So this is what is going on. The bridge is safe in the gallery. One of my professors wants to come to my studio and buy another piece, a larger piece, the same professor who bought "Empty Pockets." The briDge hangs. The paints have arrived. I ate Tofu at a friend's house.

Tomorrow is the Exhibition opening for us students. The Bridge is on the faR back wall in the Middle of the Gallery, exactly where I imagined it to be, and it was there when I walked in today. ThE bridge speaks all Languages. It tilts. IT spills. It has no home, just temporarily renting out in this space. (It cannot fit in my house, so I have to figure out what to do with it after the show.)

People have been looking at the bridge, close and from afar, and have asked about the bridge. IT has been good to talk about the bridge. People have talked about hope underneath the bridge. People have said how so much is happening. Some people cannot stand there too long, they walk away ... maybe afraid to confront it for what it might reveal to them. I don't know. Most people have stood there and really looked, which is what I hope for, it is for them, I did it for them.

Feelings change every day, every second, even ... you cannot always depend upon or believe them ... the other day I was depressed about the paintings, like "what am I doing?" ... then with a couple of glazed strokes here and there in a new bridge painting and the thought of the first bridge being hung in the gallery made me feel "good, aware and confident" in the paintings.

If the artist can just paint the right amount of strokes each day ... he will know refreshing mists of rain on his face ...