The Third Sally

Least Wanted

What, thinkest thou, was it that flung Horatius in full armour down from the bridge into the depths of the Tiber? What burned the hand and arm of Mutius? What impelled Curtius to plunge into the deep burning gulf that opened in the midst of Rome? What, in opposition to all the omens that declared against him, made Julius Caesar cross the Rubicon? And to come to more modern examples, what scuttled the ships, and left stranded and cut off the gallant Spaniards under the command of the most courteous Cortes in the New World? All these and a variety of other great exploits are, were and will be, the work of fame that mortals desire as a reward and a portion of the immortality their famous deeds deserve

Don Quixote - Part II Chapter VIII

I join you dear reader on this lovely evening from the unfamiliar surroundings of my new apartment that I have only just moved into. As I suspect that you know, my previous address was one of shoddy decadence with its big open spaces, waxed concrete floors stained with numerous failed art attempts, and timber beams strung out in wanton waste across the slatted wooden ceilings of what used to be a government owned and operated storage house for liquor. It was the venue for my daily activities for the past 2 years and now, as it passes into memory, I am glad that many of the events that took place there have been recorded; largely for your delight and entertainment I might add. I am not a young man of letters dear reader, in fact I am older than the silliness and pursuit of ridiculousness often portrayed in my behavior that would lead you to believe. So it might come as a shock when I tell you that my 760 square foot splendor on the fourth floor at the end of the hall was the first apartment that I had ever inhabited completely on my own. The time spent there was wild with debacle and managed to fulfill many longings which had presented themselves in the years of my youth when I spent much time in confusion about what I should be, and what I wanted to be; which ultimately caused me to be, and do, nothing. I didn't even notice that my character was eroding until one day I looked around and everyone had gone and left me. So, for two years I lived, yes I did. I did not think about my actions, my mandate was one of only two words; pleasure and experience. As I sit here in the solitude of my apartment though, I am still alone, even after all that "living."

Was it just another attempt at trying to define my existence? Similar to trying to race dirt bikes, play football, join the army, become a famous artist! buy a guitar, become a computer programmer, a game designer, conceptual artist, filmmaker, or fashion something or other. I can't think of all that right now, instead, my thoughts drift to the stories that will last forever. Like watching Evan's helicopter land in a harbor littered with working vessels with three grams of cocaine in my pocket while a cab was waiting to take us back to my place so we could spend 18 straight hours discovering the temporary solutions to our lives and everything in it. My mind dances to Nymphalidaies breasts cupped in my hands above me while she leaned forward to kiss my neck in the incredible heat that used to permeate that place. There were always dinners there too. Alone, or with company, cooked for someone, or someone cooking for me. It was often a meeting place for many adventures, I remember Frannie getting dressed and walking into the bathroom in her heels while I was brushing my teeth, each of using the mirror to gaze at each other. Ananta reading the newspaper with her perfect legs curled onto the long couch that I had just purchased in china town with the sun from the windows resting upon her face. Veridian looking after me while I was in the midst of a delirious fever that brought me in and out of consciousness. Each time I came to, she was there feeding me with oil of oregano and blaring cut/copy, from my computer. Those brick walls had history, and I am certain that I added to it. I declared that it would be a place of experience, a creative den; I would paint and make great art. Well I didn't make one painting in that place, but experience I did. Really I have no desire to paint at all anymore.

And so I moved, there is not much history in the new world, but what little there is to be had I will consume. I am now residing in the the  oldest building in the city. As I lay in my bathtub in the morning, I think of the people before me that may have laid there year in and year out, before they went to work in the morning, just like me. I am close to the city, closer than I have ever been. My nightly travels home are through tunnels, under the office towers that try to touch the sky, the intersections are full of people waiting to cross the street en mass. There is a 24 hour McDonalds across the street, a Starbucks in the bottom floor, a Red Robin across the street and a Keg Steakhouse beside me and a Seven Eleven beside the Keg. It is a Mecca of franchised experiences, and they are all at my doorstep. The population is turned over every weekend, no one lives here, they are all on a holiday. This morning I found a picture of my home photographed in 1908 and it looked like a skyscraper in the middle of a toiled field. Mentioning the photograph to LeRoy in the basement of the bar we frequent for after work cocktails, he spoke about images like that and how they remind us of our mortality. I am here, now, the building presumably will be here forever. I am only a tenant.