Writing and drawing trace a path

that forms the body: the pen and colored pencils following the seamless expression of a life lived through art, as art.  Tracing the skin and synapses, roots of flowers bathed and moistened in moonlight surface in each breath, respond to the calls of chickadees and Stellar’s jays, to George purring in my lap, respond to Virginia Woolf, Gertrude Stein, James Joyce, and others whose works I crave, alive in their living, spilling syntax as they are read.  Joyce proclaimed, “[A] portrait is not an identifactive paper, but rather the curve of an emotion.”  This is my curve.