Shadows

It's striking to me how much I hold back from people. I am cagey about my past, the things I have done, the experiences I've had. In those rare moments when I do let my guard down, let something slip, I receive incredulous looks from strangers who see me as just another white boy. Maybe that's just it: maybe I'm tired of appearing as just another standard, middle-class, anonymous, seemingly priviledged white male. And as long as I keep my past in the closet I appear as just that. I want to grab people, to scream at them, to make them take notice. Look at me!! Look deeper!! I am not what I seem to be. I am less; I am more. I have felt pain. I have thought about death. I have hurt myself just to feel. And now, as you see me, right now, I am on the edge. Certainly, I have proven myself to be the artful dodger. Sometimes I feel that all I have accomplished thus far has been the fruit of careful manipulation. Me, the charismatic con, not wanting to take anything from you, just wanting access into your world. Yeah, sometimes I feel like a fake. But what the fuck? I want to find somebody that will sit next to me and stroke my hair while I vomit my past into the toilet. I want to fucking flush it. To start anew. But until I find somebody to serve as my midwife, I am stuck bearing this burden - and stuck hiding it from those around me. And who the fuck would want to play that role?

Hmmm. The Rain.

There is something about a mid-August hot rain in the city. The way the thunder announces the inevitable downpour. Back in California, a summer rain would bring with it an absolutely unique smell. Some combination of wet manure and steam. And everybody would notice it, would comment on it. The smell of rain in the summer; such a rare occurance in the valley. But here, nobody but myself seems to notice the August rains. I seem to be the only one who as they walk the streets looks to the skys to greet the rain. I seem to be the only one who responds to the thunder with a wry smile. Likewise, I seem to be the only one without an umbrella, perpetually surprised by the summer rain. Well, to be perpetually surprised...

The Kid's Got Eyes Up His Nose

Breaking news - local 'graffiti' artist Judith Supine unfurled a 50' piece of 'street art' from the Manhattan Bridge. You see these pieces all over lower Manhattan and Brooklyn. I, personally, find them pretty cool. Nevertheless, I do find that they lack a certain street cache. I mean, 1) they're not actually graffiti, and 2) they reek of art-school hipster subversiveness, which is to say, they aren't subversive at all. Indeed, the unfurling of a banner-type piece is far from the 'hit' made on the Brooklyn Bridge by local guerilla artist David Smith, aka Sane Smith, nearly 20 yrs. ago. This cat hit everything - all the subways, wharehouses, street signs, everywhere visible. But nothing had, and nothing has yet, measured up to the work done on the Manhattan tower of Brooklyn Bridge. Apparently, Smith had to stand on a 1 1/2 foot ledge on the outside of the bridge for something like two hours to complete the tag. Despite the fact that Sane Smith was everywhere, and David Smith spoke openly, if in the third person, about Sane's goings-on, city cops and transportation officials were unable to catch him. According to one, "The kid's got eyes up his nose." Unfortunately, legend has it that Sane committed suicide by jumping off the George Washington Bridge when his father, a Harvard prof, was threatened with a lawsuit for 1.5 million dollars to cover his son's intrepid creativity.

Dig this link for the original NYTimes article on the Brooklyn Bridge hit. http://graffitiresearchlab.com/sanesmith.jpg