Weekend working. I finished a piece for a show that opens on Wednesday and took it into Manhattan and dropped it off.

And here’s how I know I’m an artist: prety much nothing feels better to me than working on and then finishing this thing. When I got it done, I knew it was good. And deep down it felt right. Better than a workout, better than some kinds of sex, better than a good meal. It’s so easy for me to forget that it’s the most satisfying thing that I can do.

I’ve been around for almost half a century, and noodling around with wires and beads and stuff I picked up on the street six months ago makes me happier than almost anything else I can name. I’m happy that I’ve got a life where I can do that almost as much as I want. I wish that feeling didn’t slip away, because it’s the best rebuke to any and all procrastination.