Night falls, the ladder comes out, buckets brought, brushes bound for adventure. The wall was perfect, rebellion assured, the message will be perfect, understood, and the heavens will sing my praises; the certainty of those who should have none. The ladder was set on the dumpster, wobbled as was its nature, and corrected with duct tape and harsh words. Then the leap of faith, from father’s ladder to Father’s ladder, metal safety steps, their own ladder extended out of reach of the undesired. The legacy of a fire in the Garment District ages ago, burning Triangles… singed children and dresses, we must have an escape! the city cried. I made my way up the fire escape, heading to the wall, the perfect wall, where my greatness will shine through, and even a passing lawman wouldn’t be able to stop me.
A stranger’s roof, or more accurately, a roof belonging to many strangers is an interesting place to be. The detritus of other lives lived in the city, lawn chairs, flower pots deadened by winter, a grill for the aspiring chef; signs of lives lived well, weller than mine certainly. The wall looms ahead of me, perfect, with a light low and pointing up, perfectly lighted like a gallery, or a proper installation. All signs that the owner sent to me, unknowing maybe, but signs sent me nonetheless. A quick twist of a screw, and the light was deadened as well, joining the flower pots in decrepitude, there mustn’t be a sign to those below what was to occur above.