I want to make love to members of the Ku Klux Klan. I hope they understand I'll spend many a love-sweat night striving to convert them to compassion. * You never get over, forget, transcend your first love. My first love was dance. The heat of that love is a sun that moves me as it travels through gorgeous sky the way old-fashioned theater curtains crept across a magical stage till they met in the middle with a touching velvet flourish. * Why watch soap operas except to follow the love affairs? My grandmother sat gripped by the screen's transfixing rays most wintry afternoons. Branches follow the wind's breath; so my grandma swayed to each TV embrace, bent to every kiss as if each one was the last affection the world would ever.

Sad in your happiness, young/old in your looks, you look for sources of energy the way hyperactive nations consume all consumables. You hope to get the energy you give. You are fun, fabulous fun, oh sweet honey, so much fun! At 6669 Deacon Place, a chic club: you tickle the air. At a party turned orgy you become pure sitcom. Who will entertain you when you tire of titillating others? Beat, yet intoxihigh, wig-hair flying you strutwalk 4:00 a.m. lanes using luck to ward-off predators, hoping drugs will conjure contentment. Hope fades as your makeup disappears into flakes...smudges-- a mask refusing fine-tuning. By dawn, your life's screen resists all adjustments. Color all gone, the black-and-white picture weakens; glaring static-snow thickens.

I don't know why I like your work why I find these boxes, rectangles, squares a draw, hypnotic visual rhythm trance-inducing as a storefront psychic. The layers, the intricate shadows embedded in cubes, walls, they seduce me like a text beneath a text I can't help picking at--a tongue at a tooth. A roller-coaster of enjoyable turbulence moves the eye, entertains and haunts the eye, breathes from this ordered rubble, this mountainous tangle, this tango of tactile shapes. The best of all possible worlds pokes out of and hides in these cubicle closets. What fascinates is what is mysterious, that which is behind the bars, beyond sightlines, below, above. What's compelling is what welcomes despite elusive contours placing cryptic outlines in the air. I don't know exactly why I love your work, Louise, but I do.