Thoughts past midnight. The itch to move.



More punk kids bang our door and ring our bell last Saturday. Ever since they had sex in our drive way and peed on our door, I just want to live on a street that gets some respect. Our section of Camelia -eventhough located diagonal from a church, it's all about public urinators-drunk mostly, stray dogs, used condoms, smashed bottles, sex in dark alleyways. Lack of street lights always invites trouble.



But this is all irrelevant. Even the squatters parked in front of our door- always some bearded guy bent over watching tv inside a van or some bearded guy smoking out in a van- they don't bother me. It's really "Sculpture Night" and "Anatomy Night" in the adjacent studio that makes us flee. I worry the interminable uninformed chat sessions as well as the bad/mediocre art being produced in the "Talking Hands" studio next door will corrupt Chris's artistic sensibility in some unexpected way.