I do not remember. I do not remember me. I do not remember my life. No funerals, weddings or awards. No birthdays, parties, babies, trips or celebrations. No holidays, homes, functions, romance, gifts or skills. I’ve let them all go as none of them were mine. But I make art.
Since I started being creative daily I’ve started remembering my mundane daily life. The weather, my daily life, the mountain, my dogs, my moods and my home. I’ve tuned more into me. I am the little things. Tiny moments, often overlooked, become lost. But when I look at my art I recall; I remember. I remember the day, the music, the weather. I remember my mood, and friendships, and smells, and what was going on with my people at that time. I’m often blown away by the people around me. Always actually.
I am not Batman. I’m not even Robin. I’m not even in the story - but now somehow the silliest traumatic experience that happened recently have reminded of a past in me that I cannot seem to shake.
All of my saddest moments have come to visit me one by one in the past day. Almost patiently. Showing face and leaving. Usually my art reminds me of my past, but now my past reminded me of my art. The artwork herewith was made when I was saddest I have ever been. Sad in retrospect. I felt it then but didn’t know it. I process these things slowly you see.
I’m still at a loss for describing that period of my life for it deserves to remain in the abstract. Things get tangled down in words. Some things are better not to tie down, then they might fly away. Amazed at how trauma links reflexively to my most important arteries. This says nothing. I’m sorry.
He’s a wrestler.