In between working on what I term "real art", I've been working on an art journal reflecting on my childhood. Or maybe I should clarify this: reflecting on my childhood as I see it. What I remember and how I remember it. Whether or not this actually qualifies as art, I'm not so sure. But I do know it's cathartic as hell. Not that my formative years were so awful I would need extensive analysis to be a whole and normal adult now. It wasn't like that at all. I didn't have an especially bad childhood, per se. I mean, I had fun and I was loved by those who love me still, so how bad could it have been? Still, it's funny how certain photos trigger specific memories and feelings, good, bad or otherwise. On one day working on one page, I find I'm happy as a clam, while other days and with other pages, I can be weepy and "off". How a photo from when I was two and simply sitting on the porch, even though I can't remember any other specific details from that day long ago, can trigger something so primal in me, I'm not sure, but it does.
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