Every night I crash, despite the desire to continue the street art project. Then, overwhelmed by a sense of uselessness, I abort and seek the comfort of the pillow instead. I’ve been sitting on a number of pieces for a while now, but last night the urgency had returned. The ANU bus stop has bared the remnants of an earlier work since April, and the temptation to add to the spidery grasses has been a nagging constant.
Hard at work, 45 after 12, I was surprised by two students retiring late. They walked straight paste, didn’t even cast a glance, like I was invisible – and maybe I am. The work something to pick at between buses, as invisible as I?
The night all around seems to reduce most personal fears, and the belief in invisibility has crept in though still the curved concrete does provide a nook to hide a body not really wanting to be seen, and with each passing taxi, I curl into the cream surround – similarly black as the vista beyond the reach of street lights, the air smelling of dew and me accepting of the ritual.