Post-Weave Consciousness

Tonight Lydia and I went to the FOUNDRY which is basically a grungy hangout with a bar and a bunch of couches and art everywhere. Television sets abounded, and the crowd was real chill and friendly and welcoming. It was like being in Pittsburgh except the people, we'll call them British yinzers, seemed far more involved, whether they were students or working artists or just hangers out. I guess they didn't seem as grungy retarded (not to be confused with lovely retarded) in that caring-is-for-sellouts, my-bubble-is-better way. That's to say the exhibits had agendas, and those agendas were relevant to the world beyond Old Street.

WHAT AN IDEA!

I met Shepherd, who wants to do a project where he covers a wall with weave, but he wasn't sure if it was too offensive. "The more offensive, the better!" I told him, then showed him my shaven head, which he proceeded to massage with veneration. "I should take pictures of you!" he said. I'm down, and not just because I'm a narcissist, but because my participation is precisely in tune with the message he wants to convey. "I HATE WEAVE!" he shouted while a guy named Sam rocked out some blues guitar from inside a house made of trees.

Tomorrow I'm going to the squat (which made the front page of today's paper) to learn how to protest-dance.

And now, a poem inspired by Shepherd and Romeck, the writer:

Get that weave out your hair so your brain can breathe, girl
Get that weave out your hair and go see the world, girl
Get that weave out your hair
Throw that weave in the air
And say, Holla back, jack
Weave will not hold me back!