I’m not a visual artist; I’m a writer. When the curators invited me to write something, they asked what “inspired” me. I’m rarely “inspired”; my writing’s work. Like wrestling with something I can’t even touch. Much of the time I hate it. Maybe that’s why I surround myself in my studio with physical stuff. The Frye Art Museum wanted to bring some of this stuff into the galleries. Included are some “altered books” I made from others’ words when I couldn’t make words of my own. I was told my space would be in four bays in the hallway. The space is between the closet and the elevator. Being between a closet (outside of which, as a very out gay person, I have lived for decades), and an elevator (inside of which, and upward ascending in which, as an inward-living, God-fretted person, I would like to someday live) makes perfectly terrible, funny sense to me. The four words GOD, MOTHER, COUNTRY, and ROCK n ROLL (the latter phrase one word conceptually) came into my head. The words go one way, left to right, but the narrative goes the other, wrong way, backwards, right to left, as you come in from outside. The story begins with noise and Bacchus and rock n roll, then it’s about finding heroes and forebears and saints who help, then saying good-bye to the bodies of the dear and beloved and troubled, remembered dead, and then pursuing or being pursued or not or being found or not by something I don’t know whether a thing or word or not or one divine.