St. Paddy’s was mercifully low key this year, by which I mean I was exposed to a minimum of drunken frat types trading in their Santa Con suits for green plastic hats. My Catholicism is too lapsed/excommunicated to connect with a saint’s feast and there’s not much else to warm the cockles and mussels of my little half-Black Irish heart. In Hell’s Kitchen I ponder this side of my heritage. My mother would tell me dismayed “you’re your father’s daughter” in my temperament and values. I think she’d rather I not identify with my Cuban half so much, but my Irish? She was mortified to speak much of them, and the things they did, and so I only know a very little about it. Gin and artillery and rivulets of blood that trickle into the gutters, but hasn’t history borne out that Prohibition was a stupid idea anyway? The word of Sin is Restriction.
I’m transferring to a different mental health center, I have intake in about two weeks, and hopefully this one doesn’t have metal detectors and fussy police, exerting power because both they and I know they got saddled with what’s gotta be one drag of a beat assignment, I might commiserate more if it all weren’t such a pain in the ass. This new place is down on the Lower East Side and he thinks they may be better equipped to work with artists (that shouldn’t matter, but I’ve learned from time-wasting first hand experience that it really kind of does.) We were last down there two nights ago in the rain, at some invite-only-but-not-really art gallery fashion party because Ryan and this other guy Dave (he seemed cool) were running electronic sound for a performance by Genesis Breyer P-Orridge. Gen had collaborated on designing a lighter with Yang Li (they didn’t bring any with them) and this was a release party replete with complimentary white wine and fashionistas, enough fashionistas to fill me with perverse pride at my home-shocked hair and under $5 Washington Heights ensemble.
Sadly many of them weren’t as keen on art as we were and sloshed off by the windows looking to schmooze and have their outfits seen from the street, if anyone was out the the downpour. They weren’t really necessary anyway, but I wish they didn’t feel the need to flap their gums so loudly.
Anyway, last of all, here’s a sketchbook page before I go. Contains: L from “Death Note” rendered under the influence of schizophrenic cat artist Louis Wain, some random notes on Butoh and it’s influences, and a bloody mutilated corpse. All very important, I’m sure.