October 28, 2016
Drawn by finger in texts to Meade last night, without thinking.
I'm remembering them now as I read about rats in the NYT: "How the Brown Rat Conquered New York City (and Every Other One, Too)." I take the trouble to try to draw the rat in one of this pictures...
Ack! Too much detail.
Not enough room in the window for my favorite parts, the steppin'-out paws....
Too much detail to take account of. I need to look away, forget about it, and try again later going on whatever impression is left on my brain... the tiny paw-tracks of memory.
Makes me think of Wordsworth: "Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility." Recollected. That's key.