Your email has been sitting in my inbox for what—maybe, three, four weeks? I thought it was / felt more. Not a bad turn-around time for me on the personal account, personally. Other friends and family members have waited longer. Not my worst. In any case: just wanted to pay your words the honor and respect of a lyrical engagement via missive. And of course: your patience in friendship; your messages beamed into the ether; a kind of light or radiation; shining for itself; waiting to receive. Namely: that Phoenix is lucky to have you; that I appreciate what you do; your consistent spirit of collaboration and communication. It’s nice to see your own work, too. Specifically: the guesthouses I too have inhabited—landlord specials, painted over windows; my own early twenties; walking my bike home with popped tire from Grand Ave; probably from a Trunk Space prior incarnation, never being a big fan of The Bikini. The hot, dusty wind blowing up, chuffing up. Am I strange or foolish for thinking it’s no longer here? The choice of blue: an atmospheric perspective? Cyanotype-like. Perhaps an attempt to recreate the river? Overflowing itself. I live by the Grand Canal now, behind the light rail. Our neighbors have a vigilant HOA. They send newsletters every month or two, mostly crime statistics. K and I will occasionally hear them complain about people walking through. Just yesterday: one of them at the end of the street, with a white cowboy hat—an article of clothing with many meanings, but in this context I think, not insignificant—shouting at a lady who had wandered onto his corner, telling her to leave. Remembering K’s social work training. Hanging out for a moment to see if I could help. Good cop / bad cop. Making sure this guy didn’t call the police. Not an attempt to excuse myself, or at least not all of it. Recognizing one’s structural position. The least we can do. Some questions for this work, then, or additional thoughts: if the development is an obelisk, a monument, then what of the historic neighborhoods banding together to oppose them? Not in my backyard, etc. Not that I am well researched or versed. The flight paths from Sky Harbor. The charm of the light rail’s horn versus the siren of freight. In our city: to the West. Where the sun rises. Every time they put those temporary fences up—are they really that temporary?—with the netting, I always think of an operating theater, a screen behind which they are performing some kind of ritual. Perhaps an act of seduction. Disrobing. Then showing in its true form. The canals are sad, really. Unhappy. Like I know they put a sidewalk path next to them and some new plants or whatever but it’s just so entrenched. The guy who lives at the end of the street? He’s got a few fenced off properties next to our complex. (Our complex.) Not sure if it’s the same lot where the kids are skateboarding these days, shirtless, listening to Mos Def. Across from the other building. To think, then: if they are raising these things out of the ground, is this in someways a burial? A rehearsal of ruins? One city built on top of another. To return to the blue: the sky? I look around at the city and I feel no love. I don’t know. I could be wrong though. These are underdeveloped thoughts. What would it mean for them to be developed? Unedited. I get pessimistic sometimes. Please correct me. Let’s talk. K sends her love. I do too. As we are always sending and receiving. One of the questions for this work, then: how to make this performative or physical. How to bring love back to the city. In electrical terms: how to resist. More unsaid. More soon.
Also: yes on Jeri Williams and proof in the pudding, my goodness. Also: good for you on using the word smegma.