The Fine Art of Disappearing

janice j. cunningham

Today is Tuesday. I am embarrassed to admit that sometimes, I am not sure of dates, days, time. I have been living days at a stretch in a space that simply cannot be defined in linear or quantitative terms.  This is not escapism, but rather, a survival measure.

Physical pain has subsided after last night’s unexpected dip into a fresh inferno of screaming nerve damage and charred skin.

Emotional pain: thankfully, nonexistent any more. Just a vaccuum where that was — an expectant, quietly joyful void. It is all good. Very, very good.

I am painting outdoors in the cloudy Long Island chill, the air heavy with rain not yet fallen. I will complete three canvasses before I leave New York: nine ladybugs, one big red crab, and a third, a magic spell of sorts: a  portrait of two souls who parted ways in a silent blaze of anger and sadness, leaving…

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