21 December 2008
*I beg your pardon, to indulge me in a small philosophical trip.
(whatever comes before one)
You said there was no script for this. Until now I just didn’t realize how true that was.
Several weeks ago I was sitting at a cafe and a man asked me what I did. "I'm an artist," I answered. He seemed to contemplate this for a moment and then he asked me, "What are you starving for?" I had no answer. I'm sure he meant to be witty and not philosophical, but the question has been simmering in my skull for weeks.
I dreamt of polaroids the other night. I dreamt that I was following a trail of polaroids like breadcrumbs to an unknown destination. I woke up before I got there.
Tuesday. I was wandering around Fort Point in Boston. It was an exquisitely grey day, a day when the wind cut through your coat, a day you could feel in your bones. As I was standing on the bridge overlooking the channel I was suddenly and acutely aware that I was alive.
I have felt utterly and completely lost lately. How do you get from A to B? I don’t know. But it has recently occurred to me that perhaps it does not matter how you get to B. There is no answer. There is only getting up in the morning.
I used to like to walk up the middle of Mass. Ave at night, teetering on the median that divides the road. The cars blurred to a stream of light on either side of me. There is an elegant fluidity to the motion and the light and the indifference of the city.
I am wearing out the heels of my cowboy boots. This really has nothing to do with anything except for the fact that I wander a lot.
I will find my own way.
Five Squares per Inch
ink and bleach on graph paper with hand-stitching
4.6 x 6.5"
copyright Kate Castelli 2008