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Donald Judd drawings never did a thing for me.

A couple lines.  Maybe a block or two.

Minimalist.  I get it.

So why did a thunder begin to rise from my stomach

bolt straight through my throat and

leave with a faint sound of a whisper.

We’re not talking poetry, facts, or trivial information.

This was a full-on epiphany, with sweaty hands, a racing heart, and the longing for a witness.

This was a message from my spirit guides,

a missing link from my totem animal,

or maybe it was just a forgotten dream that’s been stuck in the air vents.

However you want to look at it.

Lines, blocks, bricks, maroon, burgundy, or cadmium red.

Right there is where it happened.

In front of drawings made when I was probably ten years old–

Sitting in a wheel barrel

that would carry the remnants of

rotten cabbage

and pruned rose bushes.

Or maybe around the time I started wearing Converse tennis shoes and collecting rubber bracelets.

Listening to Debbie Gibson.

Rebelling against a reasonable bed time.

Yes, that’s when it started.

I’d beg my Mom for a 25 cents notebook

that I’d keep under the mattress

like I was hiding my heart from the tooth fairy.

Anything to save myself from the lies I had to tell.

The truth I had to mold into perfect characters and settings.

Anything to document how I really felt.

What was really happening.

Who I was without the yelling and the neglect.

But now, none of that matters anymore.

Just like a Donald Judd drawing.

I’ve stripped the story of it’s original essence.

And found my salvation in a minimalist perfection.

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