More and more often I find myself standing up. I read standing up, I think standing up, I do nothing standing up. I either pace or stand motionless. Sometimes I stand in one place but with a very slight swaying, or I put my hands in my pockets and rock from side to side. Sometimes, embarrassingly, I engage in glacially slow quasi-tai chi moves of my own spontaneous invention. I twirled once, big mistake. Sitting isn't sitting well with me. I simply won't stand for sitting, due to some kind of mental restlessness, therefore I stand, not from some new fondness for standing itself. It certainly isn't physical, except of course in its expression as a physical compulsion. What do I mean when I say that it's not physical? Even when I feel lethargic I am moved to stand, is what I mean or might mean. I can't stand to sit so I stand, it's that simple. This antagonistic feeling toward sitting, which has continually driven me to rise to an erect position in which I tower sixty eight inches above the floor, is surprising and unwelcome. I'm not a loomer by nature. I'm one of the great contemporary sitters. The first thing I do when I walk into a room is look for the most comfortable chair. The vertical posture is, for me, one of awkwardness and pointless risk and exposure. What do you do with your hands? Has anyone ever satisfactorily solved the hands problem? To be perpendicular to the earth is to invite catastrophe. People have long admired my talent for just sitting there. I always wanted to be known for something but maybe sitting is aiming a little low.