When people ask me what motivates my postcard campaign, my unflagging if unfocussed assault on the art world, I often return to my 1968 roots. This evening I went through my writings in search of this magical year. With the help of my faithful computer, this chore took me a few minutes only. Twenty-five years of writing and close to one million words committed to memory should have yielded a rich harvest, but I found very little, less than little, suggesting a peculiar blindness to this formative period of my youth. Indeed, 1968 appears in half-a-dozen notes at most. Most of these notes are peripheral, as well. In addition, most of them are apologetic about this peculiar blindness of mine. Perhaps I should stop apologizing, though. Perhaps all is as it should be. Perhaps the best way to bring 1968 to life is not to write about it at all.