Memory, for all its faulty wiring, attaches itself more fitfully to situations lived outside of dates. Only History, and the study of Great Events, ties itself so firmly to a set of dates (i.e.: The exact day, place of an event, or Historical Period/Era.)
Personal history, on the other hand, is made up of many days and nights, never recorded as a specific date. As a result, memory can be fickle, fluid, and inevitably, faulty. Memory, clings tightly, to feeling and emotions, at times like maps of scar tissue. [Even the beloved’s soft flesh can be incorporated into a skein of memories.]
It is a different history I’m gathering here, [in scope, personal and private] without adherence to any calender dates, or complete coherence. The exact day, and my memory of the exact day, be it December 20th, or December 21st is of little importance in the grand scheme of things.
I’ve always had a problem with numbers; my brain could never wrap itself around them in any useful way. All calculations are a fog, alas!
I’ve lived for painting, and nothing more.
That is, until I met Beauty.