The same conditions that make it possible for me to do the work I want and to go with it down any avenue it leads me down, or I lead it, that is to say, to see any given impulse or trend in my work to its logical conclusion, also regularly make me crazy—stir crazy in my steel container that has no connection to the outside world except the colorless, featureless, flat California sky and freeway roar and industrial beeping that abounds. Nevermind the beeping—I can smother that with music—and nevermind the roar, though I should mind the roar, and have minded it, but the featureless sky with nothing else, not a single fiber of the natural world attached to it or intermingling with it and therefore my eye and therefore me, that I can neither forgive nor combat. It is as though I am floating in my steel container in some horizonless bland milkwater sea, detached from everything, drifting, isolated on an objectless sea, box-trapped, and my head exploding with ideas while at the same time imploding with none. And yet the work I am doing, what I have striven for, is exactly correspondent to these conditions that make me crazy and drain me of vitality that is fed by the work I do.