A Photographic Memory

I only remember the photographs.

The actual memories have floated away. But her parting words echo with a peculiar glowing intensity. Going round and round in a wheel of fire in some desperate recess of my rotting mind.

Was there really nothing else to be said?

— A red t-shirt etched with thin strips of white.

The tinnitus and pulsing vision of sleeplessness don’t provide any respite.

Of course there are devices galore. I could call, message, cyber stalk. Or even write a letter? No, you need an address for that.

—A tip-tilted smiling, knowing face. Searching for the best spontaneous camera angle. Billowing, swept-away long hair.

It is an artist’s vocation to make art out of even misery. This is the way to tap into the zeitgeist. Explore our shared humanity. Engage the audience’s emotions.

Yet not one tiny shred of inspiration swoops down to rescue me.

—A day of an extraordinary shimmering light, which washes away the colors but leaves its own luminosity in the greens and blues.

Isn’t art solace? The highest pursuit possible, whose practitioners decode, interpret life for the tribe? How can an artist become immobilized by life then?

Perhaps just a text? It can’t hurt right? I’m concerned, I should show it.

Right, ok!

 

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