For the 4 millionth time, I methodically rattle the keys around in specific directions, allowing them to settle in their expected position in my hand, one last flip and snatch over the top and I’m in, to the hilt, one quarter turn clockwise - midnight to 3 and a click-thud creaks the heavy metal door to swing open into the living room.  The sun beams through the dirty windows and glows with cinematic slumber - dust particles trudging dazed across its clear channel of concentrated energy - vividly calling to attention the surface of the lamp, the sill and the bright corner of a painting.  The breeze through the screened windows surges with the opening door sending a crinkle of cellophane feather-rattling down the stairs.  The sound of horns blaring, huge trucks rumbling and loud conversation fills the modest room with the echoes of the tar-scarred corner below.  Daily for years it seems the crews begin with jackhammers promptly at 7am.  I have been violently shaken out of bed by these sonic invasions repeatedly and from the 4th floor I have watched as the worker bees in yellow plastic hats with giant road-cutting saws slice the scars every which way across Houston Street’s flesh.  

As I put down my keys, bags, whatever, I realize that we develop these mundane unconscious acts that are woven through the loom of our imagination to become real objects, places and situations... the repeated standard rhythms of day to day existence on the platform of physical being through the sensory lens.  Our habits, our patterns are code locked into form through the limitless network of our decision making processes.

I’ve made the same series of motions for over 15 years on a regular basis, like clockwork.  And soon, I will uproot that entire orgamism of deeply rutted synaptic links - by essentially erasing this realm from my reality.  But thats what we do when we move on in life.  We decide that it is time for a change and we step out into... lesser known territory.  

I look around the room, through all the stuff that's hanging on the walls, to another time, another paint color on the walls, different roommates, different friends, different lovers, different projects, different fears.  I see it all play out in high speed blurred abstraction with no meaning to anyone but me.  

I think to myself, “Man, its gonna be weird leaving here.  I’ve been here for 15 years.  I can’t believe I’m really gonna do it.”  And I almost don’t remember how it came to this.  But one thing is for sure... there was a big push from almost every area in my life for this to happen.  And we can all ignore the signs we are given like experts of espionage but if there is something that you really need to learn, the signs are gonna keep on coming until you get it or die resisting.  

And everything was pointing at me breaking out.  And then it all just fell together.  I leave end of September as the art fair on Governors Island draws to a close.  Somehow, adding incredible momentum as if to verify the aim of my decision, the trip to Spain that I won through Art Battles was extended from a week to a month and a week - including flight, room, per diem and a series of paid live painting events.  From Barcelona and Madrid, a swing through Italy to meet Oriah, then we head south to Ethiopia!  My imagination is sparked to ridiculous heights by the mere suggestion of it.  I know I have been aligned with this beautiful woman and her amazing family for a reason, I know there is something for me to find in Ethiopia.

At a certain point almost a year ago, I made a conscious decision to begin saying with conviction, that we are going to Ethiopia in the fall.  At first I didn’t believe myself - I couldn’t imagine how it would happen.  But I decided we would make it real.  Oriah’s father lives there and we have had an open invitation that we have yet to fulfill.  So I just kept thinking of it, wanting it and knowing that by thinking and wanting I would eventually create the most conducive environment for its manifestation.  Then suddenly, I am being flown to Europe on a paid live painting gig.  Wait a minute.  Who’s life is this?  Happily I hardly recognize it.

I have grown weary of the endless battle with financial abstracts that is the mysterious ladle that stirs the cauldron of New York.  But when you step away from New York, you have to ask yourself, “Is it really worth it?  What am I getting for all this?  I don’t really like this street, these corners, these people...  I mean yes, thats why I am in this big city - for the people.  The depth of complex networks of interaction in a city like New York is mind-boggling.  I have met and continue to meet every sort of wildly interesting character.  The energy on the streets on these summer nights is deliciously palpable.  Am I cursed to be a city dweller?  Is there a version of this that doesn’t grate so hard on my nerves?  Is there a place to raise kids someday?  Is there a patch of green grass or the splash of a tide that I could reach out to?  Where the hell should I go?”

I have really begun to wonder if I belong here any more.  Around the same time I closed my gallery on Ludlow Street, CBGB closed on Bowery.  Now I’m about to leave Suffolk Street and Mars Bar lies in ruins.  I popped inside a few nights ago to see what was going on behind the closed door.  They were ripping the entire place apart and saving all the pieces.  Hank knows what he’s got.  I spent an easy solid decade in that room, raising hell and legitimate questions as well as getting drunk, pushing boundaries and making a general nuisance of myself.  It was brilliantly depressing and macabre but we loved it.  The end of Mars clearly delineates the death of the East Village and for many - New York City.  I am actually trying to decide as we speak.

To leave a place you’ve slept in for the past 15 years, without a real plan, its kinda nuts - but essential and really fun at the same time.  The practical fact is I haven’t been operating as a portrait painter from a retail location for years and the small number of people who make it into my cave of a studio are few.  So I know I can work from anywhere.  And if I don’t pay rent and bills at yet another apartment for a while - that lightens my load quite a bit.  But can I leave New York?  Right now, in the blistering heat and humidity, in the wake of so much I have known, I would love to.  I need to travel, unravel. And everything is lined up for that to happen.  

So, sooner than I had anticipated, I am leaving this place.  And I’m not sure if I’ll be back.  Its an odd feeling.  But I have a bigger feeling that the world is wide open and not confined to a dirty American megalopolis.  I can easily see myself settling down in a sleepy Italian town for a decade.  If I’ve learned anything from busting ass in filthy old New York for the past 2 decades, its that I don’t want to bust my ass in an ugly place anymore.  I want to be surrounded by beauty, I don’t want this garbage ridden stench pit of a city to be my only option.   

I know now its all about what makes you happy in the moment.  That is the measure of success...  are you happy?  Do you love your surroundings, your environment?  Is this where you want to be?  The people around you...  are they who you want to be with?  The way you spend your time...  does it please you?  Your work?  Your play?  Are you doing enough to defend your true desires?????  Sometimes they can become lost in the brier patch of stagnant risk-free existence.  You can stay in your zone of competence, move to your zone of excellence but you’ll never be free till you risk it all to enter your zone of genius.  

I moved into my apartment on Suffolk and Houston on my birthday - May 1st, 1996 - with my girlfriend at the time, Nikki.  We had lived previously in a mad state of chaos, in a rat-infested, junky-infested, insane party scene of a place on East 5th Street.  Those were lovely times, to be sure, but that is a whole other story.  Lets just say it got too crazy and being the lease-holder and being entirely fed up with the rampant irresponsibility of my compadres, I eventually threw down the gauntlet and announced we would all be moving on.  Everyone seemed a bit shaken up and more or less put off by this sudden proclamation but I was serious - we all had to go!  I was tired of policing the phone bill, dragging blacked-out corpses off the sidewalk and fielding complaints from the neighbors (our band practiced at ear-drum stabbing volume in, of course, the living room).  I have one such complaint in writing which I keep framed for nostalgia's sake.

So sooner or later everyone found a place of their own.  They all sort of paired off and got new places.  Except me.  I had drawn this line in the sand and it was just 2 weeks till move out day, and I was stuck floundering.  Every place I had seen was just too cramped - period.  We weren't coming from a palace, but we did have a huge living room and - how is this possible? - a front AND back yard.  It was pretty sweet.  But it was over.  We had driven it into the ground.  So where were we gonna go?

My beautiful art-punk goddess of a girlfriend was, in keeping with the culture of the nineties, strung out on heroin, and it had become my main goal in life to get her clean.  I asked a friend who was a shady real estate expert, who himself lived in what could have been a stunning apartment on east 10th street - were it not for his hoarding of books, newspapers, magazines and grocery bags.  You couldn't walk through the place.  You couldn't see the fireplace or get to the balcony, but he knew lots about how to get things done so I asked his advice. 

"How am I gonna find and apartment?" I asked.  "We have to move out in less than 2 weeks and I can't seem to come up with anything," I told him.

"Here's what you do, " he said.  "Go out and walk around the Village.  Beat the pavement on the streets you want to live and pop your head into every construction site you can find until you meet a landlord, super or building manager.  Thats the best way to get around the real estate agents.  You'll find a place that way."

So, trusting his expertise in spite of his insanity (he was a practicing thespian in that he could make $25/hour panhandling because his technique was so artful - the picture perfect illustration of the heights of East Village ambition).    I started walking around the blocks near where I lived.  I loved my neighborhood.  Being there already four years, I wasn't quite prepared to make the move over to Brooklyn that so many artists and musicians I knew had made.  I wanted to try Manhattan just a little bit longer. 

One afternoon Nikki and I poked our heads into a construction site on east 3rd.  I asked the guy there about the apartment they were renovating.  He told me there was a 62-person waiting list.  I couldn't even imagine what that meant.  It was just a crappy East Village apartment.  This was the time when things had truly begun to change.  And I just was starting to realize it.  Rents were sky-rocketing and everyone from everywhere else seemed to be moving into the East Village.  And it was becoming less and less of what it was when I had moved in just 4 years ago.  When I moved into east 14th street in 1992, I never ever saw a "well-dressed" person on the street.  Now you could see folks in suits and loafers popping out of apartment doors with their briefcase in hand - scurrying off to Mid-town for their 9 to 5.  It was even strange to see people rushing in our neighborhood, unless it was a couple of junkies doing that manic "fast walk" to cop a fix. 

Back out on 3rd street, I began to feel a little down.  "What had I done?"  I had a great apartment - a huge place - but it was $2000 a month and there was no way I could afford it.  I could do about $900 a month but I couldn't count on Nikki to bring in anything - she could never hold a job, much less get one. 

But I persisted.  We saw a tall older guy moving some stuff into a van and I asked him if he knew any landlords around.  He said, in a broken Russian accent, "That guy right there!  He is landlord.  You talk to heem.  He is Tomey."

"Tomey?" I said as I approached the other man.  "Hi are you Tomey?"  He turned his pleasantly weathered face my way.  He had incredibly light sparkling eyes and a thick shock of bright white hair that reminded me of my grandfather's.  It turned out his name was actually Tommy (not Tomey) and he was an old Italian man with an pleasant demeanor.  He smiled widely when he saw Nikki, with her pretty vintage dress, and bright red lips under her Marge Simpson vertical stack of blonde dreadlocks as she hopped about child-like in her cute rubber goulashes.  "Was this 80-year old guy flirting with my girlfriend?"  I couldn't have too surprised because Nikki had something about her - she exuded a playful sexuality that she could not hide.  I remember walking around with her and men, women, kids and dogs would all stare at her with wide-eyed wonder.  She was always being approached - even as I invisibly stood with her, holding her hand.  It was kind of annoying at times but I had considered the pros and cons and I was in it for the long haul.  "If they only knew what I have to deal with," I would often think.

He liked us - or maybe just her - and told us, "I have a place for you.  You're gonna love it."

"How much is it?" I asked being the practical one in this situation.

"Its $1100 a month," he said.

"Ah well, no thanks," I said.  "I can only afford 900."  I had looked at my finances to whatever degree I was capable of doing so at the time and determined $900 was the most I could do.  And that felt like a lot.  We were each paying about $360 on 5th street. 

"Come look at it first," he insisted.  "You will really love it.  And If you want to take it I'll give it to you for $1025."  He seemed to really want us to move in.

I was reluctant but we followed him across Houston street - a place I had rarely ever been at that time - and up into an old tenement building.  When he opened the door to the apartment, our eyes popped open and and our jaws dropped.  It was beautiful.  There were big windows in every room, flooding the place with light.  The ceilings were high and the parkay floors were gorgeous.  He knew we would love it and he seemed to be - in a very clean sweet way - vicariously enjoying the thrill of the idea with us. 

It was pretty obvious.  We would take it and find a way.  (I would find a way.)  Tommy picked up a Chinese food menu off the floor that had been slipped under the door and handed it to me.  
 

"Write your name and number down on this," he said.  "You're not gonna screw me for the rent, are you?"

"No!  Of course not!  This place is amazing!  Thank you so much!"

It seemed unreal.  I will never forget lying in bed with Nikki for the first time after having moved in, just staring straight up at the ceiling in disbelief.  We had really done it.  We had moved into an amazing new apartment.  We were so young and full of dreams.  We were gonna get her clean and have a perfect little domestic life here in this spacious, light-filled 2 bedroom apartment on Houston street.  We were on our way.  And we couldn't get over the feeling.  It was exhilarating.  

So here I am - sitting int he very same living room that I first walked into that day.  I've been here 15 years.  I have a great rent but my landlord has changed.  The sweet old fella who rented that place to me back in the day has since passed on and his son has taken over.  The son is different from his dad.  He's not a bad guy - but he ain't sweet - thats for sure.  He is a stressed out maniac who doesn't really want to be the real estate mogul that his inheritance has asked him to be.  He would rather be at his house in the Hamptons or cruising around LA in his giant SUV acting like a big producer or something.  Who knows.  But one thing is for sure.  He wants me out.

He has told me in no uncertain terms that he is sick of me being behind on my rent - which in all honesty had happened from time to time.  But even though I've paid up all my back rent and been right on top of it for a good while, he is not impressed.  So I've been getting these official letters from his lawyers - threatening me with trumped up charges - like "you do not actually reside at the premises" bla bla bla.  So I have a lawyer - an angel actually - who works with artists and helps them in situations such as this.  She slashes her rate and does whatever she can.  In this case - since he really wants me gone - and has threatened to (and I quote) "Lawyer me to death" - we are hoping to reach some sort of agreement. 

We've gone back and forth a hundred times trying to figure out the best arrangement.  At first I said, "Hell no I won't go!  This is my home and I'm not going anywhere."  He offered me a meager buy-out of the lease - hardly worth considering.  I dug my heels in, lost sleep and made myself miserable at the thought of leaving.  My landlord et al did not seem to budge.  I even spoke with him personally a couple of times and it went nowhere.

But at a certain point I asked myself, "What am I fighting for?  Sure its a great apartment.  That is, if you don't mind the incessant traffic, the insanely loud construction that has been going on since the day I moved in 15 years ago, the drunken reveler on the street at night and the crazed rants of domestic violence that erupt on a regular basis.  They tore down the building across from me and that was fun.  Now their working in there as well as tearing up Houston street - a giant linear cavity that stretches all the way along the length of the 2 blocks surrounding my apartment.  The jack-hammering and rumbling of machinery never ends.  The steel plates that cover the wound clank and bang as the monster trucks that barrel over them do the same.  Sometimes the noises have been so loud - that spine-crumblingly deafening "metal on metal" bang - that I have shot up in bed, eyes wide with fear, fresh from a dream into what I was sure for an instant was the Apocalypse.

And so I asked myself, "How long do I REALLY want to live here?  In eight years I'll be 50!  Is this where I see myself at that age?!" 

And of course suddenly I hear the echoes of a thousand fear-based East Village conversations that go something like this: "Never let go of that apartment.  All you have around here is your rent stabilized status.  If you let that go, you're done.  Where will you go?  Brooklyn?  New Jersey?  Harlem?  You'll be so disconnected you won't matter any more."  It goes on and on. 

I know its hard to find a new place.  But aren't we supposed to look forward to something better than what we have as opposed to feeling that this is the best its ever gonna be and - sure its not perfect but - its worth it!  Sure, its loud and smelly and on an ugly block with no sort of neighborhood.  And sure, the new people in the building won't even look at each other much less say hello.  But we are fighters!  and we hold onto what we've got for dear life!

But I've started to look at it in a different way.  I love my apartment.  And after 15 years I finally feel like I have it just the way I like it.  I have the right furniture, the right paint job, everything is in its place and it feels just right.  And guess what that means?  It means its time to go. So we are making arrangements that sometime in the next 3 years I will be gone.  Is it a little scary?  Of course.  But I don't wan to spend my time in court or with lawyers.  How insane is that???  That is not reality - not in my world.  I don't need to be tied to a specific building or set of rooms.  I know there are all sorts of amazing opportunities out there in this big city - this big world.  Maybe I'll travel for 5 years and have no apartment in NY.  Maybe I'll move to the country and become the farmer I was raised to be.  Maybe Oriah and I will move to Italy or Ethiopia.  I refuse to put limitations on myself.  And I refuse to base my future movements on a foundation of fear - the fear of lack.  What if this is the best I can ever do?  I should keep it just in case!  Bullshit.

I realized something about myself.  I can take this circus anywhere.

There's no excuse for having a blog and not chiming in more often. Or is there?  Maybe there are better things to do - like live life.  But it's been since August or September of last year.  It's March already!  Maybe it's because I mainly check email or post crap on facebook.  Well anyway you cut it, when it comes to blogging I'm about as much on a routine as jogging.  Ok more than that - I don't jog.  But it rhymes.  I bet there's somebody somewhere who blogs while they jog and jogs while they blog.  It's a big crazy planet.
So - where have I been?  Oh sweet Jesus I wish I knew.  Life is oddly fascinating isn't it?  We go through so much every day of our lives and it can never fully be captured or documented in any way.  It can only be interpreted through art.  And which art interprets life most effectively?  Most folks would probably say film.  I would.  Although it's more accurate in it's depiction of experience as we know it - can enough be said for music or painting?  Sculpture or theater?  Literature or dance?  These subtle links to shamanism are always here for us to tune into whether as observers or participants, expressers or absorbers.
One thing that has continued to fascinate me about this confounding experience of living is the relentless and infinite change that surrounds us, engulfs us and thrives within every cell of our being and every pulse of our aura at all times.

Change.  That's the name of the game.  We are all changing all the time.  Every millisecond of experience forever yields more and more change - more unchecked growth.  More universal and divine expansion into unknown realms constantly breaking down limits and divisions.  So where are we heading?  Does anyone know?  Can anyone predict the future?  Will the sun rise in the east?  Well I have the answer.  It's change. Constant, limitless, unrestricted, boundless, ever-expansive change.
There are two points of view that I have been lucky enough to encounter in recent years that have had so much to do with my perception of life.  One was reading a book by a guy named Michael Newton called "Destiny of Souls" and he also wrote "Journey of Souls".  If you can get past the titles, and open your mind, this man's work is eye opening and life changing.  His writing regarding the research he has done in the area of regression hypnotherapy has completely altered, in a positive way, my view of death. He hypnotizes folks - not only into their past lives - but into the spaces between lives and the continuity of the events that his subjects relay to him is truly convincing. 

Skeptics who are even still reading at this point have plenty of room to step out.  I understand if it's not for you.  But if it sparks your curiosity then I highly suggest reading one of his books.  These are case studies of hypnotherapy sessions.  Did he manipulate the results to write a more picturesque volume?  I suppose it's possible.  History can be considered a fraud as well.  But I take his work for what it is.  And if my entire perception of the death experience can be shifted to something beautiful then it's a benefit to me.

What I took from his research and writing is that its not a big deal.  You've been here before and you'll be here again.  When people in his books recounted their death experience it sounded like a really great mushroom trip.  The were sort of sucked up into the light (we've heard that before a la "near death experiences").  I thought the way they described this was interesting though.  They said they just let go and had no control as they were drawn in a specific direction and traveled for quite some time before arriving at a "place" where they were greeted by their spirit guides - who they immediately recognized as the beings who would greet them after every death they have experienced.  They eventually all rejoined their "soul groups" where they might see folks who they knew in life as their relatives, friends, shopkeepers or neighbors.  But not all of their family or friends would be in their group.  They might see the others but they would eventually be separated from them into their own soul groups.  There were giant books they looked through at some point in which they saw a sort of film of their life.  They watched the main points of their life experience unfold before them.  There was some measure of "well, maybe you could have done that differently" imparted to most.  They would go off to a sort of schooling and meet with ascended elders until they were ready to be thrust back into the physical realm via birth.  And interestingly enough, they did not join the fetus at conception but well into the pregnancy - some souls arriving mere moments before birth! 

Okay - so I know there are folks reading this who think I've lost my marbles and everyone knows that any statements regarding the aspects of afterlife are speculation.  But here is a doctor who has been doing these regressions for decades and the accounts are fascinating.  To me, it seems legit.  It feels believable.  But to each his own.  You choose what feels right to you. 

Another wealth of information that I have come across which has greatly effected my life in a myriad of ways comes from the writings and lectures of Jerry and Esther Hicks.  The information that they present is based on a principle that has become quite popular in recent years: the power of attraction.  Its the premise that "like attracts like" - that what you focus on expands - what you think about becomes your reality.  The movie, "The Secret", was the first big exposure of this information - although its easy to argue that the film's presentation was as cheesy as a spray can of velveeta.  Its too bad really.  Presentation is everything because if you scare away your audience with something they can't relate to, then you lose them.  (I wonder how many I have lost by this time yapping about past lives:)  But long before "The Secret" broke the news, Abraham (Jerry and Esther) Hicks had been bringing this message forth in a much more eloquent fashion. 

What I heard first were some of the live lectures that Esther spoke at where she took questions from the audience - people looking for a way to change their lives for the better - to bring the things they desire into their experience.  When I heard her speak, I understood immediately that she knew what she was talking about.  I will not attempt to paraphrase her because there is an incredible level of articulation that she achieves in presenting this message.  The books are great, the videos are fun, but the audio versions are what really worked for me and I listen to them on a regular basis.  They have taught me how to shift my emotional state.  When the pressures of life mount and there feels like there is no hope - this is the most important time to change your way of thinking - moving from doubt and fear to power and positivity.  Their message is basically that the only way to improve your life is to learn how to shift your emotional state - even if its just a little bit.  If you can move from depression to anger then you are making an improvement.  She warns against "putting a happy-face sticker over your gas gauge when the tank is empty".  Clearly this doesn't help at all.  But when you learn how to focus on the good things - to really seek out the positive aspects of a situation - then you can shift the way you feel about things and eventually change the outcome.  The way you feel is everything.  (Okay - now I am paraphrasing.) 

The most powerful exercise that I have gotten in the habit of doing on a daily basis is one they call "Rampages of Appreciation".  I had heard them mention it several times but never bothered to try it.  One time when I was listening to the audio recordings of the live Abraham lectures, a guy came up and said that he had been doing these "rampages" and they were so effective that his life had changed immensely.  At that point I decided to give it a try.  I got a notebook and put it by my bed and every morning when I woke up, I would write down all of the things I appreciated.  They mentioned that the most important thing to do is to feel good about what you are writing.  So you think about the things that you have that you appreciate and, with a strong positive feeling, you write down each and every one.  I found that I was writing really fast at times and dashing handfuls of exclamation points after every sentence.  And after a while, of doing this every day... I did notice things starting to change!!!  All of the good things I had been asking for in my life started coming to me.  I would write things like, "I'm so thankful for my family and friends and all the opportunities that come my way and it feels so good to know that all I really need to do is focus on the things I want in my life and feel good about them and they will come to me!!!"  And the content just flows.  You almost feel at times as though the pen is writing on its own. 

It just reinforces what we all already know...  thinking positively and dedicating yourself to a steady routine are what make good things happen.  Life is funny.  You never quite know what's coming.  But if you can learn to feel good about things - to see the good in things that may seem horrible at first - then you are prepared to face just about anything.  Of course there are some situations and stories I have heard that I can't imagine dealing with or even living through and I really feel for people who have to go through them.  It takes complete mastery of these principles in order to move through such events.  But for most of us, life is really not that bad.  We have emotional issues that drag us down from time to time.  Triggers that set us off and send us spiraling down into the abyss.  For me its always finances, taxes and things like that.  Food and sex can also be really tricky and confounding subjects as well.  But we usually find, that when we pass through such a challenge, theres something gained at the outset.  We find that in spite of the unbearable agony of our experience, once we have emerged from it - and in some way it was worth it.  Looking back it seemed there was almost no hope for it to end.  It seemed like things were going to be that way or much much worse FOREVER.  But we get through it and we learn from it.  Besides - what's the worst thing that can happen?  You die?  Well, if you listen to Abraham or Michael Newton that doesn't even seem like such a bad thing. 

Abraham says, "If you only knew what a delicious experience dying is..."  Well, people do always say, "At least they are in a better place," when someone passes on.  Do you think they mean it?  Of course they mean well, but do you think they actually believe it?  If so why all the mourning?  Many non-western cultures celebrate death.  But here in the western world we are so obsessed with our physical bodies that we can't bear the thought of leaving them.  This whole thing of embalming a corpse to keep it from decaying and dressing it up and putting it in a fancy casket from Costco...  What's the point??  The spirit is gone.  What are we - Egyptian kings?  Why not bury all of our earthly possessions with us as well?  I guess some folks do. 

Anyways I don't want to go on ranting here and insult people's religions (even though I think religions can be ridiculous things that cause more pain and suffering in the world than good) - oops I did it again.  Sorry (sort of).  But I do want to make a point.  We are moving into a new age and there's little sense in resisting it.  There's not much sense in clinging to traditions and antiquated ideas about things.  In discussing the current practice of ancient religions, Abraham has a brilliant illustration that (yes) I will try to paraphrase:  Your house is on fire and the firemen come with their trucks and hoses and break through your windows and spray water all over the place to put out the fire.  And they douse the blaze and you are so thankful.  "What an appropriate reaction they had," you say.  "It worked so well.  Thank you!"  But if one day you're sitting at home peacefully enjoying yourself and these same firemen crash through the window again spraying their high pressure jets of water everywhere - and there's no fire?  Does that help?  The point is, things change and the same solutions are not always appropriate for different problems - especially when these problems may be centuries apart.  What they are suggesting is that maybe the time has come for us to look past the men with funny hats reading from dusty books and find our own spiritual path in our own way.  Sure, there is good in all of it - somewhere.  So why not take what works for you and make it your own - based on your own life experience and the understanding of things that you have come to know?

When I began writing this I had no idea where it would lead.  It feels good to just let your thoughts spill out of their own volition.  Life is good.  There are always challenges but we always make it through them and that one time when we don't?  Then we are on to something bigger and better, right?  Sounds like a win-win situation to me.  It all depends on what you believe.  Its quite possible that this is not the way things are.  Or its possible that what you personally believe is the way things are.  Either way, what have you got to lose?  If the method I'm proposing is that, in order to have the life you want, you have to learn how to feel better about things, then isn't that a step in the right direction?  Isn't feeling good the best thing we can ask for anyways?  All anyone ever wanted since the dawn of time was to be happy and feel good.  So that's a pretty good place to start.  Let the means be the end.  Use joy to take you to joy.  Is it really that simple?  Sometimes.

I should have written this at 4:am this morning when I returned home pissed off and exhausted but exhausted I was.  Last night at 1:am I left my studio of sorts on the Lower East Side and swiped my card to enter the F train.  As luck would have it, there were no uptown trains running - I was on my way to Oriah's place for the night.  So what choice did I have?  Wait for the next downtown train to Jay St in BK then wait again for the next manhattan bound train to finally finally get home to some rest.  I had been painting and drawing all day and had a relatively upbeat and social evening - meeting some interesting new people over at Lucien on my dinner break.  But man, was I tired.  I eventually caught the uptown train and, after a few slow and grueling stops, I put my feet up in the empty car and lay down for a quick nap.  I wasn't off in dreamland very long at all before I felt a harsh yank on my ankle.  Someone was shaking me awake and I was shocked by the rough contact.  I sat up to see two police officers telling me to "Sit up," which by that time I already had done.  Half awake and pretty surprised I gave them a look like, "WTF?".  I hadn't actually said a word to them. 

"Off the train," the little white one said.

"Are you serious?" I asked.  "I'm just trying to get home."

"Off the train," he repeated.  As I stepped off the train, I sized up the two guys who were there sizing me up.  One was a tall, light-skinned black guy with an honest face and reatively pleasant eyes.  I had no beef with him.  The little white guy was not so pleasant.  A straight-up prick to be sure.  His hair was buzzed too close and his beady little eyes darted about like a junkie zeroing in on a fix.  His neck was slightly deformed so that his head rested off to one side in an odd way and he was short and slight - a kid who had been taunted and shoved about the playground... he was having his day. 

"Did I do something wrong?" I asked.  "I'm pretty tired and I just fell asleep.  I'm not a criminal."

"You were taking up more than one seat on the train and when we asked you to get up you gave us attitude," was the reply.

"Gimme a break," I said.  "I was asleep and had no idea what was going on.  I didn't say a word to you.  You pulled me off the train because you don't like the way I looked at you?"

"Lets go," he said to me and led the way up the stairs to the token booth.  At this point I knew I had to just shut up and take whatever bullshit was coming my way and let me tell ya - that was not easy.

I appealed to the sense of decency I detected in the second officer and again said, "Listen.  I'm no criminal.  I'm not breaking any laws.  I've had a long day and I'm tired.  I'm just trying to get home.  Whats the big deal?"

I could see in his eyes that he woulf rather be doing something worthwhile with his time but he had no real choice but to side with his partner.  The little one paced about menacingly as I spoke, throwing his hands in the air and saying to the other, "I don't care.  Do what you want with him.  It's up to you."

This little prince had gone through the embarassing effort of pulling me off a late-night train only to hand me over to his partner to deal with.  When they asked me for my license, they spotted my PBA card in my wallet.  That right there should have been more than enough to let me go instantly.  But they dragged it out a little more.  "You know this officer?" they asked me referring to the name on the card. 

"Yeah, he's a good friend of mine."

"I'm thinking of giving him a call right now."

"Please do," I said.

As the taller one called my friend on the force to ask whether I was actually worthy of my freedom after such a haenous act as I'd committed, the little douchebag continued to pace about like a caged weasel, clutching his little cap and darting piercing glances at me.  His oh-so-menacing glares were met with my look of "good lord you're pathetic."

And so it went for 30 minutes or so until these idiots got tired of wasting my time and handed me back my ID.  Using every ounce of will at my disposal I clamped my jaw shut, forced my eyes to the concrete and walked away.  I felt like screaming, like punching and thrashing, but I kept it cool.  I got on the next train - the wrong train - ended up more off base than when I had started. 

Furious, I called my friend - the officer who these vigilant warriors of truth had jostled out of bed moments before.  I told him what happened and his response surprized me for a second.

"Crime is down and Bloomberg needs numbers.  If these guys don't bring someone in, then they're the ones who will be going home without pay.  They need to make their quota.  If you weren't carrying that card, they would almost certainly had dragged you in."

"Are you kidding me?" I asked.  "They would arrest someone for laying down on a subway seat?"

"Thats just where it starts.  Its all about how you respond to them approaching you.  I tell everyone the same thing - 'Play the bitch.'  Otherwise, they can use any excuse to bring you in."

I thanked him and apologized for having woken him up over such a trivial thing.  He said he was just glad to have saved me the hassle.  I began to wonder...  what happens if crime drops off so far that the police aren't truly needed?  Would that mean they would have no choice but to go around framing people just to keep their jobs? 

I know this isn't the gravest injustice perpetrated upon the people of this city - but damned if it doesn't make you feel like shit being treated like a criminal for taking a nap.  I'm a peaceful person but I would be a liar if I didn't dream of pounding that little prick in the face just a few good times.  What sort of person spends their night going around and wasting the time of innocent citizens?  I know that at the same moment, very close by there were far worse acts being committed.  Christ littering is actually more of a crime than what I was accosted for.

I only hope this doesn't get worse.  It made me think of people in situations of real injustice.  It made me think of how lucky I actually am that this is the worst thing that has happened between the law and myself in several years.  How would I ever deal with unjust imprisonment?  How long would it take me to shut my mouth and kiss their asses like I had to do so often in school?  I was bad at it then and I'm bad at it still. 

My heart goes out to people who are in these types of horrible situations all ove rthe world - people whose homes have been destroyed, whose families have been torn apart, murdered and imprisoned on trumped up charges.  I know this planet is evolving.  I know that human rights have grown much more integrated into the collective consciousness.  But sometimes the process seems too slow.  And at times it really seems as though we are losing ground.  But my lady put it in perspective to me the other night (as she so often does) by asking me, "When would you rather be alive - now or in the middle ages?"  Ok so things ARE getiing better.  But shit - can't we just fast forward a little bit?  Sometimes I don't have a lot of faith that I will see real maturity ever come to fruition across the face of humanity in my lifetime.  And when I see insecure little dicks like the one who pulled me off the train - not only caught up in the system but rolling on a rampant power trip designed by his feeble sense of self-worth - I feel like I know the answer.  Lets hope that I can see it differently in a couple of days.

After three months or more of preparations, organizations, carryings, loadings, installings, deinstallings, unloadings, more carryings, disorganizings and whatnot we have finally arrived at the absolute end of the 2nd Annual Governors Island Art Fair.

So Nix and Jack, two of the five 4heads, unable to stop organizing, loading, concocting and whatnot insisted on having a goulash party in Nix's garden in the outskirts of Crown Heights to celebrate with and thank all the artists involved.  She acquired her lovely German mater's family goulash recipe and cooked up enough of this fascinating stew to feed all the military ghosts of Governors Island at once. 

Her back yard - once a pile of rotting rubble and burnt out debris - is now the proud home of thriving rose bushes, xmas lights, bizzare scultpures, trees, bird cages and - on brisk autumn evenings - a couple of 55-gallon drums of blazing trainyard campfires. 

As much as I needed to be done done done with all the Governors Island garbage - I have to say what a welcome and well considered event this little sioree was.  After all the work and drama that seemingly must arise from such an extended affair as the GIAF, it was incredibly soothing to spend time with all these amazing people - old friends and new - gobbling goulash and sipping civily over the delicious flames of the Northeastern fall.  There were no more concerns of lighting, shipping, installing or cleaning.  There were no piles of garbage or bureaucratic redtape standing in the way.  There were no krylon sprayed floors or sharpie stained walls.  It was just a bunch of smiling, contented faces staning about with lots to talk about. 

Such a sense of community had been stirred up by this little (!) fair.  Lifelong friendships had been formed - and maybe a few broken.  We had all lived through something meaningful and beautiful.  Everyone involved took their crumbling little room and blew it out into a recreation of some corner of their mind.

Art is so funny in that way...  anyone is allowed to do it.  There are obviously no rules.  Artists - people - from all over say similar things... like, "I don't know...  I just had this thought, this idea... and I wanted to see what it would be like to bring it into reality."  The variance of presentations that we were able to enjoy through this exhibition - room after room of differing and overlapping voices; color, form, sound, movement, poetry, construction, scribbles, brushstrokes, hangings, pinnings, pokings, dottings... - it was really eye-opening. 

What were all these rather urgent voices?  Where do they come from?  What are they trying to say?  Is it just - "I like this."?  "This is some remnant of my life that maybe I don't even understand so well - but here it is."  "Here is a vague rememberance of a life I once lived, eons before, that is a mystery to me within the quietude of my own existence."  Its hard to say just what it is.  No one can, I suppose.    And I guess no one should have to.  I guess we should let these expressions speak for themselves in their chosen language and do our best to translate to whatever degree we are capable.  True - we can't help asking questions as the human mind is a catagorizing and labelling machine designed to aid us in our survival at the most fundamental level.  So that when the eye perceives, "charging bull", the mind can reply with the instant catagory of "danger - run away".

But more often than not, in this phase of eveolution, we are tangled in the branches of complex thoughts and ideas - where our rudimentary catagorization device has led us into the often cloudy myre of layered meaning and inter-dimensional being.  We can philosophize and pontificate all we desire without having to suffer the brunt of a charging rhinosaurus - only to volley with the support or defense of more thoughts and ideas. 

On some level, there in the garden around the burning barrels, we celebrated the freedom from hard labor and the actual ability to create the expression of more or less complicated ideas.  We raise a glass to rational behavior since the middle ages are behind us and none gathered here have the need to attack the other with a battle axe.  We enjoy the aftermath of compromise - sometimes difficult but ultimately satisfying in the feeling of a small community growing around a single idea.  The idea of excavating unused space for people to express themselves.