///OATS&ODES///

At dawn I witnessed clumps of fog clinging to building tops like fake acquaintances, misleading me to believe it was to be another off weather day. I read & napped most of it away, waking again in the late afternoon. A tardy breakfast compensated for earlier hunger in the form of a maple & brown sugar [Oat Revolution!] I thought about why my printer no longer prints black; how splendid it will be to finally see [Ixchel] tomorrow after much too long; how much of a relief it is to finally have an air purifier in this dusty loft of mine; & how there are quite a few photos from last month that I've yet to post. A month ago from last Thursday was April's DTLA artwalk. I have the tendency to forget about it completely until I'm in the vicinity of my building on my way home, & I hit that infamous traffic wherein I am literally just around the corner from my parking structure yet it takes thirty odd minutes to get there. Clumps of faces clinging to adjacent strangers' arms like fake acquaintances. I will refrain from repeating how I feel about DTLA artwalk these days & would rather suffice it to say I prefer [the Culver City version]. The atmosphere is much less belligerently drunk & much more orderly & minimal which matches my evolved lifestyle more closely. I assume it's a subconscious action that I make it a point to check out DTLA artwalk at least an hour after I know the crowds have died already. The fleet of food trucks scurry away having satiated many intoxicated appetites; gallery doors close obediently as the last stereotypically trendy patron leaves; bar doors open as wide as they possibly can to accommodate the lingering & lost; & the very last of the buskers sticks around to catch the remaining home-goers on their way out of the now unfamiliar deserted downtown.

The most impressive puppet show I've ever seen.
Meticulous in movement, he showed every tremble, every breath,
& in turn portrayed the character's every emotion.
Was the puppet expressing emotions the puppeteer himself  could not?

Future escapes.

The Look

S. Maharba