Q: That's it?

You rode around the state, then you read about Hemingway? Now you're doing memory paintings, with your memory failing?

A: My memory isn't failing. It just goes where it wants to, and I look for reasons, afterwards.

Sometimes it won't go.

I go somewhere else.

One place is as good as another.

Who am I to tell my memory what to remember, in what order?

Nothing surprises me and nothing matters very much.

I do this out of habit, or because it's what I do.

The process is inscrutable.

Q: I see.

A: If you don't expect much, you won't be disappointed.

Q: I see.

You're gone from art for art's sake to writing as a relflex.

Writing as peristaltic action.

The muscles contract and loosen. The turd moves through the chute.

A: I don't know.

I just do it.

Q: Bukowski's tombstone said, "Don't try."

You seem to be saying, "Don't worry about why. Just do it."

A: Go ahead.

That would be my motto.

Go ahead. Keep going.

Q: Like a shark.

A: Until they hit you upside the head.

Q: The shark's brain is the size of a walnut. All it knows is to eat, shit, and reproduce.

A: And keep moving.

Keep swimming. Sharks are beautiful swimmers.

Q: So you're a shark.

A: I think of myself more as a barracuda.

A purple and green barracuda.