We duck in out of the ordinary into the local art college library, where browsing Rembrandt, Rubens, Van Eck, what thought strikes me other than that I want only (wantonly?) to open a book unread by another eye, unopened by other hands. On the new book shelf the huge Fluxus Codex pleases me no end, documenting everything like the oscillation of my everyday disarray reassembled into order, or my penchant to store pages of work in boxes, & my long-held desire to publish books in boxes, say, Portland Steamer Trunk, or the Portmanteau. Wolfli goes woefully untouched, & while I admire his decorative use of script, I loathe his choice of Kraft Cheese imagery, until young girls he molested start surfacing naked like putti around the edges of the accusation of his sainthood. Finally, Cezanne comes to the rescue in conversation with his blunt, workman-like, mechanic’s language, pulling no punches, talking of soil & sweat, & the recognition that no one in the century surpasses Courbet, the builder, mason, his crudeness, his plastering of paint, suddenly linking us all, Wolfli, & even Annajanga modeling the Fluxus Top & Bottomless Bathingsuit, Cezanne adamant that he’s mad for Courbet’s coarse nudes.