Whatever work I do I do because I desire to do it. I cannot operate under the gun of compulsion or the pressure to perform. The necessary chores are few and these I must do if the house is not to stink or our bellies ache. But the art and writing are not definers of my person. Nor are any so-called creative products. Much is made of creativity, of genius, the ideal and the image of the The Rich Man. What is creation? Does it have a definition, a kind of formula for achievement? Creation is in this instant, in the sound of that vortex fan blowing a refreshing breeze onto me and the hum of the air purifier reducing any noxious odors emanating from our next door neighbors. Creation includes both the great and small, the ugly and the beautiful. It has no favorites. It is violent in its destructive power. Creation is now and embraces fatigue, pain, and triumph. Creation is the awareness of both the beautiful and the ugly, recognizing how the conditioning process is essentially corrupting, watching the little children run the sidewalk, observing the striking and subtle effect of light on the city, on the faces and shapes of everyday life.