Stories
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So I was thinking of approaching the problem from a perspective outside the reality, as what I was trying to-learn. But this does-not seem to be working-out either. A solution may be at hand however, as whatever pops-to mind whenever; since I have a so-called virtual-memory, or memory within memory; that more or less controls what the sequences of my creativity will-be, unbeknownst to my conscious mind. For how could-it when future creativity is completely unknown, and makes itself? rather than I make-it by preconception.
This is meant to encompass the second-year, as a rough idea of the my-thinking at the time. It may have been the year of-women, but for sure it was the year before my first epiphanic-experience. The pottery-shop was doing well. It paid my half of the rent, my food and utilities. I did everything with throwing I could do, although not that well; but good enough for what I was doing there; but which it must be said, a new layer is now being-added. I got-bored with the cylinder shape. I made plates, long-neck vases, with a wooden-extender - I made and very proud of it. I was not interested in pots for long. I quickly moved into sculpture, began to imitate metal-ware from the middle-ages; and that was even in a store window in North Beach; but nobody got it. It was art.
I made a foray in real woman-hood - please Ma'am. I made a commitment. I am love. I am courting her. She is exhilarating. She is like you. Remembering of-course our-deal of Saysum, and the would-be woman real. I saw her icon and thought that's her. And went from there. And all the time I assumed your approval.
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