.
20 hours of travel, a delayed flight, a diverted flight, sleeping on the floor of SFO as i waited for the first trains to begin running. it was a long walk home that morning but i didn't mind. it was the first time i'd put my earbuds in in a month. i was the first time music had coursed through me in lock step with my fast-beating heart. it was the first time in a month that i was able to lock in to myself, only myself, like masterbation, no one else, no distractions, no concerns, no muttering in the distance. i had been outside myself for an entire month. i had been in the wind, in the sun, within a language that floored me and made me its' servant. gladly (gerne). i'd been so outside myself for an entire month that it seemed impossible to find myself walking along familiar roads. a part of me was still in Berlin, crossing the Oberbaum Brucke, not crossing Shattuck Ave in Oakland, California.
as i came closer to my house, a dirty, discarded chair came in to view. no cushions, abandonned on the side of the road. "ahhh... a canvas..." i thought. a canvas. i didn't know how badly i needed one until i saw one. i went inside and grabbed my big, black marker. "yes. perfection. the first thing i will do upon arriving in oakland is write on the street", i told myself, "this is the only real beauty. this is the only gesture i have." i thought of my beloved bridge in Kreuzbeg and my heart ached something awful. where had my endless waters gone? i thought of David Wojnarowicz and his plea that we live life like it actually fucking matters. i thought of his refrain. i scrawled it quick in fat print:
yes i will. i fucking promise.
it's so hard to believe a week has already gone by since i've been home. there is so much to say... it will come as it is able.
yesterday evening, i stood in my dark kitchen and watched a man cross the street to take a picture of the abandoned chair. the sun obscured the image and he kicked the chair in a half circle there on the corner to get it out of the glare. i watched him the entire time. it was a moment of quiet happiness. it was a moment of connection to another human being. i have no idea what to label the work i do that happens in the street. i very rarely think of it as ART. or rather, ART isn't even the consideration. i think of these things as Signs. as a Cry. it was wonderful to be able to witness my cry being heard. not only heard, but echoed in the heart of another. i felt unbelievably lucky.
i am happy to stretch out in my white room and see the reflection of my body flash in the armoir mirror. i am happy to make coffee in my kitchen and spend the first 2 hours of the day scribbling in my diary. i am happy to have a washer and drier at my disposal. but i assure you, 3 weeks overseas was definitely not enough. all my plans have changed. my ideas are totally shattered. i have no answers and all of my goals have been flung far and wide.
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