For me, it is like going up to a table that is covered with dishes of food, all of it is very appetizing, it is all food I would like to eat, but I am not much of an eater so I cannot eat all of the food I am presented with, I can only choose one or two things. For you, it is like being given a single dish to eat, you are not given the choices I am given, and this food that you must eat, more often than not, it is a stew confused with too many flavors and a few incompatible textures. And here is where my metaphor reaches its terminus, let us say goodbye to it, goodbye, metaphor! There are just so many things to tell you, so many things to choose from to tell you! Here is how it goes: I wake up very early, I make coffee, I sit in a chair that needs to be euthanized but I cannot find a new one I like, so I sit in this same elderly chair people have been sitting in for years, I read, and then I put down the book I am reading, still with my coffee, and I look to the middle distance behind my eyes that is the same middle distance in front of them, and this is where all the little phantom subjects gather, and it is where I think I am choosing my day's subject to give to you, but the real choice comes when I set fingers to keyboard and begin typing. It is often that I do this: I arrive at my task with a preferred subject, then set it aside in favor of the metadata surrounding that subject. What I arrived here with this morning was, among other things, the desire to tell you about how uncanny and strange the creative process is, that was the most salient creamy thing I had to say, and so now I will say it, even though I've already taxed your patience, I just know I have. But the weird, uncanny process of creation! Here is how that sometimes happens (prosaically—there is nothing, however, prosaic about what am describing, only how I am describing it): You'll be going along with your work in your yeoman way, mixing this pot of paint with that pot of paint in order to get the color you like, you'll be jamming your brushes into pots of paint, you'll be violating pictures with your profligate, dumb mark-making (that's another subject I need to talk about! [But not today]), you'll be cutting canvas, et cetera, et cetera, you'll be going about your everyday business of doing these things (and more besides), when suddenly, out of the thin air of no expectations, there will be, in the close distance of your clear-seeing eyes, something entirely new, fashioned out of—out of what ideas, exactly? What, again, were the series of impulses that led to this, this thing that is entirely unexpected, entirely new, entirely full of vitality and engorged with its own future? How again did this come to be? Whereas surely I was present in the making of it—surely! There was no one else in studio!—and whereas surely they were my hands that did X number of things that resulted in the unanticipated, surely they were not my hands, for I do not know how I got here, it was not intentional! (I cannot say poetry would have been a better way to describe this, I cannot say that because poetry is sister to the thing I am describing, it is too fine a thing to bear the mulish weight of description. And the thing itself, the thing itself: too fine! I have failed you, I am sorry.)