william tavish costello

 

 

Mad scientist I have been called, admittedly being a bit of a dub professor, but of what my brother would say about the cultural taboo, “The devil’s haircut,” he who died with a mohawk and one dreadlock, myself with long knotted hair has brought me peculiar attention, misunderstood more than appreciated, wearing dreadlocks for eleven years has been a mostly selfish endeavor, which is not true by the grace of my friends and save for the other few that will say “don’t change”.

As sarcastic and right on as John’s comment was, For me the whereing has been mostly performative, music and dancing will not be the same without this extension of the self to movement and flow, these magnets to other space and times, and I will be naked once again, and through its spirit we be free tho I know not how I’ll feel, though it will be with confidence.

And Solidarity with my others, native or foreign, anatomical or mental.

And eh, dreams.

 

 

photos taken at salem art works winter 17′

 

 

 

I’m thinking of getting a clothesline.
I had to come back to the laundromat to dry my clothes this morning. The reason why is another story.  While I wait in the dawn lit bay windows of this place I sleepily recall one of the pleasant encounters that bring balance to my trials of living in this new town.

There was a little girl, maybe 2 or 3 years old, in here last night who kept coming up to me and pleasantly saying, “Hi”.

Her mother, a young woman with green hair was aware but busy saddling up her steamy unfolded laundry into satchels.  After a few friendly “Hi”s I chuckled and asked the girl a few sincere questions though i thought they might be beyond her comprehension.
“Is this where you’re from? Do you come here often?”
She didn’t know how to answer but seemed to like the attention.
“Hi,” she kept saying.
“Stop being fresh” her mother playfully scolded as she worked.
Awkwardly amused as the toddler kept greeting me I set up a wash and sat down at a short table to get on my laptop.  The girl came over and could just barely sit in one of the chairs but the table was low enough to comfortably converse.

“Hi…Hi…”
“Well, you are quite the conversationalist, aren’t you?” I replied.  She was stumped by my comment but gave a slightly knowing yet confused head waver.
“That means you like to talk.” I explained.
“Yeah” she said shyly.
Her mother dragged a large load out to her car and the girl ran to her aid, pushing the big basket, then ran back over to sit at the table with me.
“You sure are a big help to your mom.”
“Hi…”

Perhaps she liked how she put a smile on my face.  I admit I liked the attention too.  Mom, carrying the last load out called to her “Ok let’s go,” and “Sorry, thank you.” to me.
“No worries, she’s polite. Bye.”