You are a charactermade entirely of desire.I don’t want a caror a career or even a housewith a flight of stairsnecessarily.I would like to live, though.The most unattainable commodity: a plotwith no last page. You’re very abstract.Blue growths and blue fieldson a canvas. Of Joan Mitchell’sLes Bluets, Lydia Davis wrotethat in her confrontation ofmarks seemingly without symbol,she understood she couldn’t understand.And that was a revelation.When I look at the painting I thinkI’m seeing Mitchellas she builds her own seeing,closely and carefully, trialand error. Which is how I makemyself. Reanimatinga memory by movingback and forth over it untilthe familiar accumulatesinto the unrecognizable.You’ll probably never meet me.We never seethe same thing twice.