June 11, 2008

IF IT'S RIGHT YOU CAN'T WRONG IT AND IF IT'S WRONG YOU CAN'T RIGHT IT

Now that I'm no longer sleeping in the next room over from my pops, listening to him tussle with his covers in the midnight, there is space to think about everything else. My car, sometime today, is going to be picked up from my Chicago house and brought to visit me here in Los Angeles, because I'm staying for a while. A while is only being defined as "a while" for now. It feels less momentous of an occasion than it probably is. But in this new space for thinking, this space that is not actively, through-the-night considering my dad's injuries or pain management, I'm pre-occupied by what sort of art I will make here. Aside from the book. What will I make. When I left, what was on the docket was the HIOQI verite podcast, the movie where JR and I both play Carl Sandburg and the accompanying night time bike tour and lecture on the history of the Fulton market industrial corridor and my one day art show under the train bridge at Wood and Kinzie about what it was like to live there. And by there, I mean at 409 , the bldg next door--before it went rehab condo, before it had more than four windows. Are there secret spots like the train land bridge in LA? I'm sure they are, but I doubt it'd mean the same. Up top the train bridge from there, it's somewhere betwixt "Cometbus: The Movie" and the ghost of the smells, whores and streetlight Sandburg oded--and then, looming unobstructed at the all-the- way-end is downtown a-gleem and the buildings in their inhuman magnificence--and then there you are, dwarfed and solitudinous, soft kicking the weeds in your walk, pondering piles of roof shingles, or assorted latex gloves or a runned over helotes cart that someone dumped up here. Who goes through the trouble to covertly dump an helotes cart on a bridge? Will my art here be all about the roof cats, baby skunks, or the macho-mellow of these California boys that constitute my crew? Family ties and illness as metaphor? Just viscus gutz lofted to god in fists?

The first time around, stinting c. 95-98, it was all late night loner kid babble and punk-bumpin caught in the big cities thrall. Obviously, that hasn't changed much in the decade post, but I feel a new steez is immanent.

Posted by Jessica at June 11, 2008 12:40 PM | TrackBack