More Working with Forgetfulness …

When Did I Become an Artist? 

You have insisted that I paint with you and tell me that my scribbles are … What’s the word?

Beautiful you said, yet …

My body, my life, my history, is lost to me.

When I remember that you are next to me and that I don’t know you, you invite me into a yoga class.  Yoga?  I have not answered and you take my hand and lead me to a new chair.

A new view.  A new voice.  A new neighbor.

My identity is slippery and then you come again and appear before my seat and you tell me that it’s time for lunch.

I am so tired.  I am painting.  I am throwing paint onto the table and I tasted the blue.  Now you are flustered and I am admiring my colors.

I am exploring performance and get such little recognition for my larger works.

Sometimes I think of quitting.