It was nice to cross paths this morning. I hope the hell I’m so healthy in 150 years. It’s been a morning of chance meetings with old friends–not two blocks on I ran into Tim from my three year stretch in the Washington County lockup. We shared the same cell block and often worked together on the publishing crew (we produced the original quarterly “The Sentence’ along with our reprint work). Like I said, his name’s Tim, though we called him “The Shiv” on account of his sideline. (I was “The Editor, Motherfucker”.) The Shiv’s shivs were deadly works of art camouflaged as normal everyday devices. He made them from silverware smuggled from the cafeteria (this was before they all switched to compostible utensils). His cellmate Tiny (who ran our mechanical press) would lay on them until they got good and hot, then Tim would work them into the night. He asked me if I still had mine. I do (see the attached photo). You don’t give away art that saves your life. Multiple x.
BTW, Tim (The Shiv no longer, Just Tim) has done well since his release, with exhibits in Detroit, New Orleans, and Synecdoche, NY. He was headed over to a breakfast meeting (at Fullers, no less) with the owner of Galerie du Couteau in The Pearl. He recognized me before I made him. I think it was the new hip joint that threw me off–he walks straight now instead of semicircles, wears his hair long, and dies his soul patch. (I asked about Tiny. Tim said he didn’t know–last he heard Tiny had become a Vegan and then more or less fell through the cracks.)