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.