Winter Solstice

*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.

(one)
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.

(two)
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.

(three)
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.

(four)
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.

(five)
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.

(six)
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.

(seven)
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