I Love Forms Beyond My Own, And

The Freedom To Create Is Somehow Linked With Facility Of Access To Those Obscure Regions Below The Conscious Mind.

Every Time We Walk Along A Beach Some Ancient Urge Disturbs Us So That We Find Ourselves Shedding Shoes And Garments Or Scavenging Among Seaweed And Whitened Timbers Like The Homesick Refugees Of A Long War... Mostly The Animals Understand Their Roles, But Man, By Comparison, Seems Troubled By A Message That, It Is Often Said, He Cannot Quite Remember Or Has Gotten Wrong... Bereft Of Instinct, He Must Search Continually For Meanings... Man Was A Reader Before He Became A Writer, A Reader Of What Coleridge Once Called The Mighty Alphabet Of The Universe.

The Future Is Neither Ahead Nor Behind, On One Side Or Another. Nor Is It Dark Or Light. It Is Contained Within Ourselves; Its Evil And Good Are Perpetually Within Us.

From The Solitude Of The Wood, (man) Has Passed To The More Dreadful Solitude Of The Heart.

In The Days Of The Frost Seek An Minor Sun.