My fragments in memories on sheets torn— not to regret an act of fear or trauma, but to keep in memoriam the acts of courage that followed.
You're on twitter. You follow the news on the war in Ukraine. You were there when Kyiv did not fall. You were especially awake the night the Russians invaded. You are sucked into the algorithm of wanting to know when a third world war may occur. And without warning you notice psychological operations through your phone. Testy ads all throughout your feed, triggering posts that may ring and insult your bells in some ways, violent images on Archillect downing your spirit. It makes you feel you may have been on the list... much more convinced because of the voices you hear and all the possibilities with satellites around for awhile— unbeknownst to you much technological advancement that has occured in the field since.
That day you went out to celebrate your aunt's and sister's birthday, the first time you see the former again, you ate little you thought you could be poisoned, forgetting it's a buffet! You go home and see a post. You've been intruded, that's what it's trying to say. You checked signs by the main and the back door. "Mossad" was pushed further behind on the shelves. They're signaling: you are not alone and could never be left alone. You checked the post one more time. Your documents are not safe without you at home because surely they've read your diary, but unlikely everything within two hours you were away. So you ripped them to pieces. Even if it's likely they won't be able to read your script, you ripped them apart. And yet... regretful of the act, you chose to keep them.
That was how it was a year ago. Different and more sinister attacks would then follow until by God's mercy it retracted to a bearable degree. Nowadays, despite the ire every now and then, light enters through me each day, my face abright with ideas. So today, I was able to begin a ritual closure— a form of kintsugi I'd be reminded of. In large installations of Manila paper or illustration boards, I'd post each piece I've shred from itself.
The Manila papers I'd source from my sister she created as gift covers. Now her art is a gift to me— mine leaning on hers, one of the walls holding me up as I pull my Humpy Dumpy back together again.
Two sides of a shredded piece, one to take the rear as behind the scenes, soaked to stick to the backdrop the other pressed against. Gluing one by one, delicate. Fragile, to handle with care. I tore them as fast as I can, now I put them together as slowly as I can. Taking a moment with each piece of the pages I've torn apart, as how they should be honored. No overlap to take their space.
With a quick glance to read visible words, one or two of my scripts, interacting with them that each word owns its meaning. Choosing the ones with the most ink to front, bringing them more to light. Flipping back and forth, choosing the better word. "Feel" is more than "above". I took "responsibility" over "challenge". I see a negative word on one side, it's washed with glue. "Freed" on "fears". Yet at times I'd have to choose it for its alternative would be a blank space. However, at times there's nothing on both.
Feeling my ink on thick pulps I filled. Points where I put on glue I pressed against the hive, fighting against its bulges as it waved parametrically. Stuck with the perforations of the parametric paper, it's hard for my pieces to hold firm.
Some letters amiss but can still be read whole. If meaning remains, the art remains.
With hundreds of pages from three diaries and two small notebooks, I know I can only create 10 canvases to cover the upper walls of my room— enough to leave space for my other art.
If anyone wants to visit the exhibit, you can come visit my room!
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