After Luke died at Tarawa many years ago, I never cried. Even the very expression of grief was more than I could bear. This morning on the beach I walked away from the house so that no one would hear me. And then I began to cry into the waves and the wind at a place where there was no one around. I picked up some rocks. Skimmed them into the water the way I used to do as a child. Sat down on a log and stared at the sea.

Angry about the compulsions. Suddenly I feel like I absolutely have to get up and wash the dishes. Or I must go downtown and go to a particular store. This has never happened to me before.

"You need to go home. You shouldn't be out here. You need to go home. Go inside."

It doesn't seem as if it is coming from my own mind. or rather it seems somehow programmed into my mind.

I dawdled a little -- blocking out the commands that have begun to destroy my happiness wherever I go. Then I headed home. Walking fast to dissipate the anger.

On the wall above me, there is a small painting that was done by a photorealist whose work was at one time sought after but who in recent years has had difficulty showing his work. I have been following his work for years, but it took me a while to find him.

"Finally I stopped trying to get it shown," he said when I asked him why I hadn't seen his painting recently. "Every rejection hurt so badly." In his studio, there were over 50 works of art that had never been exhibited.

I choose this particular work for the exhibition because it is so evocative of everyday life. It depicts in photographic detail a kitchen table set for breakfast. It is not a fancy breakfast but rather the sort of breakfast a single man or woman might have before leaving for work.