Turn the page. Cast a glance. Inhale warm cinnamon. It felt real right? You might love to read.

Did Pollock even need the light that came through this window? Of course, he did. To see where his emotions had put the paint!

What is your earliest memory? What would you change about it?

Here is a curious thought. Writers experience, then filter, then agonizingly transfer, through words, what they believe they've felt. And even then two people, reading the final version of those same pages of words, might miss what he'd intended.

At eighteen he was a boy. And he was a man. But mostly he was still a child. (All boys DO think about such things.) He mightn't acknowledge his lingering child-ness for decades. A view or a breeze could, without-warning, revive old feelings. Years fell off, and he was a boy again.