The following was written on Friday, January 29 at around 4am. Names have been changed to protect the not-so-guilty.
It was one of those strange, surreal moments. A turning point in consciousness, in which a different way of perceiving the world opens before the perceptual lens. Just last night.
I remember it clearly now, though as with everything, the memory might easily fade with time. I was walking home from the library, entering the tunnel beneath the railroad tracks. Missoulians know the one. The sidewalk tunnel, running parallel to Orange Street, connecting downtown to the neighborhood affectionately referred to as The Northside. The place I live.
As I entered the tunnel, I could see them clearly. Artists, painting on the walls. So much new graffiti had been appearing over the past few days. I had seen it on my way to work earlier that morning, and the morning before, when I couldn't help but stop and marvel at the sheer linguistic and aesthetic beauty that seemed to be multiplying every time I took another walk through the tunnel.
Of course, sooner of later, the town's corrupt government would probably either pay or coerce someone else into destroying the art by painting its bleak, monocolor grey blandness over the beauty, as they so often seem compelled to do... again, and again, and again... But for now, the art was flourishing, and this made my heart glad.
This marked the first time I would catch the artists in the act, at least in this tunnel. A magical moment indeed. On this particular occasion, they were using paint rollers rather than spray cans.
As I slowly approached, drawing closer to them, I stopped again to look at the walls, admiring the cryptic, beautiful madness encapsulated within the images and words. “So much beautiful art in here,” I shouted, and as I got close enough to see his face, I saw recognition.
“Hi Bitscape!” He smiled. Of course I knew this guy, but I couldn't quite remember his name. I've had that problem with a number of people on a number of occasions, especially since I started smoking pot and meeting so many different folks all the time. But I really felt bad about this now, because this guy had always been so friendly, and he lived right across the street from me. And he was a colleague at the college radio station; he always addressed me by my DJ name whenever he run into me, which was kind of flattering. But now, I couldn't remember his name. Unforgivable. Not missing a beat, he went on to ask me a question. “Did you make to to the DJ meeting the other night?”
“Yeah, there was an awesome turnout. Things are really starting to heat up for radiothon!”
He expressed regret that he hadn't been there, but had other stuff going on. He said he would come to the next one.
I said, “Cool, maybe I'll see you there soon.” Then, unable to perpetuate this state of thinly disguised ignorance any longer, I asked. “Is it Jim?”
“John.” He was neither surprised, nor offended. Helpfully, he simply supplied the information my brain had failed to recall.
“Of course. You were handing out stickers.” Months earlier, as I walked down the sidewalk, he had handed me a few stickers with funky artsy designs. On them, his name had also been printed. Since then, I had seen a few of them plastered on various objects around town. Telephone poles, concrete structures, etc.
I bid John goodnight, nodded to the other artist, and continued on my way home while they got back to their painting.
Yet another passing magical moment, sent to remind me of just how much I love this town that I'm about leave. Here, I am known. Here, I am remembered. Here, I am loved. A god amongst gods.
Now, I must go, and send that love back out into the world. The quest continued onward, though the tunnel, and into the starry night.