What keeps me walking up the same path, setting out at first light, hills hidden behind misty scrim, slogging through falling drifting leaves, loose stones trundling beneath nagging feet,
to the wood's weedy heart?

His work abounds with examples of stagings which make use of scenes from nature, ancient myths, and historical themes which refuse to be reduced to the terms of objective reference. Their power derives from what he negates as from what he appears to affirm through referential devices.

I found myself back in the old temple surrounded by steep hills, the snow-coned mountain in the distance. Tang of incense, low drone of mantras, wide sleeves rustling with the smugness of knowing, while yes and no remained antagonists within clean-shaven heads. I awoke thousands of miles and decades away, and still bald.

I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.

According to Karin Sanders, "There is no such thing as the historical, the ethnological, or the geographical imagination, but that each of necessity comes in multiple forms." Existence is more flickering than fact.

Here is where every thing begins, and I am under the influence
of things or questions which were left incomplete and unanswered
by my parents and grandparents, and more distant ancestors began to matter. Here, too, with all the epochs present, that shard is this dream: an archaeology of aesthetics in which "You’re not
a painter until you’ve painted grey.”