Donna Rising

It was how she knew, maturity, the proportionate cowl, was growing over the once feeling parts of her.
Or should it be bright, sensitive, owed. Equal, mutually when in the presence of others stealing to attain
balanced parts of her. Familiar to take on how to account for when it came and talked. Spent a whole stretch
called life in a shadow. And what was, that past shape too flat and ground-devoted to be filled, but caulking
for the fickle moving vacuums committed to the fixed given out of affection for other people? Time to
be someone, of her own. Eased into the charged sift. Back, reclaimed like she never was before. It took years. It
gradually selected strength without her help. It found purpose where usually once there were only
insecure misbalances. Millimeters, the men that claimed understanding unfolded, revealed how much of
themselves were composed of her. And how could any of it stand to improve, if they were what they claimed--
husband, brother, father? The moving nuances of a great, blind, interchangeable loneliness. Which could
be owed directly to neither--division from prior wholeness or its instability. The brevity of cucumbers, peppers,
tomatoes from her garden, their interchangeability, their frank minor ness, once the clods were washed, were
pedagogically simple. The twists and misgrowths were their only deviation. The rest a phylogenetic
transference. One end of an unseen smile to another. That felt like
teeth all the way.

To William, then, art was an extension and clarification of the fluid, fugitive deliverances of experience. It was a special, deliberate mode of 'taking'. It was creation also in the sense in which the mind creates all objects, but with inner and outer relationships offered in a form that gives the impression of complete novelty and a heightened reality. It satisfies a need not satisfied by work, play, thought, or worship. From such a sensibility one might expect a corresponding subtlety of perception and behavior in personal relations.