It's encouraging to see these kinds of changes taking place. Bush would always just appoint his friends and cronies, people who were completely unqualified for the posts in which he placed them. I am so heartened by the prospect of having people in key positions who actually have the right to fill them by virtue of their knowledge of the very subjects on which they are ordained to authority. It's refreshing is what it is.

Update 8/25/08: No lie. Since I made this post, MSN has changed the title of their article from: "By 2044 Whites No Longer in Majority" to "America in 2050: Even Older and More Diverse." Way to make it sound like you're promoting diversity instead of racism! I guess I wasn't the only one who was appalled by the tone of the original title. However, you can't polish up a turd and tell me that it's gold, thanks anyway MSN. Fuckers.

It started with me waitressing and my good friend, the dark and charismatic Matt bartending and this great, smart, mercurial Mexican named Rego making pizzas and sweetfaced Pete of only 17 years old busing tables and barbacking. It was just the four of us opening up the joint last night and once we opened, it was pretty slow all night. Wouldn't call it dead, we still made tips but it was slow.

As the night wore on, Matt started receiving text messages on his phone from friends saying they were on their way and my friend Pilar called and said she was on her way. It was her night off, so she was coming in with boys to drink and have good times. Before long the bar was full and everyone was drinking and Rego was done making pizzas and Pete was gone, off to Hockey practice or some such wholesome teenagerly activity. We changed the Pandora station to some kind of salsa, oh yes, Aventura! Everyone was on the stripper pole.

We have a stripper pole at my job. Nobody has gotten naked on it yet, but it's not going anywhere so we'll see. The boys are really good at it. Core and upper body strength are a requirement. One guy, Bobby, gets completely upside down. I danced on the bar. I'll admit that I danced on the bar. Do you know how rare it is that one is having such a good time and in a setting which invites them to dance on the bar or tables? Usually it is not recommended and not appropriate. In this case it was highly advisable to dance on tables, get upside down on a stripper pole, have shots slurped out of your belly button and make out with whoever was standing next to you. In other words, it was magical. On top of that, the people were just wonderful. A truly great bunch of hammered individuals. Thanks everyone.

Still, I think I may have been the first to leave at around 4 o'clock in the morning. Called a car, took it home, tried to engage in a halfway sober conversation with my cab driver and really only succeeded in making it halfway, as I remember painfully struggling to articulate any kind of thought process. Got home, did not pass go, did not collect 200 dollars, put on a pair of sparkly knit winter tights for no apparent reason and got into bed to sleep unmoving (except to take off the tights), for 7 hours straight.

Today my back hurts, I feel like I'm still drunk, I don't know what the hell happened last night. But there's something about that which is extremely satisfying to me. It's never like that when I bartend. When I bartend it's this civilized crowd that has to get home because they are in law school or working a job early in the morning, but when Matt bartends, he has a way of attracting a wild and debaucherous scene. I really admire that. Don't worry mom and dad! I'm just having a little fun. Being single is not so bad.

All art is inherently dependent upon the context in which it is viewed. Of course, there is no single context which qualifies as the right one for art to be viewed in, as different mediums have different contextual demarcations. What makes Graffiti Art particularly unique is that it is meant to be created and viewed both in the same place, not to be created in a studio or brought to completion on a canvas or base which can be moved from one place to another and displayed anywhere. Even large modern sculpture which remains in a fixed space is generally built elsewhere and unveiled at the place of its designation in a manner which says, “This is Art.” Graffiti Art is practiced upon existing surfaces which were generally not designed or intended to be a medium for artistic outlet. In other words, it is art which is usually done on someone else's property without permission.

Graffiti Art typically exists in places which are passed over by the city inured eye. In bathrooms, subways, alleys, the backs of buildings and billboards. We look beyond graffiti to see the landscape that we think we're supposed to be seeing or enjoying: the one off in the distance, “the view.” When you cross the Manhattan Bridge on a subway train, you can look out and see the Brooklyn Bridge running parallel to you and the skyline and the river and boats, even the Statue of Liberty! But if you pull your sight in to what is immediate, that which is closer to your eyes and therefore easier to overlook as it blends into the urban landscape, is graffiti. If you stand close to the doors and look out the windows while passing through the dark tunnels, you can see the writing on the walls. It is everywhere, in fact. Graffiti is not confined to the urban landscape. It is a part of the American landscape at large, as much as it is in other countries such as Germany and England. Graffiti Art covers railroad cars and buildings across this country with relatively benign language in a manner which comes across as rebellious and criminal. In places where graffiti is pervasive, people generally stop noticing it unless it shows up on their property or something about it in particular stands out. Otherwise, we pass over it with our eyes or perhaps occasionally find ourselves drawn in to the lines without realizing what we are staring at. It exists on some other plane. Underground. Beyond normal vision. An extra facet is added to graffiti culture in a place like New York City, where there are tunnels underground, in and out of which trains and commuters travel, but which are also inherently accessible to human beings on foot who carry spray-cans and paint tips with the intent to decorate remote parts of the subterranean mass transit system.

Of course, the big question for many non-graffiti artists would immediately be: “Why?” It's not a bad question, and one that I intend to address, but I also think it would be worth asking: “Who is this art for? How is this artistic expression judged and where does it stand as a 'legitimate' art form?” Graffiti Art is distinctly postmodern, as everything else that we call visual art in this world seems to sink back into modernism at the moment that it is put on to a canvas or placed on a venerable column in a museum or gallery. The very act of putting even the most “postmodern” of art inside of a gallery or museum, or hanging it on a wall in your home, is to display and judge it in the most traditional way known to civilized people and to give it the ultimate validity.

Conversely, Graffiti Art is improvisational, occurring at a certain place and time, and cannot be taken out of its immediate context. It is something which alters existing states of being, leaves an imprint, but cannot be viewed in a “traditional” way due to its criminal connotations and innate immovability. Taken out of context, Graffiti Art becomes something else, not Graffiti Art, but only a depiction of it. A book containing photographs of Graffiti Art such as “Wall and Piece” by Banksy is a documentation of Graffiti Art as it exists in the world around us, and the work depicted is not meant to be owned by anyone, as he states so vehemently in his resistance of copyright ownership on the very first page. The very nature of Graffiti Art is to refuse entrance into a system of artistic judgment and hierarchy by an elite panel of cultural authorities. Seeking ownership and recognition over the work itself in a world which exists anywhere “above” the underground is one step towards submitting to such a system.

Graffiti Art is the only medium and mode of artistic communication and expression which still lies well outside of that purely modern activity of going to the art, walking around and viewing it, buying the art and bringing it home and putting it on your wall and standing back and saying, “That's nice art.” We buy books in bookstores, therefore they are legitimate works. We purchase music in places that specialize in music and have ways of telling us what is “good” or at least “legitimate,” as it is all produced and distributed through “legitimate” sources. Graffiti Art stands outside of all of this and is viewed completely differently. There is no “legitimate” context for it, there is no “audience,” there is not even a way to package it and sell it, as “The Gates” in Central Park were sold in the form of merchandise commemorating the “event.” Its lack of legitimacy in its profound simplicity, is the essence of the graffiti medium. Total impermanence, an attempt to detach from the work itself in case it is deleted with a fresh coat of paint. It could be seen by some as a somewhat nihilistic or even immature activity, as much as it could be seen by others as a genuine attempt to shape and mold the landscape, to be an active participant in the visual aesthetic of real life, hard objects, tangible things, to have a say.

For the average non-graffiti artist or enthusiast, viewing Graffiti Art is not a choice. It is not something that one puts on a nice dress to go and stand in front of or “tour.” It is something which one is forced to see whether choosing to or not. A person's eyes grow to look past it the way that we look past advertisements. In fact, “tags” are much like advertisements, which no doubt exist in practically every tunnel of the New York City Subway system and in every station, a kind of advertisement which is not necessarily meant for anyone other than those who put the advertisements there, as a mode of artistic communication. A “tag” typically consists of no images, but is simply a word written in a certain style signifying the identity of the artist in a way that is only recognized or acknowledged by other artists. A word – to borrow a few of Brooklyn's own examples – such as: “DART,” “LOGO,” or “PHAME,” is written and proliferated upon as many surfaces as the artist is able to achieve with the time, skills, materials and inclination he or she has. One could come to be recognized, especially if they do work that appears skillful to other artists and garners envy and respect or appears to have involved a great deal of risk.

It is clear that the appearance of tags cannot be stopped completely by those who would wish to eliminate graffiti from the landscape, though you certainly couldn't fault the City of New York for a lack of trying. One could watch graffiti removal taking place at all times of day all over the city. But the tags and pieces themselves are often created at a great risk to the artist (as far as criminal charges), which is perhaps as much a part of the allure as it is an occupational hazard. While graffiti artists are not the only artists who take such risks in creating their work, there are few others, and someone such as renowned photographer Spencer Tunick is considered a savant rather than a criminal, even though he too occasionally breaks the law. That is because photography as a medium, at least, is considered a legitimate art form. Graffiti artists are generally viewed by the conservative mainstream culture as lowlife vandals practicing an entirely illegitimate art form. But the mainstream's rejection of it is what gives it a lot of its power, makes it mysterious and exciting to those who write on walls and railroad cars, knowing that someone could be shocked or offended by it, even without the use of any traditionally “offensive” language or images at all.

However, Graffiti Art is not designed simply to shock or offend, but often comes purely from a desire to add something to the landscape as it is at this moment, to change it, to have a hand in the tangible reality which surrounds us all, to mold it and influence it. It is, in a way, an extremely basic mode of self expression and communication. Writing and painting on walls is a way of taking power and it is a way of owning the city or town or place on which one has written their name, and it is a way of building history. Graffiti artists own the city in their secretive silence. They never show their faces, only their tags and pieces. They are anonymous except occasionally to one another, a culture that practically runs parallel to the mainstream, but is not an accepted part of it, except in representations seen in popular culture. That is, mainstream culture is permeated and heavily influenced by the aesthetic of Graffiti Art, commercialized representations of an urban “look” or “feel,” while those who use it (e.g., advertisements for “Kool” cigarettes) do not give it any greater legitimacy as an art form when performed unsanctioned by commercial entities. We live in a culture where there is real Graffiti Art which can only exist in its confined context and somehow lives and breathes underground, outside of the mainstream structure of artistic criticism, and then there is faux-Graffiti Art, which is bought and sold in worldwide commerce on a regular basis.

Unquestionably, art which is seen in a museum or gallery depends upon the approval of an audience and a curator rather than disapproval. In the way that it thrives on dissonance and exists as a challenge to the very context in which “good art” is allowed to exist, Graffiti Art is, again, distinctly postmodern. It struggles with itself for relevance, yet its very nature is to be somewhat irrelevant, as it has no certain or fixed permanence and rarely brings profit to the artist. If a graffiti artist puts up a piece on a side of a building and the owner of that building paints over it, the art is gone. Therefore, graffiti artists inherently relinquish control of their creations the moment they put down the paint can and walk away from the scene of their “crime.” While some “taggers” undoubtedly spray paint on walls for the sheer joy of vandalizing public or private property, it does not appear that the value of the art is negated by any intent. Even if simply a name scrawled out in cryptic letters like “MIGZ” or “SIDER,” written for reasons that are a mystery to the maintenance men doing the job of removing them, these things stand on their own as artifacts, regardless of whether or not a curator or an audience approves of it, and regardless of whether it will still be there tomorrow.

Graffiti Art cannot exist on canvas. The moment that graffiti-style art is put onto a canvas, it ceases to be Graffiti Art and begins to be a representation of what Graffiti Art looks like as depicted through a traditional artistic medium: paint on canvas. Therefore it becomes possible to make prints of, hang on a wall, curate, seek legitimate approval of... Graffiti Art needs the context in which it exists – the underground, the hijacking of public and private property, the criminal element – as greatly as “Fine Art” needs the one in which it exists, one of relying on rules and boundaries and persistent approval. Graffiti Art and Fine Art exist on opposite ends of a social and cultural spectrum. Graffiti Art cannot be reproduced out of context in a way which maintains its integrity and original significance. It must be where it is.

Graffiti Art has always had close ties with hip hop music and culture, which is not surprising considering that hip hop has struggled for its place as well, but has truly ended up within the mainstream, while Graffiti Art has been left behind in terms of progressing towards broader acceptance. Even Duchamps' Latrine could be accepted as Fine Art when placed in the context of a gallery or museum or in any manner of “display.” Real Graffiti Art will never experience this brand of approval, barring a massive shift in the cultural mindset as far as its legitimacy as an art form is concerned. Regardless of that even, Graffiti Art could never be placed next to Duchamps' Latrine, or any other piece of “fine” or “curated” art, because that setting defies the very nature of Graffiti Art. Unless...

Because it is based in an anarchic ideal – that the landscape belongs to everyone and that hierarchies of ownership are irrelevant – Graffiti Art defies the laws which prohibit vandalism and often trespassing, it rewrites the law in big letters on the concrete side of a lumber building or in subway tunnels or on the backs of billboards or on your desk – anything, anything solid is fair game in the mind of a graffiti artist. Nothing belongs to anyone and everything can be visually altered with paint. If someone walked past Duchamps' Latrine and spray painted their name on it, would that not in itself, be an artistic expression even if someone else calls it vandalism? So, in a way, Graffiti Art is about the audience becoming participants and consequently being left with no audience. Graffiti Art declares that everything is art. Even a name, a few letters, written in a certain style, repeated for whatever purpose, constitutes an artistic expression, an artistic mission and a cry for notoriety and a place in the subconscious mindset of every person with the ability to see it. The content or “message” of the art often seems less significant than the act of creating it and the fact of it being there, everywhere.

Graffiti does not always appear to have especially unique characteristics or messages if all that is seen of it is tags and pieces that are in highly visible areas. Stepping into a neighborhood where Graffiti Art is taken seriously and more time is spent by artists on pieces, one would see murals of extreme richness and a display of more traditional artistic skill as far as color and lines and proportion are concerned, as well as a greater degree of articulation inasmuch as message and meaning are concerned. This is the kind of thing which proponents of Graffiti Art feel they can be truly proud of, perhaps trying a tiny bit to shrug off a direct relationship to “city tagging,” which very much struggles to be recognized as anything other than trash and vulgarity.

Graffiti is of course, largely about symbols, communicating in a secret language, but it is also about notoriety. To be considered an artist one need not even create a detailed piece with colors and well drawn images, but instead could do nothing other than perform a repetitive action with paint, a name, a symbol to those who understand and appreciate those expressions and to confront those who don't. The artist doesn't need to do anything more than attempt to mark a place within the landscape, to declare a presence there and to communicate something, even if what that something is is unknown to anyone including the artist, because it is only “I was here!” More elaborate pieces take this ideal to a “higher” level. It seems the real motivation behind this kind of art is in gaining power and the sense that it gives one of being real and having the ability to change reality, even temporarily. Saying, “I am here. I exist, and this is how I am going to communicate to you about love and hate and life and death. In a manner that can be neither ignored nor adored.”

This is art which is created for those who choose to view it as art. It is trash to those who choose to view it as trash. Fine Art has the privilege of being considered “Art,” even by those who would also like to call it “trash.” In other words, the system of judging and displaying art as “good” or “bad” is so heavily established, across oceans, that even those who don't like the art, are forced to accept it as Art anyway. People who do not appreciate graffiti are not required to accept it as Art or to give it any degree of respect. Graffiti Art is judged in an entirely different context by an entirely different kind of peer group than Fine Art, which, along with its own certain type of environment, seems to require a mutual sort of delusion to bring it up to the level of appreciation and standing that the “higher” culture bestows upon that which is deemed, “good” or “interesting” or “a masterpiece” worthy of mass consumption.

Graffiti Art will always stand on the fringes of that society, thriving in its own special dimension, judging itself, the last real underdog of the art world.

I made a piece of art which I feel is a metaphor representing the path that I would like my stories to take, each and every one of them. I painted it. It has a beginning which is clearly defined, and from there it descends, bounces, springs forth and bounces around on the canvas, a swirl of metallic precision, a sweet, temporary velocity that has both a beginning and an end, each of which are clearly defined, and when it springs up and reaches its finality, it no longer descends any further, but ends, as it should.

We memorized and recited every line in Delirious. Eddie Murphy's storytelling was brilliant and the images of family events and sexual encounters that he drew with voices and characters had us holding our stomachs and laughing until it hurt. But George Carlin had something incredibly unique as well, something that I have idolized my whole life since. He was grouchy. Curmudgeonly, even. He grouched and grouched about things in a way that was so charming, so unbelievably easy to identify with, it felt like he was speaking the thoughts that were already in your head but you never could have found a way to articulate with the concise accuracy that he was able to convey in the expression of any idea. He said things better than other people said them, in a way that seemed there could be no way to argue with him. I imagined him in a debate with one who might disagree with him about his ideas about the world and I always imagined him winning immediately. First round knockout. Seemed like everything he ever said was so honest and for that reason irrefutably true.

I never grew out of George Carlin. He has continued to be a person whose thoughts and ideas and ways of expressing them has captivated and entertained me. Those parts of him will live on forever and ever in this world, long after we are all gone. It was quite a mark he left. Quite a mark.

Take for example, the comic book store next to the restaurant that I work at. It is run by a man who seems nice enough. Sometimes when I am working on the chalkboard outside he comes out to chat, compliments me on my outfits and hairstyles, not sleezy, nice. I'm nice back. There is this other guy who works there, just a kid really, one of those kids who is a little bit too big for his britches if you know what I mean. Talks a lot, thinks he knows more than he does, asks questions in a way that makes them sound like insults. I've never liked him a whole lot but I tolerate him and I let his awkward comments slide.

The other day I arrived to work very early and had time to kill before setting up the bar. It was a hot day so I hung around on the patio for awhile and drank lemonade and read a book. After awhile I went inside and worked on my chalkboard and started setting up a bit, but I still had time to kill, so I decided that I was going to go and check out the comic book store next door, which I had never yet set foot in. Big mistake.

The door chimed as I opened it and the owner, a very stocky still young looking Italian man stood behind the glass counter filled with baseball cards, while the kid, who I would guess to be about 23 and of some kind of east Indian descent, sat on a stool at the back in direct line with the door and facing me as I entered.

"Hello!" I called, "Just thought I'd come inside and check the place out for once."

"Can I ask you something?" said the man behind the counter, "and I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but how is it that you always look so good and put together?"

I was flattered and so I smiled and said, "I make an effort every day. Thanks for noticing."

The kid gave me a big toothy smile, his glasses gleaming reflective in the flourescent lighting.

I didn't advance past the point where the counter began.

"So what happened with your boyfriend? Why'd you guys break up? Did he cheat on you?" asked the man.

"No, he didn't," I said, "It's too long of a story really, it was seven years of good and bad, but ultimately a lot of bullshit just never changed no matter what and we both finally gave up."

"You're a woman, don't curse. You shouldn't curse. But I understand that, it makes sense." He shrugged and nodded his head sideways instead of up and down.

I decided to let that one go. But then he went in for the kill.

"Do you go to church? You should go to church."

"No," I said, "I'm not religious."

"You should be. You should go to church and do some prayer."

"This is the last time that I'm going to walk through this door." And with that, I did not even so much as glance at the kid or maintain my focus upon the man behind the counter for another moment. I turned and opened the door again and stepped back outside into the hot sunshine, two steps to my own doorway, which I opened and breathed relief as I entered the cool dark sanctuary of my bar. That's my church, buster. It's the church of spirits. I light my candles there daily. How do you like them apples?

So that wasn't all though. Because yesterday as I was getting off the train and walking to work I found myself at the corner of Court Street and 2nd Place with this Indian kid, arriving there at the same coincidental moment in time.

"Hey! Look who it is!" He said.

I smiled and said, "Hello there," as we fell into step together walking down Court.

"What's with the heels?" He asked.

"Excuse me?"

"What's with the heels, is it a special occasion?"

"I'm sorry, but you're speaking to me like you've known me my whole life. If you had, you'd know that I almost always wear heels. So the answer is no. I change into flats for work."

"Well excuse me. I meant it as a compliment."

"If that was a compliment, that's something you really need to work on. A compliment to most girls would have been something like, 'hey, nice heels' or 'I like your shoes' but not 'what's with the heels?' that's not considered a compliment, it's considered a rude question."

"Well sorry that I haven't known you your whole life and that I didn't say 'nice heels'."

How could I possibly describe his demeanor? Instantly put off by my honesty, frightened of it, in fact, he said so. "You're scaring me," he said, "I'm afraid you're going to hit me." This made me want to hit him. But I didn't. Of course I didn't. But I did tell him exactly what was going through my mind at that very moment.

"Do you want to know the truth? You don't need to say anything to me at all. In fact, you and your boss--"

"He's not my boss, he's my partner."

"--can just keep to yourselves and not say anything to me. After what he said to me yesterday, and the conversation that I'm having with you now, I would say that you are both totally lacking in social tact and you have no idea how to talk to people. I don't have to put up with it."

He was pretty much completely blown over by my bitchiness. I mean, don't get me wrong, I know that I was a MONDO BITCH to this guy. But I don't feel bad. I feel good. I feel free. Because I seriously meant every word. I am absolutely done DONE with people trying to shove their Christian bullshit down my throat and everyone else's throats and I am sick and tired of rude and invasive banter that makes me distinctly uncomfortable time and time again. So there. I am the biggest bitch in the world and I'm sitting on top of it.

"Wow." He said, "I'll bet your friends just love you. I wish everyone in the world was like you."

"Likewise," I said. And sped up my walk to get ahead of him at which time he slowed down and we thus ended our not-niceties. And...That's all folks. I hope you've enjoyed this episode in the life of the ever confrontational Maria.

Here is a music video that is sure to mesmerize you, if you're into that sort of thing, being mesmerized I mean. Believe me when I say that it is worth watching from beginning to end (about 1:07 min. it gets really good and doesn't stop til the last minute.):

And the California Supreme Court has decided not to delay its ruling on same-sex marriage, and therefore will not stand in the way of couples marrying.

Unfortunately, an initiative has made it onto the ballot for November that would amend the state constitution to ban gay marriage. The passage of that bill would overrule the court's decision. Hopefully that doesn't happen. In the meantime, however, hundreds and thousands of gays and lesbians will legally be allowed to marry in the state of California starting on June 17th. Yaaaaay!!!

Congratulations everybody. :)

And then my brother was afflicted with the pesticide poisoning and he couldn't walk, and we moved, and they moved. Thank god, Joshua recovered for the most part. And Angela, impressively as she was a child, always made the effort to stay in touch with me. We were pen pals no matter where she went. She moved to Florida with her family and I received letters about the activities that she was involved in and how very hot and humid it was and what it was like to see an alligator crawl up from a swamp to lay in the driveway. She always expressed a love and kinship towards me and my whole family that was very unique and genuine. I loved every letter I received from her and I wrote back with enthusiasm.

One day her family decided to move again. This time it was to Wisconsin. We continued writing to one another. When I was fourteen, and my parents moved us from Santa Monica, California to Ashland, Oregon, Angela and I continued to keep in touch, but those correspondences became fewer and farther between as we were involved in our teenage lives and it became difficult to focus and think rationally as life and the scent of adulthood swirled all around. At least for me. I can only speak for myself.

I was so swept up in my teens. Party party party. And then I turned 19 and got married as a way to calm down. I can't say that it's easy to dissect the logic of it in retrospect, but it seemed to make perfect sense at the time. Anyway, so that happened, and it had been about eight years since I'd last seen Angela. And then she came to visit me at the teeny tiny little house that I shared with my new husband on West 11th Street in Medford, Oregon. It was so wonderful to see her, but it was also the first time that I felt how little we had in common. I felt like we were two people from two different planets, and it is also possible that I was a bit of an asshole at that time in my life and didn't really know how to treat my friends. After all, I'd gotten married without telling any of them and basically assumed a new identity on some level. I really did. I never realized it until I typed it out just now. But Angela didn't give up on me even after seeing and feeling completely tripped out by the life I'd assumed. (I've always been a bit of a chameleon in ways, but my role as a Medford wife/stepmother and small-town legal secretary was really one of my most outrageous, though one might argue that my subsequent 9-month tenure living with a male stripper in New Jersey and being his chauffer could rival that. My life has been all the bizarro soap opera that I can handle, and to this day it doesn't stop. I guess I shouldn't hope that it will.)

Anyway, it isn't necessary to get into all of the details of how I ended up in New York, but needless to say I did. And when I did and I'd gotten myself all settled in and well established, Angela, once again, came to visit me in my new life. Her mother had moved to Connecticut following her parents' divorce, and so it became convenient that I live in New York. Used to be that I worked in the Met Life Building at Grand Central Station and we could easily meet for drinks and pizza downstairs, as that is just where her train came in. She visited by herself a few times, and that was lovely. She also called me at my desk one day and said she was downstairs with her mom and her sister. I was excited about the surprise, so I hurried down and there they were, ready for a day out in the City. It was so good to see them and hug them all!

Then my brother died, and naturally I decided to leave that big corporate office in the sky to return to earth, life away from the hustle and bustle of Grand Central Station. I have talked to Angela, but not seen her since. However, each new incarnation of my life's passage is spotted with memories of Angela, presenting herself again and again, offering her friendship as a thing which is absolutely unchangeable in its sincerity. I've been fortunate enough to have incredible friends in this life, people who have this quality, this stalwart attitude about friendship, this intelligence and beauty that I feel privileged to interact with. And truly, Angela is one who has proven the real benefit of that longevity by always being there, always being a true friend, despite any place that either of us might ever move or travel to. Friendship is not a thing which is confined to a place. She really taught me that.

The reason I mention Angela today is because she sent me something that came two days ago wrapped in a big package by insured mail. This is the note that came with it:

Dearest Maria,

This Repose piece was what I was working on when I heard about Joshua. I felt it was a sign that it was meant for him and those he loves. My blacksmith teacher in Minneapolis heard the story and helped me finish the piece by building the steel part, and I helped with that. The relief work is out of copper. I wasn't able to find it for the longest time, and it was because I had left it at an art show, but just recently the owner of the space reminded me of its whereabouts. Perhaps the timing was meant to be. Sounds like, from your blog, things are a little rough. I am very sorry. I wish I could help. Let me know if I can! Much LOVE, Angela.

The letter was typed on an old typewriter, and I have reproduced it here without typos, despite their charm. It was signed in green pen, Angela.

This was with it and a pouch full of white votives.

You can look at other beautiful photographs of it here:

http://angelamcjunkin.googlepages.com/memorialsconce

Hi Angela,

I received your package this afternoon. It would be impossible to say how much it means to me. There have only been a few objects in my life which have held such value to me, and what is funny is that most of the others came from my brother. I'll never forget how it felt to open a package from him to find a piece of his artwork, something he'd made with his hands and his heart. Those are the only possessions in this world that I hold dear: those that were made for me with the hands and the artistic vision of a person that I love. Without a doubt, you are another such person. Angela, we have known each other a long time. A wonderfully long time. You have been such a great friend to me in a million different ways. But I want you to know that this thing, this beautiful treasure that you designed and fashioned and gifted to me, I will love it forever as a symbol of everything that you mean to me, and I can't thank you enough for the beautiful gesture of sympathy that you conveyed in your letter accompanying it. I shall never know another friend like you.

Love,

Maria

**One of my myspace friends posted this video in a bulletin. The man did not mess around on that guitar. He got right to the heart, yes indeed. This is a great thing to see:

Since I moved here in 2000, I have certainly seen and otherwise become aware of all of the treacherous possibilities that this city has in store. The rest of the country has its many dangers, no doubt, and all big cities seem to offer an even greater potential - or some might even say "odds" - for bad things to happen than do more rural areas. But New York, people, New York is *special.* Manholes combusting, electric currents zapping, subway grates falling, paved streets inverting, subways flooding, skyscraper cranes collapsing, even the skyscrapers themselves imploding. This is not even to mention the risk you take getting into a taxi cab or the backseat of the average over-machismo-bearing Brooklynite on his yearly steroid cycle. (Watch out! They could be one in the same!)

A couple of years ago, my friend Frannie and the rest of her family were getting ready for bed in their apartment on the upper east side when the building behind theirs went up in flames. They were evacuated and spent the night in a Red Cross van. If they'd lived in the country, yeah, their neighbor's fire probably wouldn't have affected them (and also they would be living in the country), but because of the close living quarters of the city, we are all butted up against each other. There is only so much space on the island of Manhattan, in particular, as most non-morons know. Therefore, people decided to build upwards. That is why we have skyscrapers and why New York has more of them than anywhere else in the world. It irritates me that people say things like, "Why don't they just stop building skyscrapers?" Why don't we stop having wars? That's killing more people than these crane collapses. Skyscrapers...ehhh, they're nice to look at. But boy do these contractors need to be more careful!!! (I realize that may be a small understatement.)