"what does it feel like to be going home?"...i found the first signs of the
south in the thick gravy of a shop owners accent. it startled me although i
have been preparing myself for re-entry. i am committed to keeping my
perspective the same as when i am on the road. to find beauty in the place
of ones everyday normal existence is the secret to happiness. unfortunately
my attention span is as short as it always has been. i get bored. we all get
bored. we invent little fictions around us that liven up the place and
occasionally we all see the curtains move to reveal those uncharted
dimensions of the back stage of the universe. i am in new orleans. as i am
writing this the church bells down the street are tolling the midnight death
of another mardi gras. in the streets staggering students and full time
drunks trip there way through the broken beads and bottles on the ground.
they have spent a weekend drinking and negotiating bead deals that involve
everything from money to public self degradation...people are bored. i
watched from a safe distance. worker bees need to party and you don't want to
stir them up when their partying. thousands of sensory impulses all turned up
to ten in order to be heard by those with dulled senses. a long bicycle ride
through the garden district was all i needed to clean the streets of my
mind...the south is certainly a lovely place. the smells of a coming spring
hang heavy in the misty night air. huge mansions hide behind the sprawling
arms of ancient oak. french shudders hide they secret eyes the old south. i
can see my purpose here... to get some inspirations out of my head and into
my hands i cannot say that i have faced the demon of the imminent end of
this trip, i am avoiding that one at all cost, literally. i'm not anxious to
clock back into the system i am trying to observe and document .the hardest
part about being an artist is survival. but i will survive. i always do. and
of course, i already am hard at work on a plan to get back out there again.
savouringly,