The truth is, I don't want to tell you about the process of making art, it's too insular and too mysterious, even to me. There's an inner alchemy that happens that even I don't know the formula for, the best I can do is prepare and position myself for the elements to do their work on me, or I on them, I don't know, but to make it so that I am in the position to make this work without being fully cognizant of what that entails. It is not required of me to be privy to the full mystery, and since it is not required, I would go further and say that it is probably forbidden for me to know, that were I to know, were I to find the key that unlocks the door to knowing and were I to actually employ that key in my greed to know, I would lose the abilities that I have, I would be cast out and never again granted access to this special hell that is painting. My deep resistance to writing about it can therefore be seen as a form of self-preservation, and so surely I cannot be blamed for starting this I-will-not-call-it-blog without having the intention of actually writing about what I was meant to write about. I will, however, tell you about other things, gladly I will tell you about other things, and there so many things to tell you about, there is everything to tell you about, everything except one thing, today I will tell you that the sky is a perilously uninteresting grey, and that cars are moving apace along the 5, and that there is a persistent loud ringing in my ears.