History in small chunks

I have sold The History of My Life.

My autobiography sailed off out the door piece by piece. I opened the doors, the world came, and carried it off.
Thoughts: standing in the hallway dabbing, worrying about paint on the baby, naughty fingers dipped in, my horizons shrinking and broadening, justifying this very act,thoughts articulated, sorrows annihilated with the stabbing of my brush. Each one has a story in each smear, which only I can see: a narrative of my own.
To disappear into that zone of relational abstracts, the real world locked out, sends you into your own imagination. I have had many a good conversation there.
I guess I wage my own little war when I make things.

Were my life-history a book, it would breed and multiply by the thousands. I could have my cake AND eat it too.
But I isn't a writer but a cavewoman, with a handful of ochre-and-bear-grease.

I sold one canvas (for an exhorbitant sum) and "I felt like to cry" as my small boy would say. And cry I should not, for I shall fly somewhere with that sum, if I am careful.


With my little sack of gold, made with my honest little hands, I am sailing over the horizon: free as a bird, quick as a fish.