At the time I spent my time reading Gertrude Stein. I spent so much time reading Gertrude Stein and also Proust I was no longer American. I was cured. The laughter of local flora became unintelligible. The current president ceased to matter and possibly to exist. The village emotions became garish, and my eyesight slowly grew accustomed to the intricacies of spider webs, the estrangement of fiber work within a single sundrenched leaf. It was the festival of choosing: was I what was I whether high wind or indoors. Was it worth it to have a point of view. It was I calculated certainly worth it of course dependent as always on what it it was. My little dog knew what it I was.  What else? I no longer wanted a readership. I got no more into painting than as into it as I was before that time I spent much of my time reading Gertrude Stein, Proust, Knausgård. I was cured. Nothing presented itself as mine anymore. The townspeople would walk past me and look through the window of my study and find only paintings adorning an empty room. I was cured of a country, cured of a readership, never alas to be cured of a name. My little dog even knew what it was. Yes she knew me as I knew America because I was no longer American. At last there was something within me that could fight itself.