Passioned out. Your style appears to be thawing out. The mud of ancient lakes is like a history book, its pages being the thin layers of mud; and all the historian needs is a drill to collect a column of mud from underwater and the ability to read these muddy pages. The words are there to find their voice, the acrid copious dye that mells blue with snow white through their fringe and fray, the only one at the party they wanted to meet. It’s a world of solids, liquids, gases, gels, pastes, colloids, vapors, baby. The critics were obliged to take a metaphorical detour, produce their own hesitations, play with the picture’s recalcitrance, before they declared it a nude of some kind—comic perhaps, or obscene, or incompletely painted. In Olympia, it’s February now for new osoberry leaves.
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