But Still, The Other Voice,

I Know I Am Made From This Earth, As My Mother's Hands Were Made From This Earth, As Her Dreams Came From This Earth And All That I Know, I Know In This Earth, The Body Of The Bird, This Pen, This Paper, These Hands, This Tongue Speaking, All That I Know Speaks To Me Through This Earth.

I Think Artists Can Go To A Level Of Vision That Can Often Save Us From A Situation Which Seems To Have No Solution Whatsoever.

Language Is Filled With Words For Deprivation Images So Familiar It Is Hard To Crack Language Open Into That Other Country The Country Of Being.

Telling A Story Of Illness, One Pulls A Thread Through A Narrow Opening Flanked On One Side By Shame And The Other By Trivia.

What Always Seems Miraculous Is When Aesthetic Necessities Yield An Insight Which Otherwise I Would Have Missed.