Godclit was dormant for a long time. In the beginning, it was a working surface, used as a tabletop. The image began to morph when she stepped into the picture. Sandra. She drew it out of me. Or I drew it out of her.

Our union caused a spark and within months the piece took shape. I made it for her, or about her, I no longer recall. At some point, the work takes on a life of its own and I obey.

A slit, a wound, an open flower. Growing, sweet, forever wider. From a woman grew a tree. Alphabet among the leaves. Above them extended tower. Child in cave bound by barbed wire. Another hanging from a thread

I should paint a fish instead. Everything fell into place, all except the human race. The sun set low but there was warmth. Coming somewhere far from north..

She appeared and with her, a flood. The formula formed, by itself, I don’t remember drawing it. I remember very little about this peice. I stopped seeing it long ago. The waterfall I remember. But is it a waterfall?

The monster’s hairy head, the cliff, the clit, the fire, the empty bed, the tree, the well, the blackened thread. I don’t remember making any of it. Only now I notice the eye or two or three or four, I stop counting. Am I mad? Am I imagining patterns where non exist? Impossible.

I tell you in humbleness, my creative nature needs taming not enhancing. I can get into a lot of trouble if I let go. And I can let go! It’s frightening and exhilarating. Madness is blissful.

This work takes me to the edge of very unfamiliar and alluring territory.