A wet, grey morning on Harris Creek; the rain gods are still with us; it is a deliverance. Somewhere in the windy silence a barking. A solitary place is a hidden place, the place a child might hide, as underneath a lilac bush; inside that bush, seeing, but unseen; delight in not responding to Grandma's calls, like Narcissus.

Seeking solitude is regressive, a "return to an earlier condition." Narcissism is a stage in the development of a public person. The public place is the place outside the hiding place, it is the world outside my room or womb; it is that space that exists between my garden and the wilderness. The public place is the stage where the drama and the comedy are acted out; to be in public is to be in the play.

The solitary is a non-participant, one who wants to watch, a voyeur. In regressive movement the drama is taken back into the body of the watcher; real public persons are reduced to images, like reflections in a pool. It is in that place that I read and write. Tap Tap.