I spent the summer in GrEeNwIcH vIlLaGe in Sara's apartment on ThOmPsOn StReEt. She went to live in my rooftop aerie in Lucca.
I buzzed her bell and she let me in and carried my suitcase up 88 steps-the steep, narrow kind you find in the old tenament buildings in the CiTy. She showed me the place and put a tall, cold glass of pink lemonaid in my hand.
I sat on her bed while she gave me some instructions and then she went to sleep at her Rapper's house in Harlem before leaving for Italy the next day.
That night I dreamed that I sewed some gummy bears to a white canvas.
The next day in WaShInGtOn SqUaRe PaRk I made a film of Martin walking on his leash. We stopped by the dog run and while he was running from a pug named Arthur, he tore off a toenail. A yellow taxi took us to the nearest vet and I paid $300 for his treatment.
On the way home I stopped by the Duane Reade Drug and bought a Butterfinger. I hadn't had a Butterfinger since some time in the early 80s.
I walked every inch of MaNhAtTeN that summer and I was happy.
One night part of the ceiling fell on my head and I woke up smiling and rolled over and spooned Martin because I knew how lucky I was to be sleeping in that place under that fragile part of plaster and I understood in that minute that I was alive.
I am an artist and for me life is a work of art. Everyday I paint something of my experience. I choose the colours and the brush and the theme. Sometimes I paint angry or afraid. But mostly I paint happy, lucky and grateful.
There is a particular breeze that comes into Sara's ThOmPsOn StReEt flat and it touches everything in the most gentle way. That breeze lives inside of me.
Martin's toenail grew back and we often frequented the dog run but we never saw Arthur again. Last night I dreamed that I was sewing gummy cherries onto my shoes. Good morning.
A collection of writing.