Looking at a blank page is like looking into the center of the universe and discovering that it is white. White is substantial, the basis of all color. Now that there are little black letters on this white page it is no longer itself. It has been assaulted. Sliced and pickled. This is when the artist feels most uncomfortable. How can we paint or write anything as beautiful as the white page or canvas, manifestations of the white center of the universe, where the unknown greatness floats? The eternal white and bright where the star dust of our ancestors and friends are silent, and remind me that the white page, the white sky, the white, see through, see nothing, wall of blank, pulpy flatness is a gift that cannot be unwrapped. The whiteness is an empty lap. I try writing my way toward it, to be encompassed, rocked, suckled, bounced on a knee, a child again in my mothers arms, but my mothers arms are star dust, and wordless.