Postcard Artist   My outdoors is a vista of dots:   I reduced Brooke Moore Centre to several hundred, and two passers-by oblivious to the nature of matter disintegrated into a hundred each. An old man following was twenty dots extra, because he was taller and wore a hat.   He was shuffling towards the R.S.L. club, which I reduced a week earlier, before officialdom moved me on, thinking me a radical making a mockery of form and old soldiers who’d rather fade.   I’m using lines less and less to suggest reality. I know they are articulate and can…