It was a time of honest madness and of madness’s honesty, up all night in a small, dirty apartment, writing, drawing, sculpting, forgetting to eat or sleep. If not doing one of those three things, I had my nose in a philosophy book, furiously scribbling smudgy notes, my pedestrian notions, that had arrived only by the grace of reading the brilliant thoughts of truly great men. By contrast, I was just a cat batting at my own shadows on the wall. Still, I read.
There were some women during that time, attracted to the art, wishing to understand the artist. In truth, despite my introspection, I didn’t fully understand myself. None of them lasted, and while I hungered to be known to someone, by someone, none were even capable of understanding. They weren’t the one, if such a thing exists; I’ve argued otherwise. Still– each, in time, became a thought unspoken, a conversation abandoned.
Then, after all the tumult of finding myself, or parts thereof, even at the expense of love, I abandoned myself as well, for twenty years. I became what I had eschewed, a shill for the corporate world, stable and respectable. Given enough time to dissect it all, I might discover the reasons, though I’ve my suspicions.
I’m back now, ready to find the rest of me, that which I had torn to confetti, like a bad sketch, that which I’d given the wind’s careless whims two decades prior. The crude rendering above, which I have always felt captured my essence closely, is a twenty year old self portrait, large sections not yet solved, the entirety loosely defined, less known than unknown, unfinished, as are we all.