The Artist Himself May Not Think He

I Can Rise Above The Humility Of My Failure With An Intense Desire To Search Deeper And A Blind Faith That Some Day My Sight May Pierce Through The Veils That Hide. I Know God's Face Is There If I Keep My Gaze Steady Enough.

The Memory Of Cumshewa Is Of A Great Lonesomeness Smothered In A Blur Of Rain.

The House Begins To Be A Home. The Unfamiliar Places Are Beginning To Fold The Familiar Objects Into Their Keeping And To Cozy Them Down. Objects That Swore At Each Other When The Movers Heaved Them Into The New Rooms Have Subsided Into Corners And Sit To Lick Their Feet And Wash Their Faces Like Cats Accepting A New Home.

The Earth Is Soaked And Soggy With Rain. Everything Is Drinking Its Fill And The Surplus Gluts The Drains. The Sky Is Full Of It And Lies Low Over The Earth, Heavy And Dense. Even The Sea Is Wetter Than Usual!

The Men Resent A Woman Getting Any Honour In What They Consider Is Essentially Their Field. Men Painters Mostly Despise Women Painters. So I Have Decided To Stop Squirming, To Throw Any Honour In With Canada And Women.