A Painting of a Memory

I occasionally have contact experiences of my own. Nothing major or earth-shaking, but personal to me and therefore of significance ... to me. Perhaps that is all the contact experience is, a private letter, a secret email or text, trivia that seems more important than it is only because it is odd and different. The strangeness is a magnifying glass, but the true image is just what it is, small, minor, ephemeral. A love letter saying sweet nothing can seem to touch the eternal. A personal slight or insult can be remembered and distort a life for decades. Nonetheless it is trivia, ephemera. 

Sometimes I paint my encounters, as a sort of personal diary. It allows me to both record and forget. This particular episode dates to early Spring 2019. I painted it from memory a few days ago:

In a way the extraterrestrials (I am old fashioned and see them this way) have done little more than teach me to find a visual language for myself, a style I am happy with. Also, a language, a way of thinking about myself in space and time. It is pleasurable, like a love affair, but there is little profound insight to come from it. One could call it an Education in Nothing. That is, I suppose, quite a serious topic!