In the past we described only the sycamore in front of the Humanities Research Center. Here is what I wrote two years ago: Oct 6, 1998 Sycamore At first I resisted drawing the tree: words pouring out of my mind, as if trying to land on the page. But I made myself do the assignment. I drew the overall shape of the tree against the background of the Harry Ransom Center. I found myself tempted to spend more time on the HRC building, as it seemed so much easier and more "natural" to draw the straight lines and right angles. My mechanical pencil seemed made for straight lines. Capturing the irregular shape of the tree with any kind of fidelity seemed much more difficult: I could not turn the lead of the mechanical pencil on its side to make a more impressionistic, charcoal drawing effect. In other words, even as I began the assignment I was still drawing on the left side of my brain, the side oriented to straight lines and shapes that are in fact not "natural," rarely seen in nature, but often seen in machines: "mechanical" shapes.

Eventually, making good use of my eraser, I found a way to represent the tree to my satisfaction. I erased the hard edge outline of the tree I had drawn and got a softer, more irregular, hence more "accurate" outline. (The Impressionists are my favorite painters.) After adding trunks and branches and mottling here and there it seemed that the first stage of my drawing was complete.

Then I noticed one of the tree's leaves at my feet. Reverting to some childhood memory, I knew what to do. I picked it up and traced its outline. This was much more satisfying. I was now really drawing on the right side of my brain. Then I received my reward. Eureka! The irregular outline of the leaf was the same as the irregular outline of the tree! The stem bent to the left just the way the trunk of the tree did! The jagged outline of the leaf matched that of the outline of the tree's foliage! I felt a harmony, I discovered a law in nature! I had dim memories of Chaos Theory in which the part repeats the pattern of the whole ad infinitum.

I still felt the pleasure of the shift from the left to the right side of the brain, but I seem now to be drawing on the left side to communicate an experience of the right side. However, the two pictures, side by side, tell the story in an instant. It's so much more difficult with words. AS they say, a picture is worth a thousand words. But words track, or at least leave better traces, of my ever changing consciousness. But then who cares? Once I have shifted to the right side of my brain I just want to put down this journal and drop words and just look and listen and be.

When I do so, my mind wanders though, to tasks, problems to be solved. Have I trained my right brain to do that? Is it a virtually automatic survival skill? Back to words: the tree in front of the HRC, the repository of words, including a copy of The Book, the Gutenberg Bible, along with literally tons of literary words. (It also houses a great photography collection, though, and some visual art.) The tree in literature, especially the tree in "Thyrsis" comes to mind, which stood for Matthew Arnold's lost companion. I recall the big cypress at Waller Creek which I associate with Joe Jones, where he and I used to sit for lunch. Will that tree become associated also with me when I am gone? I would prefer my little plot of land near Lake Travis but no doubt that will be sold to a developer when I am gone. What about this tree. It seems better protected, at least from developers, at UT.

But of course everything vanishes. Right after I finished drawing that leaf a wind gust came a blew it away. I could not find it again! The leaves I picked up were different. Yet it was with me long enough for me to feel the unity within all this variety, the unchanging within the changing.