My Memories confine me with a censorship of years. My artist fell into shadows of another’s art. A “Shadow Artist” I became hidden. Now knowing the light was less than optimal for the art he fashioned. It was dark and having canvas paintings of wild looking women, birds or animals flying from their hair; were as dark as the studio. The painting looked a lot like Cher became. I heard later that she even bought one of his paintings. I had wild long and curly hair and while I appeared unfettered, I was a screaming poem existing inside hiding my truth. I wanted to be one of his women and so I was. The heat of my naked body with his on the floor. A mattress in a dust laden attic floor covered us. Consequently starting a practice, I had no concern of what was happening or my truth or anyone’s. He told me I had magic hands as I took my breath blowing love into my every touch when I massaged his body. I was his but he could not be mine. My poetry began in the openness of a generation wrapped in love and rebellious, becoming a half truth. Really not know who I was; only longing to open to add light to my life of discovery!
