I present these as little writings from a trembling frame that is poised, ever-ready to leap into the upper room.
In my dream, for the first time that I can remember, Cy Twombly was there, guiding me around his house, listening to me, telling me stories about his art collection. His voice was so soft, his movements slow, everything about him evinced gentleness. He felt kindly towards me, and I chose my words preciously to avoid clattering down a hole of stupidity and ruin the moment. The tour was not making me breathless or weep for joy. I was safe, emboldened. Quietly inspired. I didn't not feel like I didn't deserve to be there. On the contrary. I was a welcomed guest.
