The unknown: the blue line. unknown

Today Scott and I planted grass seed. He’s trying to restore grass to his community. It’s a grass roots movement. Lots of nice Puerto Rican kids helped us dig up the dirt between sidewalk and street, wet it down, pick up endless broken glass, & throw grass seeds.

Lots of other people watched, enjoying the afternoon in doorways and on porches.

One lady gave us a dollar. (Scott and Adam had paid $40.00 out of their own pockets for supplies). Another lady came over and told Adam & me that she had lived on the block 20-some years. Once, she said, the city laid sod and people stole it.

There were numerous street vendors selling amazing food. Like a mango—seasoned with salt, hot pepper, and fresh lemon juice—peeled, impaled on a stick, and carved into easily-bitten chunks, for a dollar. (At the grocery store, a mango, without labor, costs $1.70.) Or corn-on-a-stick.
The neighborhood has lots of trouble with gangs. Scott sees himself as crusading against gangs, taking back the neighborhood by making it look nice, and by working with the kids. I was pretty excited about writing with Scott, but I am even more excited by the thought of driving around the country planting grass. Working with the kids, working with the kids. Scott’s rebuilding the infrastructure of our crumbling cities, from the ground up. It’s a grass roots movement.

After we finished planting the grass, we passed out crayons, markers, and paper to the kids, and we all sat on Scott’s front steps drawing grass.

Kitty was especially good at encouraging the kids to draw.

I wonder what else we could do...


William’s diary,

15 August 1998

sickening decadent hypertext novel META fiction al bull shit sort of a doc ument ary corr e spond ence art is cool look at art live read ings