Each one of us, then, should speak of his roads, his crossroads, his roadside benches; each one of us should make a surveyor's map of his lost fields and meadows. Gaston Bachelard.

Monday, October 31, 2011

All Hallows Eve

A few years ago, I was a resident in LMCC’s amazing Workspace program. The program gives temporary studio space to artists and writers in unused/abandoned portions of corporate office buildings near Wall Street. The year I participated, the writers were housed on the ninth floor, our studios spread around the periphery of a large territory of stained carpet and dark shadows suggesting former cubicles. The building was never quiet—there was always a faint buzz. Through my studio window I watched the people in the building across the street, ghosts lost in stacks of paper, shapes lit up by flickering TV’s or laptop screens. In this space I often lost track of time, of reality.

During the residency, a fellow artist lent me a book on old slave songs. I found this haunting melody within its pages and, once I learned it, couldn’t stop humming it.


It became a sort of theme song for the space, a rhythm to match the buzzing.

Here is my version of the song:

Happy graveyard walking and moon howling.

L.


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