To the integrity & quality of one’s work, in all things, so if it was captured, and magnified, the care would clearly have been seen.
Vasari, so the question I see us asking, outwardly or inwardly, maybe it matters maybe it doesn’t, not us for us to know—just thoughts, is “am I special, I mean, am I actually special—I know, I am in THAT sense, in the sense that we all are special or in the sense our mom’s believed sense, of us—but am I, are you, we—am I special & outset clearly from the millions of others, who, undoubtably, are doing special human things, being unique & gifted in THAT sense, but are we, are you, am I actually, perhaps, an incredibly rare once every 2000 years kind of special, the kind who sees & dreams, never fantasizes, & is stricken with something no else seems to have, but he assuredly had however bottled inside or let loose the thing he sensed, you & I sense, She senses & sensed all along, that there is something. I, we, are onto it, are supporting its release one degree, one act, one wedge, one listen at a time, despite its resistance, & its fear, & its shame, & its guilt, & its disbelief, & its isolation, & its darkness, & its confusion, & its fanaticism, its craziness, its…And when we dream, what do we dream of, is it the happy times or is it the memories, or is it the fantasies that allegedly don’t exist…To be important..To be confirmed… to be assured… To be responded to… to be held & seen with the same kind of care & the same kind of instant understanding & that I’m not being difficult, I am being full & it will take some time before my full is had out for you & others to drink. And so it occurs again, to which object is the real or complete canvas? Again, where does it end, where did it begin, why & how & who & so forth & so on but for how long is it on & when does it “off,” & does it hang this way [NOOSE] or does it hang this way [CROSS] or is it this [RECTANGLE], or maybe this [DOOR], & at what point does the story end, does it end with the life or does it end with life in general. To be clear, when does the creation stop if it stops at all? Does it stop when the weathered sharpie says no more of this undry spray paint on wood I refuse to permanize your strokes any longer? And what of this life beyond 8, beyond what we know of 7—in other letters, what do we know of the “I’m”s beyond the canvas; where does it end, where does it begin, where did it end, when does it start, why is it here, why is it this, how was it done, why was it done, where does it go, who is it for, why was it done, who did it, who’s doing it, why was it done, why are they doing it, what does it mean…Henry clasped the rings of his binder closed & went off to work.