When I am alone with the lasting white of a totally blank page, I feel maybe that: I am most with myself. And I don’t think I can explain why. What makes it for me the best art form is largely to do with the way all you need is language and a form of recording it visually. Glyphs and contrasting space. And the way it is experienced as all in your own head. And how it is made uniquely yours, that way. I am trying something again. It’s a novel I’ve been stewing on for about 11 or 12 years now. I still have the remnants of what I used to think I wanted it to be well simulacra’d within me. To what I think it is now. I’ve restarted the process of visualizing it and putting it onto the page as its own entire thing. I only have about 20 pages. Largely I have no idea what I’m doing. The previous typewritten 150-or-so are in a sheaf in storage. I hope I can make it beautiful as I had wanted. I hope I can make it singular and my own. I desperately I think want to know most what it says about me. And to be able to actually create the thing and finish it. It’s a first volume alone right now, the end I am working toward. But I want to be able to finish it. One of those things I think I could see myself working on the rest of my life. But there is never enough time. Left. So it’s important to try. Also because: you are never going to be ready (Me, I). I used to think I understood that. But now that I have a new understanding, the truth of it I feel hits differently, deeper. Where before I imagined well yes but through the work of it I will be at a level I’d always wished I was at before I began. But now I think, according to the idea, no: I will actually never be ready. In a very real way. And with that concept lodged deep enough, I think it’s really freeing. It sortof gives me the freedom to just do the thing, without worrying over the fact that my standards outpace my capacity.