My room rests around me like the seashore. My desk is a big old rock on which I relentlessly splash in waves that remind me of the sea. I’m serious. These don’t seem like books and papers; they seem like tidepools filled with hermit crabs, limpets, dead kelp, sand, driftwood, and twenty different kinds of algae. It’s most comforting to think that the moon and wind that drive me crazy are perfectly natural. It’s what anyone would be driven to.
17 July 1981