Time Is A Tree (this Life One

O Sweet Spontaneous Earth

Love Never Dies A Natural Death. It Dies Because We Don't Know How To Replenish Its Source. It Dies Of Blindness And Errors And Betrayals. It Dies Of Illness And Wounds; It Dies Of Weariness, Of Witherings, Of Tarnishings. Anaïs Nin I Like Not Only To Be Loved, But Also To Be Told I Am Loved. George Eliot Love Is The Voice Under All Silences, The Hope Which Has No Opposite In Fear; The Strength So Strong Mere Force Is Feebleness: The Truth More First Than Sun, More Last Than Star.

Your Poems Are Rather Hard To Understand, Whereas Your Paintings Are So Easy. Easy? Of Course - You Paint Flowers And Girls And Sunsets; Things That Everybody Understands. I Never Met Him. Who? Everybody. Did You Ever Hear Of Nonrepresentational Painting? I Am. Pardon Me? I Am A Painter, And Painting Is Nonrepresentational. Not All Painting. No: Housepainting Is Representational. And What Does A Housepainter Represent? Ten Dollars An Hour. In Other Words, You Don't Want To Be Serious - It Takes Two To Be Serious.

Whatever's Merely Willful, And Not Miraculous (be Never It So Skilful) Must Wither Fail And Cease - But Better Than To Grow Beauty Knows No.

The First Step To Expanding Your Reality Is To Discard The Tendency To Exclude Things From Possibility.