The first river I painted was on the shutter. A ship was tied up in the river. The river is hope. Back in prison I was sending notes out by flushing them in the commode in plastic bottles. I figured they would get to the river and somebody might pick them up. I guess I sent out hundreds of them. I was locked up six years straight. I sent notes out of the mental institution, too. I was begging for help. I was begging that someone would listen to me.
