The Woodman, Z, Glassboy and Will O.

I hang clothes up on an orange twill line. I hang them there after washing them in a machine self installed next to a utility sink in the 'green room', a small second storage space for equipment that I share with Z. The green room started, as all things generating from the bughouse do, with consternation, disagreement and ultimately a fight that lead to the temporary dissolution of a previously tight relationship between Z and Woodman. The fight was simple, Woodman wanted the space, Z negotiated more swiftly and took it from under his feet. Woodman responded with words and Z responded in turn with these, I'l never forget them, "He's a disturbed man." He wasn't in my opinion, he was more like a man who helped a neighbor on multiple occasions then got burned. In either case, after securing the position on the green room the landlord delayed on getting the appropriate key to Z in a reasonable timeframe so we smashed the handle off with a few cracks from an iron mallet and let ourselves in. The rent had been paid by that time so we felt obliged to move on it. It wasn't too long after that that Z installed the laundry machine. Then I installed some hooks in the respective studios to dry the clothes and we were set with one more necessity. Urban Camping Will O calls it, "we're urban campers." That's how it works in a way though between us it's more of a compound of the damned. Those who call it home, but no one 'calls' it that - it is what it is. And so with all the inventions and little intentions that go into this survival thing in the Bughouse (another Will O catch phrase) we lay down in our bed of dirty muck and shit and steal what we can back for the assault this place takes on the spirit. If your not careful it will win and if you are you are already damned. This while knowing that from the outside, from the safe spot on the hillside nearby or in the suburban home or in the neighborhood track house, the whole experiment will appear stupid and unnecessary and incendiary and hopeless. Which, of course, it is, but the alternative was as well. This is where Glassboy comes in. Glassboy listens to Limbaugh. When Z asked him about the habit a year ago at the Bughouse community potluck, he scowled, twitched and replied, "because I want the truth." Nothing can save a man from that. It's like trying to make a homosexual straight, perhaps for a time one could influence an action or two but ultimately a useless track. May as well paint the sun black and with similar consequences. Glassboy decided he would smoke cigars, indoors, all day, resulting in an ashtray like effect throughout my entire studio. Then, after being told (and received unrepentantly), Glassboy purchased an ozone making machine and blasted it throughout the floor resulting in a terrible burnt ballast scent on top of the cigar smoke which was supposed to be lessened by the chemical interaction of the ozone on the organic chemical. Ozone being a toxic gas itself. So, to be clear, Glassboy, a studio neighbor, beings smoking cigars all day, using an ozone machine to cover the smell and listens to Rush Limbaugh loud enough for the whole east side of the floor to hear it without so much as a second thought. And I'm his neighbor and feeling that only a coward is worse than a tyrant. It is what it is. And I'll pick up on this next time which if my creative sense allows will be damn soon because I feel the truth coming on like a vomitous mass slowly bulging up through the esophageal tube awaiting spew.