THUNDER BELOW THE HORIZON

Every so often it is nourishing to revisit those early,  earnest attempts at capturing on paper the incontinent emanations of youth- I am not referring to anything organic- that so enthralled their audience of one. Most examples of my own efforts perished in the conflagration, and not the ones I would have chosen, either; but as I cherish authenticity above all other virtues there is nothing I can do except honor the past as it was.

This drawing will give you an idea of the sort of chaos that pounded away at me during the days of mouse-in-the-water. Looking at it I can easily remember the pleasure I felt at getting the upper hand of the situation and dragging into the quotidian world such souvenirs of my exclusive corner of the beloved shining realm. At the time I wouldn't have traded my problems for anyone else's success; though of course I now feel differently, having realized the terrible price one pays for being isolated.

This image is circa 1968, my own Summer of Clut.