It’s always strange going to a new spot to statue. Hell, I hadn’t even walked on that section of blocks for about four years, back when I wore a beautiful Donna Karan suit for my job, drove a ’71 Mercedes 280SE, all leather and wood and sexy as hell, named Marlena – and was selling everything I had to simply eat, waiting on the eviction notice.

My, how times have changed.

I don’t have anything to sell anymore, except myself – but that – me – I guess I give.

That is my job now.
I give myself, and somehow, it works, and I’ve never been happier or felt more like this is exactly what I’ve lived my life to become. I look around in my mind at the people I call friends, the people I have the honor to meet and “work” with – and know that this is where I’m supposed to be.

I look at older pictures of myself, and still the light was there, a subtle passion burning behind my eyes, a warmth. It took me a long, long time to figure out what to do with that, but… but I kept searching, travelling, wandering inside and out. Trying to be the good son, trying to be the perfect employee, trying to get that thing called security that I’ve heard so many people talk about. A nest egg, a savings, investments – being able to give whatever money I could to friends who neededed it, to be able to  take them out to dinners, buy them drinks, be able to see something that reminds me of someone and just simply get it for them without thinking twice.

Yeah, I wanted that, and a waterslide.

Okay, I still do want a waterslide – a waterslide and the whole taking friends out for dinner and paying back debts and a room to set up my sewing machine and a place without an engine to call home – but for now, this is perfect. Those things will come in time, when it’s time, and on my terms. I don’t have time to fuck around with what my life needs to be anymore – and honestly, I don’t know if I ever did. Everything was a long evolutionary process of me being me, becoming more and finally remembering the dreams I had as a pup.

Never forgot them, really.

I still clearly remember the first time I saw Cirque du Soleil – I had just moved up to San Francisco, had money because when I started my suit job I believed in it, and was good, so I bought some kickass tickets for a friend and I.

The lights dimmed, the feeling of the music eloquently changed, and the show began.

Through the entire performance I was completely mesmerized, constantly wiping tears from my face due to the emotion these beautiful people conjured inside of me. The things that they reminded me that I wanted to be. I wanted to be one of the people that made me feel like I did for that brief time, and then for quite a while after. Days…
Back to work, on with the suit and the smile, fighting traffic and trying to make sense of it all. Eventually I was able to re-direct the passion into my job, and lost myself in that again…

again, for almost three years.

The years passed, things changed,  and then – then, an opportunity arose, just as the job was dying, and killing me and my relationships.
Dreams came true. I found myself, found my passion, gave myself – and for the first time, things made sense. This is who I am, have always been.

This is who I’ve become, and have been since. I am called a performer, but what i do is not performing. I am one of the few very fortunate ones that is able to give the love that I recieve back, even though I may be completely penniless. Everything I do comes from the purest place in my heart, and it is following my dreams that has allowed me access to this place. This is a place that the beautiful people I’ve known and the beautiful things I’ve seen have filled up, and now – now it is my time to give it back. In giving back it fills more, and I am overwhelmed so frequently with the blessings that I have finally accepted.

I get to give you me.

It’s not a fancy dinner, it’s not a drink, or the perfect thing I saw for you in the store window – it is only me. Only me, but it is everything i could possibly give you, and it will never be lost, or go away. Hopefully, it will never lose value.

It’s always strang to statue in a new spot, unknown. I painted my face, gathered my gear, took a few deep breaths – then smoked another cigarette and checked my makeup again and even had a small glass (cup – remember, van living) of wine, and took a few deep breaths… made certain that I was parked okay, sat and did nothing for a while, ate a Red Vine, looked at my statue gear, opened the door, locked it, said an internal “Fuck, let’s GO!” to meself, shut the door, made certain that it was locked about three times, and headed out.

I met Union Street with a bit of uncertainty. Lots of people at the fair, but there was a strange subdued air around. Everything was quiet,  listless wandering. I waled down the street – by this time it was around 1:30pm or 2 – looked at the people, looked for the energy, and found nothing. No festival atmosphere, though the street was lined with people and the tents of the sellers. I signed a petition for more parking and something better for police (good karma, yo.) and continued on my way. Found a space that would work, set up, pressed play on Bowie – and there i was, immersed in the anti-freak GAP and Banana Republic  psuedo-fashionistas  of the area.
The day wasn’t that bad. Better than the Wharf has been to me these days – but that doesn’t say much.

What made it right were the amazing children – there was one girl, I’m guessing around six, who absolutely loved it when she waved and I responded with a quick wink or that eyebrow thing I do. (It’s nice to finally be able to let myself succumb to such beauty, and respond…) and the boy, also probanly around six or seven – a curlyblond chubbyboy, who when he was standing there with his mom, was looking at me. I gave him a wink, and… oh, this is whi I do what I do. His mouth went OH!, and his hand went up to cover it. Picture that.
They gave me a buch, I did my thing – his eyes got wider – and then he started jumping up and down asking for another dollar from his mom. he got so much more the next time…

The day ended for me – my body started to hurt, hurt bad, and I needed to stop. Back to Falkor, cleaned up, and Trader Joe’s is close so I decided to stop in and get some chuck.

As a civillian I decided wo walk the Wharf, check it out – I don’t get this opportunity too often, and besides, In N Out called me. Cheap good food, and I decided to treat myself to a hot meal. Those are rare these days – I still haven’t found the room with the kitchen in Falkor…

I walk up the wharf, and it’s a strange feeling. I hold my head up high, a certain confidence in my walk. I own this place, I am king of the fucking Wharf, and yes – I know you. I’ve studied you, watched you for days upon days. This is my home, you are my people. I get nods from people I don’t know, asked how I’ve been by people I don’t recognize. Further down, I find Kenny and Bushman. Greg (Bushman) starts laughing – “Holy shit – you really ARE white!” He’s never seen me undressed. We hug, laugh. This is the street, and we’re all equal.
I talk to Kenny – he tried the Union Street Festival too, it seems, but made the grave mistake of asking someone if it was okay. You Don’t Ask. You just do. Out of the corner of my eye i see Greg slowly nodding as I chastise Kenny. He was pushed off.

I didn’t ask, just set up in the middle of it – and a really cool thing, this guy comes by in someting of a rush, stops, looks at me with a smile on his face, and grabs his radio. “Hey, torn around! Holy shit! No one told me about THIS guy!!!”, apparently calling to a person that was just up in front of him. He laughs, says to me:  “Hi, I’m Steve!” and runs off.

Steve? Waiddaminute. As I always try to do for new folds to wrap myself in, I did a bit of research on this thing. His name rang a bell, and he had the demeanor and, well – a radio. He acted like he owned the event.

He does. Steven Restivo Event Services, LLC. Puts on a bunch of festivals in the Bay Area.

I love my life.

Tomorrow – or in a few days
, I’ll email him, introduce and offer myself, and anything else he could possibly imagine – as long as there’s pay, maybe even Vau de Vire Society.

~ ~ ~

On the way out I find another friend, a homeless guy with a sweet pooch named Halo, who I never hesitate to give a bit of change or a couple bucks to. I don’t recall his name – perhaps I have never asked, he always hangs out in front of Walgreens. We talk, I check in on him. He’s doing okay, but he’s cold. Gods, I wish I had something more to give him.

In Walgreens, I find the perfect gift for someone, for Boe –  for 99cents and tax. I get it. I can afford this. It doesn’t need to be exquisitely overpriced, it doesn’t need to be impossible. I can find anything for anyone if given time, and this is for Boe. Strange how this tourist centered Walgreens has so much more cool schtuff. Not so strange.

I know Boe doesn’t rad this crap, so I can tell you – I got him a paddle balll thing, but the paddle – the paddle is all about deep red glittery coating. Perfect for a Gofferman show.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Warm in the van. I use candles for light these days, and when there is little breeze to circulate air – well, it’s fire. Duh. I shed layers.

This beautiful beast has 15 windows, and all except four (including the windshield) open at least a little bit – but I need to keep a few closed so i don’t die because of the fumes that are created with the motor running, and hell, it gets warm.

I think I’m done for now.  Shut off the engine, shut off Clotho after this is posted, crawl behind the couch and sleep until 6. I need to move my van for street cleaning. Suck down some raw eggs, and go about what the day gives. Dolores Park. I need to practice, become more.

I love you.

That is no secret…

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