Earlier this evening, sitting at Noc Noc for a beer, Lauren got up to go to the bathroom, and i pulled out my phone.

On a whim, I began to go down the list of names in my phone book, wanting to remind myself of people I perhaps hadn’t thought of in a while, or hadn’t seen.

I didn’t make it too far.
I stared at this name for a bit, remembering her, a certain sadness in my heart.

I did the only thing I could do at that moment. I sent her a text message.
No reason to call.

I miss you.
I love you.

That’s all I said, all that needed to be said.
I’ve already said everything else to her that I could – I just needed to remind her of those small, simple things.

I miss you, Allison.

We all do.


Gods, what a beautiful evening.


I don’t get many calls, I seldom get invites. I’m certain that this is my own doing – as much as I would love it, I think I portray myself as a solitary person. Most certainly, I am – I adore my solitude, the space created. Then again – gods, I love my friends, love seeing them, love dancing with them, love talking with many.


I was blessed tonight.


Sitting in my van in the usual spot after running errands all day to gather supplies for the show and thinking about how I can improve my new bag, I had hours of in communication with anyone – even so very little active life on Tribe or LiveJournal. (gods, that sounds pathetic when it’s actually said…)

Yeah, I worship my solitude, but there’s plenty of that these days. I wanted some company, a living breathing being in all of the available dimensions around me, someone with a body to hug hello and in appreciation of their existence, I needed to see a smile unfold on a face in all available dimensions – not just the cold, lifeless two that I usually get on Clotho’s small screen, not a smile that has been in a profile for days, months or years.


(Given, there is one set of eyes that I can’t seem to escape from, which immerse me in them, even on the screen. Unfortunately, the bearer of these eyes and all that is behind them lives a couple hours away…)


 Loneliness crept in. I thought of people – tens of people that I associate with regularly, quick conversations at shows that we do, people I sincerely call friends but – but there isn’t really anyone that I simply “hang out” with, except for one.

I took inventory – I don’t know other people’s lives, I don’t know if this is common – to have those people that you call friends, those people that you adore and trust, but once the show is over, you go your separate ways until the next time. I know so little of them, their lives, and all I know of their hearts is what I feel – and that is why I don’t hesitate to call them friends. I don’t give that title lightly.

I search my heart for someone that could possibly make this lonely feeling go away – I’m not good at letting people know I need them, want them around and want to be around them. I’m not good at needing, and gods, I not only need them, I need a damn shower.

Perhaps that is why I hesitate to call.

“Hi, want to hang out, watch your movie on your screen with you, sit on your couch? Can I use your shower and wash the Wharf and whatever has gathered over the past few days off of me? Can I use your company? Can I enjoy your voice, your energy, your silence, your warmth? I’ll buy the ice cream, I’ll buy the treats. That’s all I can offer these days in return, unless you want to go hang out in my van and stare at the front window for a while. Stare at the ornate skull that Stardust sent me all those lives ago, which stares back with empty eyes…”


It is this thought that brought me to TM Lauren, asking what she was doing as I sat in Falkor wondering what the rest of the world was up to. I needed my friends.


Lauren called me back – about an hour later, inviting me to some party in Berkeley, insisting that I come – and the keys were twisting, bringing the engine to life almost before I hung up the phone. Bounce on over to the Eastbay, fuck the expense in fuel and bridge tolls, the soul is more important. I’ll scrape by – I have almost all of the equipment that I need for the next show due to my errands earlier. Fuel, another towel, batteries for music – I’ll be fine. I’ve lived on less…


The party was incredible. Not only did I get to hang out with the most wonderful Whitney, Lauren and Jess, but holy hell – Holly and Robin were there as well – man, what a delicious treat.


The food was incredible – everything from fried turkey to greens, home-made scalloped potatoes to bacon-wrapped jalapeño cheese thingies. The ever evolving and changing band lineup apparently occasionally consisted of members of Santana and Sly & the Family Stone, everything from guitars, drums and bass to electric violin, sax and harmonica. Met a guy named Chick, who not only cooked all the food but got up and sang one hell of a song when he had a chance. Dig this guy – think I may be seeing him somewhat frequently…


Danced with all, danced alone. Pulled aside a woman because I couldn’t help but tell her how beautiful she was – the mirror image of Lena Horne, with her gorgeous smile and contagious energy, and I needed to tell her, thank her, just simply let her know…


Gods, what a beautiful evening, but now, 1:30pm on Tuesday, parked outside of Lauren’s new place with a cigarette and too many words to write, I must stop. It’s a much needed laundry day, and we’re heading over to Brain Wash in the city to get shit done.


After I take a shower, then stop by Whitney’s garage to get my throwing knives. Need to start practicing again – and hell, I sure have the time, and the whole Bay Area is my back yard. Get my archery target from Xenodrome. Find a place for it in my van. Practice the harmonica. Create a street show.








This life is exquisite. I need to write more – I always do, so much beauty, but dayuum…


Bite, release.


Bite, chew, savor every drop and swallow. Become life.

Bite, and hold on for dear life.

Don’t  release.


I packed up my gear early today at the Wharf.  After the consecutive days of statuing and the way Falkor, after days like these days, becomes more and more uncomfortable as my body retaliates against the abuse of standing still for so long with the unexplainable trickle of money, I stepped down off of my stand with a groan, gathered my gear – and headed ‘home’ fo Falkor.

The only way I can explain it these days is perhaps the hundreds of people walking by have gotten jaded by the lack of art or talent that the Wharf has become. Just a couple of years ago the hats were more than enough to sustain me, I gathered crowds, people stood and watched me, delight on their faces.
Sure – that still happens, and I’ll be damned if I stop giving that – it’s just gotten less, less. I know that it is not me – I am still there for love, to give what I can, and the past number of days I made sure of it, completely concious of the energy I was giving in silence. There was no concern about what they put in my box, and I recieved hundreds of smiles from those I winked at as they walked by. A wonderful family tipped took a picture, watched me as I entered my rustyoldmechanical way I go into tipping my hat or blowing a kiss these days, and then stood ther for about 15 minutes as I stood, the occasional wink to a child, a flutter of my eyebrows – every subtle motion made them laugh, and gods, I was filled.
When they needed to go, father figure came up to me and said “I can’t stand watching all of these people just walk by you – you’re amazing!…”

Yeah, filled. Unfortunately, this has gotten more and more rarer and rarrerrer. Time to change.

(((Fuck, the fumes are killing me as I run the motor to run the battery as I write this. Time to shut some of the windows. What is my own secondhand smoke called?)))

I packed up early today, I had other things to do. Over the weekend both my van and computer battery died while sleeping at the Wharf – hell, it happens, sometimes the fine line is passed, especially when the fuel gauge needle is past the line past the RED line, and I don’t want to run the motor to charge the battery. Much easier to get a jump-start than try to find whereverthefuck the nearest gas station is at the Wharf to fill up my one gallon gas can.
Packed up, wiped the day off, changed – and damn, thankfully I found a good public bathroom closeby to where I usually park because AI really needed to… um, to use it.

Walked the Wharf as a civillian, checking out what it has become – saw the break dancers again, watched and listened to their show, again – but this time with new thirst. Damn. these guys are phenomenal. Do yourself a favor – go see them. Hopping around on a hand stand (ONE hand!) in circles, backflips over heads, things the top gymnasts do on the horse (handle horse? Don’t know what it’s called.) such as the whole legsintheairspinningaroundonlyhands on the groundspinningspinningaround – gods, please go see them, and give them what you think they deserve.

End of the show, tipping – I pulled out a painfully earned five ones, slipped it in a hat that was passing by only wishing I could give more, and was recognized by the guy holding it. The whole masculine hand-clasp bump-chests thing, and this guy, who I’ve had some very minor performance space dificulties with in the past – the only one of their crew, actually smiles – this guy doesn’t smile – and asks where the hell I’ve been. I hadn’t seen them since I came back from New Orleans, so – I’ve been in New Orleans. We talk about it. I tell him about the 50ish man who broke into tears because the street performers were soming back, and through the tears told me – “Thank you.” I told hime about how the French Quarter, which was barely damaged, was close to thriving – but I also told him about the places forgotten. The places where the people with such insanely strong spirits and souls live, the with most amazing hearts and… the least amount of money. I told him how they have been forgotten, and somehow he seemed to understand, for whatever reason, it doesn’t matter. Pass Christian, I heard just today on NPR, still has their banks in trailers, has one store, no gas station. I don’t know this place, never been there, but passed the exit many times on the way to Cole’s house. (How the hell are you, darlin’?)

He seemed to feel it.
I told him that it was good to see them again, then broke the conversation – it’s hat passing time, and I was taking it up. I’ll see him again.

Back to Falcor, still no juice to start. I’ve got this groovy little solar battery tender that doesn’t do shit to charge the battery I’ve found, it puts out about 1.3 amps under perfect conditions – but it will keep it from draining if I ever need to leave this van sitting  for months on end. Lotta help. Sheesh. At least it has a pretty blue blinking light when it’s working…

I get a jump, give the space to the wonderful woman who gave it to me after so many passed, and held my breath as I headed to 16th and South Van Ness, close to the cheapest fuel I have found. Put $40 in, which is why I am able to write this right now. Got it over the red line!

Light being emitted by three tea lights so I can see the compooperkeys, motor running with the vent fan on low to at least circulate air, quietly listening to a mix of music and drinking incredibly cheap wine that I got from Trader Joe’s at the Wharf. All hail Two Buck Chuck.

I celebrate, and I guess that is what this whole post is about. What it started being about, at least. Bringing it back.

It took everything I had – these are uncharted territories, I had no idea what I was getting into. I gingerly stepped with my gear bag up and down the Wharf, looking for a place, doing my best to build up courage. I thought of the first weeks I statued alone, thought of where I am now. Called that knoledge, that growth into me. Found a place, set my bag down, made a production of setting up (this draws curiosity, people stop) bounced around a bit getting the blood and heart flowing, and soon, five people were there.
I made them yell. Soon, 15 people. I lit a torch, placed it on the ground, drew them in. I backed up and asked them not to block the sidewalk. I put a towel down, looked/asked in the audience for someone who I could trust – that guy.

I played the crowd.

What’s your name?

“Ed, I have a big favor to ask of you. I need your help tonight. Ya see, the wind is weird tonight, and I need someone I can trust to help me out if something goes wrong. I’m hoping it won’t, but it might. This is fire breathing, the most dangerous of all of the fire arts, and if something goes wrong – no, don’t worry about that fuzz beneath my chin, but if you happen to find that my face has become a huge ball of orange and white hot stuff, PLEASE, pick up the towel, and wrap it around my face – and Ed, the most important thing besides making sure my fase isn’t on fire, is DON”T WIPE! You wipe, and my face ends up in that towel in your hands. My mom likes my face, and so do a few other people – I’d rather keep it where it is. So you understand me, right, Ed? Wrap, don’t wipe. Everyone give Ed a huge round of applause!

(a few short bursts to bring in more people)


Et cetera.


Okay, dig it – with little knowledge except from my own mind and experience, bringing in the way I’ve seen so few other people do their shows and seeing what I would use and what I would change – I did my first official fire show tonight. No – my first official STREET fire show, solo, emphasis on show, breathing alone. Just breathing needs a SHOW, no way to take up the time with awesome talent, like Brian, who I just discovered is doing a beautiful Fire Knife show in the circle at Pier 41 thes days, so close to where I used to to my statue thang in the days.

I did two shows – the first one was certainly better in words and audience – probably about 40 people compared to maybe 20 – but I learned/knew something. Before the finally (Finalie? no.)… before the big finish on the first show, I took of my hat – the black top that you
all know, introduced it to the crowd – and mentioned that Ones were great, but…

Hell – if you ever have words that you can say for a show, NEVER mention ones.
The second show, with half as many people and a few of them leaving early, was much less well said – kinda pathetic, actually – but ones were never mentioned, and I used a few true hat lines to beef it up – and came out with just as much as the first show.

Still, tons tons tons of work to do before I deserve a circle, but damn – I put on a show, made people happy, captured them, made them laugh – and walked out, two roughly ten minute shows – with no costume, no makeup – jeans, shirt, jacket and the ever-present top-hat – with as much money as I made earlier today in just a wee bit less than three hours statuing.

I rach out of myself because of need. I show myself who I can be because I will not accept anything less. I am sure as hell terrified – gods, everything it took to jump past me into who I can be tonight – but the rewards, the rewards…


I am a warrior. I fight like hell to find me, as much as me as I can give.

Something beautifully strange today. I was walking out of Trader Joe’s, and a woman – a woman who looked to be about 150 years old, but probably wasn’t, stopped me after I returned her smile. “You’re a street artist, aren’t you?” Me, black jeans, shirt, blazer, hat…
Umm – yeah – how could you tell?

“You’re hat. It’s your hat. You must be.”

Ya know what?

I fucking did it.

Doing it.

I fucking love my life.

“I learned when I was young that the only true life I had was the life of my brain, but if it’s true that the only real life I have is the life of my brain, what sense does it make to hand that brain to somebody for eight hours a day, for their particular use, on the presumption that at the end of the day they will give it back in an unmutilated condition?”

Fryin’ Pan Jack, tramping since 1947, as quoted by Utah Phillips

by choice…

The night grows dark, it’s almost time. Just a few minutes until I completely step out of my comfort zone, get on The Wharf, and create a show out of nothing and fire.


This is my life, I am blessed, and it is exquisite. Exquisite except for a much more beautiful entry that was eaten up by a lousy stolen interweb connection. I go on.


I go on, though the words have already been written and are gone. I make new ones. Always making new. This is my world, and I am in love with it.


Just a few minutes. I gather the tools I need – the torches, the fuel, the damp cloth, the lighter, my guts and don’t give a dam. I just want to make them happy, entertain enough so that they want to give me money. Just a few minutes and I reach past everything I have been, creating a show, gathering strangers, passerby, the wandering tourists. This is the Street. Anything can happen here, and I’ll make it happen. Just a few minutes and I step into another world. I’m terrified. Thrilled. This is my life, I change as I need to. I’m terrified.


The show must go on – this life is my choice, and I need to make it work.


Just a few minutes…


~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Random bumping into of Victoria today – Victoria of the BB Gun, and just an all-around rocking woman. She brought up doing a show together – her on her gun, me pulling arrows behind my bow.


Hells. Yeah.


Just one problem – I need more arrows. Shot them all to their demise at the March Bohemian Carnival – Valentines Day, shooting hearts from across the club. Call me Cupid. Don’t.


Hells yeah. Shootin’ shit. Needs me some arrows, needs me some cash to get them. $60 for a dozen – and damn, once I get them, I’ll find a way to make them stay on fire at 240 feet per second – that will be the tough part. Ain’t no longbow King Arthur shit, this bow shoots like hell, and we know each other. She’s trained me.

Hoping to make enough hat tonight to get some arrows, begin to pay some dreadfully overdue debts, buy some food, put some fuel in the tank of Falkor – and buy a Helicopter. One that can fit in your common San Francisco parking space, and… one that floats. And has a waterslide. And is almost silent, but has a kickass sound system.


Yeah, that is what I want to earn tonight. I’m missing Devotchka. Something good must come of it…


And hell, I need to write this shit in Word first – I lost such a beautiful entry because of a lousy connection…


Just pretend that this was as beautiful as that, okay?





This is my life, and I live it by choice. It comes with no small amount of pain, but it helps me remember passion, love, lust, and beauty. I dive into darkness and emerge dripping with light. This is my life, always growing – and The Great Oooh Ahhh of the Universe kicks my ass if I don’t, with gentle (and sometimes not so gentle) nudges. This is my life, and for some reason I still am here. This is my life, and it deserves everything I can give it. Everything I can grow to be, and share.


This is my life. It is pain, uncertainty, beauty. This is my life and everything I wanted to be as a child. I AM, I am me, finally. This is now, and the only thing that matters.


Just a few minutes – it is cold, windy, and dark. I sit in my van and the light I have strapped around my forehead to see the keys is giving me a headache. Fuck, I need to jump back into the unknown – the unknown is where I thrive. I am not a common person.


A few more sips of wine, a few more words. Hopefully tonight I will make enough to buy arrows, create a show, make more people happy and make more money. I have the love, the passion – the ferocity. I am here for me, and in becoming me I am able to give to you.


I am here, ultimately, for you



~ ~ ~


Hell. Time to gather, and put on a show. No more standing around, this time I need to draw them in, draw me out. This time, at last, I can speak with them, play with them.


This is what I have been waiting for, and I become more of me.


I live this life by choice.


“If you aren’t on the edge, you’re taking up too much space.”


Fuck. Guess I need to go.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~ ~ ~





No one out, I drew a crowd of five at most – and I had NO show to give them. I need to work on this. Hells. I made $2.


With the fuel needle far below the redline, with a pocketful of $2 and change, tonight I make the Wharf my home. Tomorrow I statue again – at least with that I know I will make a bit of scratch.


Not giving up, just need to refine and design. Perhaps bring it into my statue, work it that way. Play.


Lots of work to do.


Lots of effort to live the life I have chosen.


Two dollars. Can’t survive with that.

Two dollars. I need to get better, and quick.




Right now a whole bunch of ‘fuckthis’ is swirling around in my noggin’, but I can’t give up, I won’t. Need to do this, need to eat, need to feed Falcor and be able to live. Empty tank, empty heart. Fuck it.


Tomorrow just might be better.


Maybe tomorrow I will be able to afford arrows, create a good show.


Buy fuel for Falcor.





It is by choice I live this life. By choice and necessity I chase my dreams, and grow into them.


By Choice.


On the rooftop of a building  on Clay and Gough, an area I’m not familiar with.

Part of the magick of this vagabond life is the places I come across, the wonderful people I get to spend actual time with that I wouldn’t otherwise. Sure, this life has it’s less attractive aspects, but when it comes down too it, for now – for now, it is perfect.

Someday i will have a true home, a place where I can set up my sewing machine and have space to do what I want, what I need – but for now – for now I am on the roof of a building on Clay Street, looking out at a beautiful view as I smoke the days last cigarette…

and feeling so incredibly blessed.

For now, this is what I need.


At a cafe in Berkeley – the Nomad Cafe, which I find to be gloriously fitting in name, and I just spent the last 4+ hours copying and pasting the last of my journal entries into MSword. I’m blind and my brain is mush.

Now, I only need to edit 611 pages, and somehow make into some sort of bookylike thing that I have no idea if anyone will ever read.

That is, if I can ever stop writing and making it bigger.

How the hell am I going to end this???

(shit. Another entry to put in…)