I always come and visit you like a holy mission. I almost run to you, slipping across icy lawns, my heart pounding in my chest in the old slow elevator. The complicated path to you one that wakes up in me an old trading path. We trade. I lay down my battered bones, and offer them humbly to you and in return you feed me. It is a bad deal for you, but you never seem to mind. Once I find the atrium that you claimed, I almost cannot stay. I have to hold myself in this room against a desire to flee. This happens every time I come here. I play the usual game of detective. Where is Edsel? The famous communist star? Hidden Star Where is Edsel? I remember how many times I have come to you for an indication. The walk over from Cass Street a dare back then. See through white cotton 1940′s dresses with defiant black underwear, the doberman. Freak flags flying, walking through places that I am not supposed to, that I was not raised for. Each step a revelation. Sometimes it is a good thing to consider directions that are not recommended. The steps of the artist are risky, shunned. Sunshine, the tug of the leash as Zoot strained from me, leading the way with her power. What I learned is that there was nothing to fear, walking through crowds of men thronging the corners, the boom of doom coming out of car speakers speak to empowerment far more than maliciousness. With each step I learned that the artists of Detroit have a standing far outside of the street culture surrounding them. We for the most part were granted passage, our passports lauded for their strangeness, their independence, their ludicrousness. Follow this blog