Unmatched socks, please watch over my art

There are reasons things are left in the wind, but I'm not sure what they are.  Years ago, hours before my Brazilian grandmother died, I sat at her bedside and drew her.  I thought, what a better way to honor her in her passing; to sketch her in her last moments.  I believed these were some of the most hautingly beautiful sketches I had ever done, believed that some other force was working through me as an instrument.  I sent these sketches to some Brazilian friends and they never received them.  Poof.  Nowhere to be found.  This meant that she was immortalized and I sent her soul to Brazil.  At least that's what I thought. 

A couple of years ago, I collaborated with a brilliant artist at Webster University and on the day of our show, he decided to kick his heroin addication.  He was unable to make it.  I borrowed his car, and when the show was over, loaded all of our art into the car and returned it to his house to be dealt with the next day.  I never heard from him again.  Poof.  All art gone.  

A few months ago, I left a DVD case full of all my movies at a friend's house.  We were seeing each other and although he denies any possibility of it, I believe his jealous ex-girlfriend stole the case.  In this case was the one and only master copy of art videos I made while in art school.  My entire Woody Allen and Wes Anderson collections gone.  Nowhere to be found.  Poof.

I have to believe that art exists to be set free.  If it is not owned, it can be immortalized.  It either dies in a storage unit or it lives on someone's wall, in a memory, or it lives in an imaginary place where socks also go.