the burlap) Yer big an’ mean like ‘im.
You steal land too? You him. Uncle Sam. Fer sher.
(sat opposite him i am a piano lowered by crane onto this cane chair creaked its loud protest i
feel compassion for the chair dragged from the forest to be crushed by my disgusting mass of
protoplasm the screws and the wood clutched each other in terror in kansas city blues joint a
chair cried out broke threw me to the ﬂoor in protest sawdust in my cuﬀs sawdust in my
drink his face like a broken moon more ancient than the earth i hate him i hate the mouse
cringing before the lion i ignored him started my tape recorder why to interview this ancient
moon? what does he know? specks of gold to enrich my story? maybe i explore this planet
because i need a chunk of hate to bite like a bullet to bear the surgery of this existence)
You gonna capture my voice, Uncle Sam? Put it ‘n prison?
Do you mind? (he shook his head grinned)
You sher do go ta a lot a wars. You like wars, Uncle Sam? I hear you like wars.
You hear I like wars? I am a war correspondent. I know the realities of war. It
is but one of the unfortunate and necessary evils we must pursue in order to
keep the barbarians from scaling the walls to steal our money and ravage our
Someone sher must like war. Wars doin’ a lota business, an’ it aint slowin’
down none. (laughter from the sack) Yeah, well, tell me ‘bout yerself, Uncle Sam.
Ya like war, right? Ya aint a patriot if ya don’ like war. Right? An’ hey, yer
Uncle Sam. (pago pago pago)
You ﬁght and you ﬁght well, or you lose all your goodies. That lesson, surely, is
not lost on you and your people. (i pause to let my arrow sink in) Besides, the
problem these days emanates from the actions of terrorists, fanatics, and
Islamists. That entire pack of murderers, bombers, and crazies. We kill them
ﬁrst, or they kill us. (squeak squeak wail wail i engage to win i must deepen my voice
pago pago my hat into my hand rub the edge of the advancing rash his sack of cats jumps
and bumps they run the sack from toe to tip laughs round and round they go his face turns
red is he sick? will he explode? i hate him)
Part of the interview with Bobby Montana, the Special Forces soldier
(with terrible PTSD) who had an affair in Iraq with Jane Nightengale, the
Jewish healer who practices Tibetan Buddhism.
(he jerked as if i had slapped him in the face with a wet rag but then nodded his head he
would talk he would guy-talk too many years of conditioning)
Yea, great tits. God, I loved ‘em. I loved ‘em. (his face burrowed down into his hands
like a small furry animal his shoulders shook he repaired to the house of his suﬀering moved
back and forth across the river of sanity looked up tears bubbled from the cave where his eyes
slept and ate) I guess what I remember a lot these days is her skin. Yeah, her skin.
(pound my crampon into the ice smack smack against the impenetrable glaze make it bite the
ancient rime) What about her skin...sexy, right? (i turned away from him touched my
cock squeezed to encourage it it lay like a rubber eel on the bottom of the sea dead or sleeping)
I loved her skin, man. (the eel did not move lifeless) I dunno... I guess her skin was...
I dunno... like a big rose petal. My mom had some real pretty roses. I used to
love to feel ‘em, all soft, ya know? Like the tips a your ﬁngers were fallin’ into
a soft bed. Her skin was like that. Before I sleep. When I wake up. I think
about it a lot. (water trickled from the caves)
So, you fucked her once, and there she is in the bed beside you...
(he looked up eyes red he wore his clown makeup the sad face mouth turned down red tear
drops painted on his cheek) Yeah, man. Yeah, weird the stuff I remember. Like...
after that ﬁrst time, she started kissing me, and I really went after her and she
told me to slow down... to be in the Nature of Mind. Then she took my hands
off her breasts. Not so sexual.... what tha fuck? I was so fucking confused.
I dunno McPhedridge. See, it’s not about cummin’. Fuck I’m starting to sound
Just explain it to me, Bobby. What did she say after you came the second time?
I dunno man. There was all that Buddhist shit about not losing my energy, but I
didn’t pay much attention to that. The shit that got me was when she started
talking about how my feelings needed to be open to the beneﬁt of all beings
when I was with her. All beings? Shit man!, I was just focused on her, an’
then...I dunno how the fuck this happens, but suddenly just focusing on her
seemed kinda small. I didn’t understand what she meant. I just knew what I was
doing was small, and what she wanted from me was big. Anyway, I moved
behind her. Spooned her. I loved that. My body up against her. Head to toe.
My cock pressing into her crack. Her beautiful butt.
(i need the ascent of sex i set my will to climb this wall to the place of my worship the pitons
slip from the cracks something in the webbing is rotten the rope frays i slip i swing my axe
into the ice it cries as it slips down falling down)
We lay there for like ﬁve minutes. She spoke. I could hear a knife sheathed in
the tone of her voice, I’m not used to a man lying in my bed without an
erection. I told you not to cum.
My heart... went blind. Like she threw a jar of black ink on me. I didn’t say
His ruminations after his interview with Bobby. It’s about half way
through the book and, in spite of himself, he continues to change:
Monday, April 23, 2007 11:34 PM
There. As you see, I have ﬁnished transcribing Bobby’s interview. And, as you
can also see, it was a marvelous day ruined. I so wanted to simmer in the juices
of stories about their sex. Why can I not do what I wish to do?
Sex is the mountain at which I worship; yet no matter my volition, no matter
the exertions of my will, I could not, during Bobby’s interview, assume my
wonted place on that mountain. (the eel lay lifeless)
I have spent hours contemplating the implications of my failures during that
interview. I want my life back. Or a life. Any life! Something.
I sat on the deck for hours. I showered and steamed. Walked down the milelong driveway. Thinking. Thinking.
Here is my conclusion: Chaos. End of statement. Full stop.
We think we are in control of our life. At least a little. I do not mean the outer
circumstance. I have always understood the arbitrariness of fate. A meteor or a
bolt of lightning could be waiting around any corner.
But...I believe what I believe because I have chosen the most cogent and
appetizing of available beliefs. Right! Wrong?
My politics, my religious beliefs, my morality... my World View is a result of
careful consideration and choice from my interaction with my DNA and my
environment. Right? Wrong!
We are all only Parliamentarians in the Congress of Insanity. We, in our
adopted robes of propriety, try to impose order. We pound the gavel. but the
members of this congress are insane. They hang from the light ﬁxtures. They
shoot at each other. We cite law and pragmatism. They piss on their food, steal
the pennies and the pickles. They cut the throat of the blind lady of justice.
They hide behind the curtains. They fuck the visiting dignitaries. Keep donuts
in the cash drawer and dirty socks in the refrigerator.
That is what is going on inside of your mind every second. It is what is going
on inside of mine. We pretend such sobriety while, just behind the curtain of
consciousness, epic brawls proceed unabated.
For me, the curtain is parting. I am beginning, slowly, to discern the insanity
transpiring in the Congress of my mind, and it frightens me.
Since my interview with Touches, someone has sneaked into my chamber and
stolen my pistol. They point to the ballroom and say, Dance. I do not know
how to dance. I only know how to hang from the chandeliers and to shoot.
What do I do? How can I live? I am starving and my only way to a greener land
is across that ﬂoor. I am trapped here between starvation and Chaos.
(i hear the creaking of the chandeliers justice crying out in her blood the dignitaries moaning
behind the curtain) Finally. Finally. I possess a clear view of the pitiful little grotto
in which I am trapped. The place from which there is no escape.
This is one of the action scene on the ground in Iraq. There are several:
We may consider the famous more important than us. We may consider a
beggar less important. When either treats us with contempt, and we are
angry, we embrace chaos. See what they teach us: how we are able to love
chaos more than the peace. When we accept that teaching and accept them
as teacher, we invite the embrace of the constant Kiss of unchanging Love.
Thursday, May 5, 2005 11:57PM
I needed another break. I walked outside. Looked up into the stars. They said
nothing. They did not look back at me. I looked out across the star-touched
landscape. It too was mute. Wounded and mute. I walked back inside. Lit
another cigar. Began again to write. The unruly child bangs the tin wall of my
As Jane walked away Ed yelled, Lady, I don’t want any fuckin’ distractions. (then
his mind seemed to turn in midair like a wind plover over the evening river) I’m gonna get
that boy out of there. Please, I don’t want any interference. (ed please please?
what has this boy done to you?)
Jane turned back to face Ed. Tears now fell softly from her eyes. Turned again
and walked down the hill, through the wadi, and back among the women.
As she walked away, a diﬀerent voice called from her body: the way she held
her hands, her shoulders. A quieter voice. A kinder voice. She reached out and
touched a woman’s arm. The woman touched Jane’s cheek. Then I saw Jane
point. She shouted. I could not understand her words. She walked up to a
woman and jerked oﬀ her veil. It was another man. He raised his hand to hit
her, but she kicked him in the groin and twenty women fell upon him like the
Saracen upon his prey. I heard her shout. Asshole. Get that asshole. I do not
think it was being translated. The insurgent fell. The women were stamping on
him. Jane walked quickly through the crowd of women and spoke very intently
to two women walking on each side of her. They seemed to be translating.
Another ruckus broke out. Another man went down.
Then there was a shot. One shot. An AK-47. I saw the man who ﬁred. He was
in the village. I believe he was the man Ed had wounded. One shot and the
ﬁres of hell itself ﬂamed out from Ed’s troops. Everyone ﬁred. Everyone. I
could hear David’s M-82 rattle oﬀ the names of women and children destined
for the gates of death.
Across the wadi, women fell. Children exploded. Women screamed. Children
screamed. Blood, body parts, tissue could be seen spinning through the air.
Sticking to the women and children. Sticking to walls. Pooling on the ground.
Ed walked calmly among his troops. Cease ﬁre. Cease ﬁre.
I waddled down the hill, through the ravine, and up into the carnage. I fell.
Tore my pants. Saw a shadow of blood under the fabric.
Screaming. Everyone was screaming. Blood and tears on a woman’s face. A boy
lying on his side. It was the boy who had been arguing with his mother. A
puddle of blood and tissue leaked from the front of his torn shirt. I turned him
over. (his days of arguing with his mother resenting his mother were over oh that fortune so
might smile on me) He looked at me with bright eyes. Bright black eyes. They
sparkled. I die?
I did not know what to say. I felt I was looking at someone at the far end of a
tunnel. His image seemed to recede. Second by second to fade further into the
distance. I held his head. The sun hammered on my brain and tears fell into his
black, curly hair.
This is not me. I do not cry. I looked away. I screamed, Medic! Medic!
His voice, very faint: Is OK. Is up to Allah. He did not exactly smile. His face
broadened. He acquiesced. You tell my mother... bye. The sparkle left his eyes.
He let out a large breath. He evacuated his bowels. Medic! (are there no medics in
Who will remember that boy? Who will remember me? We will be mourned
for a week. Talked about for a month. Funny stories about our mishaps and
blunders will be told for a year. Then silence. A stone thrown into the water. A
splash. Ripples. Then, again, the persistent calm of the lake. As if we had never
If anything ever remains in the memory of the mind of the world, it is the
egregious mistakes, the crude silliness and the myths needed to feed our
appetite for the superﬁcial. The ﬁner points. The suﬀering of our childhood.
The deep passions. Our highest aspirations. No one will remember that. The
nectar of what we are will vanish like cigar smoke in the wind. A nostalgic smell
in the air for a few minutes. Then... Nothing.
I smell the Dog. He is in the room. He devours us. He devours all of us. Then
he devours all memory of us.
I rose. I weighed a hundred tons. Heavily I walked up the hill. A woman
blocked my way. She waved a blood-soaked child’s shoe in my face. Is this right
size, ‘merican man? Huh? I held out my arms in bewilderment. This size
terrorists wear? Huh? This ﬁt terrorist foot?
I walked away. We are spending a great deal of money to piss oﬀ a great many
Most of the soldiers had crossed the wadi to help the wounded and to search
for shooters. A few soldiers remained on the hillside. They looked dazed. David
was sitting beside his weapon weeping violently. Chet stood over him. You
shoot inta them wimin an' kids?
Yes. Oh, God, yes!
Why you do that, white boy?
Whatta you mean! It was an order! We were ordered ta shoot. Didn’t you
How it feel?
Fuck you. It was awful. Fucked up awful. I'll never forgit. Never. The M-82...
These big shells. He held up a .50 caliber shell. Very large. They exploded. The
kids exploded. He put his head down and wept. Tha kids fuckin’ exploded.
Yeah, so now you fucked fer good.
You fucked. Ferever. That how Tha Man get you. That why you cain't listen to
'im. That what black people done learn a long time ago. Don' never listen to
what Tha Man tell ya ta do.
I saw the brothers shootin'. They shot.
Yeah, man, dey shoot. Da enemy, we kill. Da kids, we miss. Mos shoot over da
heads. Don’ want da Colonel up ‘r ass. They learned. Now you learn, but it
too late. You fucked. You fucked good. Too good. Chet walked away.
Two soldiers dragged Jane up the hill toward Ed. She kicked. She screamed.
Bobby walked behind her. He held both hands in front of him. The motion of
his face, the movements of his body. He seemed to be placing supplications
before the Virgin Mary. Ed walked hastily down the hill. Stopped in front of
the group. Ed looked like a cake of explosives. He stood for ﬁve seconds
staring at Jane. She kicked at him. She screamed, You mother fucker. You
mother fuckin’ murderer. Then she spit on him.
Ed was as still as a cobra before striking. His voice was level, not a bump of
emotion: Montana, get yer cunt under control.
Jane cried beyond the boundaries of tears or grief. Asshole. You chauvinistic
Bobby touched her on the shoulder. Jane, please. Calm down.
Don’t touch me, you asshole. You fuckin’ ball-less coward, and she tried to turn
and kick him.
Two nurses walked up the hill to us. One was Lois Bartells. She did not look at
Ed addressed the two soldiers holding Jane. Take this wild bitch and lock her in
the room next to my ofﬁce. You two nurses get back to the wounded. Later
check in and make sure this bitch is settled down. Stick her with a sedative.
Whatever you have ta do. I want her quiet.
Jane spit on him again. You didn’t have to shoot! We had it under control! You
killed those women and children. You slaughtered those people. You
slaughtered them! She shook with sobs. The soldiers dragged her away.
My mind was blank. Absolutely blank.
Here’s a piece from the last chapter... it’s 8 years and 600 pages since El-Alshem;
Saturday, July 13, 2013 4:14 PM Don Perico’s Restaurant, Grapevine,
We dropped the goods for shipping at the UPS in Bakersﬁeld, crossed the
treeless, sun-beaten ﬂats and began the climb up, up toward Los Angeles.
Tatianna and Sonji are out on a walk. Sonji can’t stop crying. We’re at 1,500
feet. The merciless sun, habitual patron of the great San Joaquin, commands
less inﬂuence at this altitude. From where I sit, I can see a corner of the
valley... toward Tehachapi, Arvin, Lamont. A dirty yellow haze lays its heavy
hand on all the land I can see. I once thought this valley so beautiful... so
dramatic in its size and wealth.
It’s as if the rivers, the Kings, the Merced, the Kern and the great San Joaquin
running, running, for millions of years laid bare the breast of the Mother. Here
we may come to suck our live force from the soil. She gives us full and
overﬂowing breasts of berries and nuts, vegetables and cotton, grapes and corn,
milk and wheat. But I weep that her bounty is being eroded by the insensitivity
of the farmer, the oil producer, the merchant and the politician. She is a living,
sensitive woman. She must be treated with care. Nurtured. She suﬀocates
under the weight of the yellow haze. Her veins run with chemicals and poisons.
She is sick. Our greed has poisoned her. She could die. I weep for our injured
Mother. I weep for what we have become. The stones hurled from the hands of
our ambition have wounded and confused our aﬀections. We can no longer
recognize the voice of the sage, the guardian of our ancient visceral
knowledge... the one who, from the high chambers of our heart, commands our
The women returned for ten minutes, then Sonji began crying again and they
went back outside. Before they left Sonji said: They have lots of Dahlias here. I
And another piece from the last chapter after he has found the work he is
meant to do.
I am back into the groove of my painting, accompanied by all the self-doubt
and ego endemic to my transit through the jungle of the art world. Every
morning by 7:30 I mount my scaﬀolding, place my tea cup in the holder, and
press the button to motor up and down my long ﬁelds of color. Then I stop.
The necessity to pray eventually overpowers the incessant ﬂow of trivia
entering and exiting my mind. If the painting looks good to me, I am
immediately phantasizing about my upcoming fame. Crowds cheer the opening
of my exhibit in Soho. Appearances on television. If the oil paints do not dance
with signiﬁcance and life, I am depressed. Why do I even bother? I have no
gift for this. Who am I fooling?
I dismount the scaﬀolding, sit in my rocking chair and place my tea on a table.
I set the timer on my iPhone for ﬁfteen minutes. Inside, I wrap my cloak
around me, walk to the edge of the cliﬀ and look out over the sea. Quiet. No
thoughts. Watching, watching from the tiny clearing in the midst of the
immense and unknown forest of my mind. As I go very still in my mind, all the
energies overlooked by the infection of blindness transmitted by my daily
preoccupation with the mundanity of life, like little children of the gods of ﬁre,
rush into the clearing. There are so many, yet I did not know they were there
till I stopped. I do not know their names. I do not know their origin or family.
I simply go quiet in my mind. I watch them dance into view and run through
my village, torch in hand, singing and setting ﬁre to the debris my
unconsciousness has hoarded. Something moves within me. I relax. I allow. My
voice speaks forth. Chant and song. Happy and somber. Deep. Loud. Soft. The
children dance to my inchoate tune. It’s the only music they understand. It
inspires them to burn all the dross of mindless mundanity I have accumulated.
I become restless to return to painting. I resist. I wait for my phone to release
And what happens? How? Why am I diﬀerent after only ﬁfteen minutes?
Mostly I cannot explain how the work goes on beneath the surface of the sea.
By the end of the appointed time my hand is trembling to again take up the
brush. I look at a section of my canvass where I had previously tried to bring
cobalt blue, vermillion and burnt sienna together to engage in a sweet dance of
peaceful beauty, but all they did was hit and accuse. Now I brush them on the
canvass while they sing the note I knew was hiding in the jungles of my
inspiration I don’t see the process that spawned such a clarity. I only know
that now, as I pick up my brush, dip it into the paint, I know what color, what
juxtaposition, will sing the missing note, and from beneath the sea, golden
towers break forth, brilliant in the morning sun.