I love graffti. I love murals. I love Montana, the amazing homeless artist who sold a piece of his to me one day at the James St. exit. It was one of few works of art that survived a rainstorm that deteriorated and ultimately destroyed the cubby he dug out under a freeway overpass. I love the Market, even if it is mostly a chaos of tourists. I love the ripe produce and the fish smell- fresh, salty, making the ancient gills under my pale skin stir and flex. My nose perks to the memory. My fingers tingle at the thought of gleaming scales, cold ice, dry flowers, and the smooth and downy skins of ripe fruits. Plums. I love watching the seagulls ride the rifts of air over the 520 bridge on a windy day. I love the way the lake throw sudden wakes over the butress- and my heart- the feeling of it jump in to and burn at my throat when- SPLASH - the water crashes on windshield. I love the sound of things. Even the whistle of dealers. Even the sound of people passing by the studio window when we make love- only the discretion of the flimsy plastic blinds between us. I love the strange intersections of our lives with those of strangers- listening to how closely our distant lives pass by each other. Often there is always only a flimsy plastic blind between us. I love dancing. I love dancing. I love dancing with more than my body. With my heart. With my womanhood in full BOOM. With my heart. I love letting myself out beyond the bounds of my skin to sway and swish and throb and pound and pulse on the humid, sweaty air, to tangle in the music, to cool in the breeze of the heavy breaths of other dancers. I love early mornings in the city, especially sundays, especially in the summer when the light breaks over the tops of the buildings and the streets lay still in shadow. I love sharing the silence with pigeons and garbage and the occasional stranger passing by. I love art. Francis Bacon, Dali, Degas, Banskie, Judith Supine, the pieces left behind to remind me of Micah when he was still searching for himself in his work. I love the strange beauties of urban art that pop up over night and fade just as quickly. The small girl- like a silk screen- printed on the yield sign at the U-district exit. Is she still there? I use to slow down and stare, trying to understand how she was put up there. What medium? The cars behind would honk. A new piece appeared in one of the windows on Bellevue, a beautiful woman with an afro plastered over what must be an apartment window. She smiles out at the street. I smile at her. I think I'm in love with her. I kiss my fingers and blow my admiration up to her every time I pass. How long will she stay? How will it feel when she goes? I love the sudden pop of urban art like the beautiful afro-woman, and how it belongs to no one and everyone at the same time- how it reminds you of the beautiful details of life. Graffti reminds me of flowers bursting through concrete- like a rebellion of color, like a voice screaming out over noise, like a flash of light that catches the eye and just as quickly fades from view. These things inspire me. These things are what I do not want to loose- ever. These things are what I want to make a study of. To contemplate. To understand. To live inside of.
(Pictures to come)
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