david schrott is everywhere

(No Title)

Posted in Uncategorized by thebreakfastdictator on 11/24/2015

There was a house, there, on West James Street. It was full of ash and broken glass. The rear side window opened neatly and anyone could get in at anytime for anything they wanted. But who would want?

from-prince-st-garage

North, On Prince.

It was cheap. And someone bought it. An array of earthyish colors cover the facade and the Sun Diner has since closed. They cut hair there now and next to it was a consignment bridal shop turned tattoo parlor. Wonder what it’ll be in twenty more years.

Out back was some boxy old warehouse, caddy corner from the driveway. It’s gone now and lofts have been built in the other boxy old warehouse that’s still standing. Money has come to the city.

There used to be these spaces around. Run down, but oh-so-gorgeous in their lead-paint-covered kinda way. The old futon building, where Burt Reynolds nestled in his four-sizes-too-small-cage on that old window sill overlooking the theatre. Our city was too crowded. So we came here. We enjoyed the space and made photographs on cold November days. The burrito shop brought us back to life. December brought its gray-dark days that drizzled along into the hazy mish-mash of one more winter to be endured. The coffee is hot; but never hot-enough, even if it’s boiling. It is the only thing to look forward to. Well, that and a new box of film arriving in the Post. It is beautiful, and cheap. Two whole dollars a roll. They say it’ll be obsolete soon. They know nothing; digital cameras put photos on floppy discs. Who wants to develop a floppy disc?

Sansom Street is dim and paradoxically incandescent. Rain sputtered from the orange sky and the warm yellow light wafted out of rows of windows. The coffee is still brewing and the spine on this book is still un-broken. It’s too hard to settle in though; the chairs are spewn about and the atmosphere warbles. Does no one care for this place? This book isn’t that good anyways.

The long gray-ish halls of Academic were full of upperclassmen; intimidating. Elevator to 5. Over and over and over and over. Endless days painting perfect grey squares. Not finished? Take them home. Paint for hours, fourteen to be exact.

Elevator to 4. Finally. Remember the day we made pin-hole photos? It was snowing. Grain was everywhere. Even on the photo paper.