We are the ones made of sticks, we are the houses of sticks, houses built on sand. We are frail and weak, fragile and terrified. I am a little doll made of sticks (I was made by a child in the woods). I have bark connecting my parts together, strips of bark tie me together. My head is made of wood and my arms and legs are sticks, tiny sticks (for I am a tiny thing). There is a ghost in this body of sticks, and the ghost is I. There is a tiny ghost, a small spirit in these woods, and it does not occupy much space, but only this body of sticks. I am all the things madmen fashion out of sticks on porches and in the yards of asylums. And if someone with a superstitious nature burns me in some fire, I will escape with the smoke and enter some other object that someone else is making. For there is constant creative activity that never reaches galleries or publications or recognition, and I sit inside the unrecognized creative work, the art that is not defined as art and is therefore pure. I am in the sculpture of sand someone makes at the beach, just a little mound of sand with sticks coming out the sides for arms; but soon the tide will come in and wash me away. People create me without knowing what they are doing or why they are doing it--they are expressing their innermost selves and daydreaming with objects and matter; and this is not considered art, and it is constantly being made and perishing from the earth. This is where I am found, and I am never very far from you: you create me every day.