A poet is different because of his also:  clouds are also alive, fantasy is also real.

Psychologists speak of the “lyrical flux” of the unconscious. I meditate that, hopefully, my freely flowing painting may be as a Song from my Deep Unconscious, my Soul.

To learn the secret of a magic trick is to diminish our wonder. We now know more – but Know less. Life is magic, its Source the Secret. The more biology, the less Wonder.

The composer proudly proclaims: “Composing for me is creating within constraints.” Why must there be constraints? Why is he so fearful of his Muse singing free?

I find myself singing “Cheek to Cheek” as I'm painting. That's how close, how intimate, we are, the canvas and I – and we're dancing!

Psychologists declare that, as the child matures, he comes to realize that clouds are not alive. Well, I'm a child – again.

Not just to paint – but to paint musically: an outward expression of the lyrical flux, the Pulse, of the Deep Unconscious.

Listening to Hovhaness, I'm aware of the superb composing. But with Handel, no composing – it's just There. Differing degrees of Inspiration.

I'm gazing at the clear sky above the trees, wondering about the Spirit World. A solitary cloud, so white, floats by – then all is blue again.

I cup the little pot of coffee in my hands, and bring it gently to my lips to kiss: “Good morning, Mama.”