May 2, 1999: When love is more than sex
My wife turns me on—not because of my love, it’s her willingness to let me explore—to reach out to the wind, touch a falling leaf before being forgotten forever. What must it be that keeps me wanting and needing this canvas? Am I a child at play? Am I a sandbox, Tonka truck or a train with an oval track? My lungs expand at the very touch of a canvas so filled with emptiness…am I an adult in search of? If the answer is ever located—will I stop writing for the day or forever?