I managed to find my way to Brooklyn from Philadelphia airport (I will never take advice from that person again). I arrived at Onto's place in Bedford-Styvesant at night. I was told that this neigborhood produced several famous rappers, and that its a fairly rough place. My experiences have been good so far though. The people at the local deli speak Spanish more than English, and are quick enough to return a smile, or give me directions.

There was a protest about Oaxaca on Dec 22 in front of the Mexican Consulate. I helped make the signs for it the nights before. I was the only one to show up, despite a collective of about 80 people in a solidarity group making plans... same shit different city I guess. It was great to be able to show up in a new place and immediately dive into the activist scene. We marched from the Consulate to Rockefeller Centre and stood across from the big christmas tree, talking to passers by. The cops were well behaved, and so were the protesters.

I met up with Miguel, who travelled with us to Oaxaca over the summer. We went out for kebabs and had a great talk about everything from the political to the personal. It's such a treat to (re)connect with good people! That's really all that matters in life. No amount of status or stuff can ever give me the same feeling of absolute peace with the universe as a good conversation.

I went to the Tenament Museum, which is a Tenament building on the lower east side that was restored to look the same as it had in different eras. The lower east side is where the immigrants lived in the mid 1800's through today. Then, as now, the landlords took advantage of their situation and provided housing that was not only substandard, but dangerous and often fatal. Its interesting how these places have forgotten how difficult it was in those days, and perpetuate the same cycles with migrants today. Somehow, being the children or grandchildren of migrants who suffered hardship gives one credibility, but being a migrant suffering hardship makes one suspicious.

James showed up from Tucson on Christmas eve, and we went to dinner at the Yaffa Cafe... cool atmosphere, mediocre food. The next day, he and I and Shanti went to the Metropolitan Museum. Margaret has studied art history for years, so she gave us a bit of a tour. Afterwards we went to El Barrio and found a Mexican restaurant. Shanti, Marg and I all speak Spanish, and the waiter indulged our desire to have a go. Once again I felt profoundly happy, having a great time with good people.

Shanti had to go home, but James, Marg and I went to Peet's Candy Store in Brooklyn and got pretty smashed. James asked Margaret about fisting techniques, and Marg and I reminisced about Sydney. When the evening ended and Marg went off home, James and I tried to get on the subway. My metro card had expired by about an hour, and in my drunken state, I decided to squeeze in behind James going through the gates. We got busted of course, because there was a small cop shop in the station, within view of the gates (stupid stupid stupid). We were taken into the cop shop while they wrote out tickets. James began to freak out. He accused the cop of sexually harassing the woman behind the counter. I had to talk him down. I've heard of this happening before. The first time people are subject to the power of the State, they do unpredictable things. A friend of mine had been busted for having a joint one time and spent the night in jail. He tried to flush his blanket and pillow down the toilet, just to be a pain. So I put my arm around James and said in a calm voice "the more you piss him off, the longer we're going to be here." He got the idea and fell silent. After we left, he was still incredibly angry, so we went back to the house were I was staying and talked into the morning. I explained that he could either chalk it up to experience and get on with his holiday, or he could stew about it and be miserable. I hoped that he would choose the former, but this was just the beginning of a bad new york vacation for James.

I got an MP3 player just before I left Tucson, and loaded it up with music that Varo gave me. Whenever I'm travelling on the subway, I plug in and watch the scenery with a soundtrack of Manu Chao, Mano Negra, Ska Cubano, the Beastie Boys, Bjork, or Democracy Now! on podcast. Somehow it makes it more real, and more surreal at the same time. Without the music, its just another grimy city that I must contend with to get to my destination. But with music, it becomes art... all the details come alive and the city is an experience. I don't know why I've been avoiding getting one.

Margaret and I went to the MoMa for 6 hours until we overloaded and couldn't speak. We went to Little Italy and got her a real espresso, and some deli sandwiches to go before heading to Time's Up for movie night. The movie was "Over the Edge", which is from 1978. Its about rebelious kids in a little suburban town. In the basement of Time's Up, there was a ghost bike workshop. Whenever someone is killed on a bicycle, they put up a memorial ghost bike - a bike frame painted white - at the site of the accident. Apparently there's about 2 per month, which seems shocking, but I was told that about 70 people are killed in shootings every month in new york.

Marg is thrilled by the place. She says she's going to look for a husband or a post doctorate project so she can stay. She loves the variety of cultural experiences and the edginess of the culture. There are hundreds of little galleries, art spaces, performance spaces, and political collectives expressing their views of reality in new and wierd ways constantly.

On Dec 31st, I decided to find the little park where dozens of Tom Otterness sculptures are set into the ground, on the tables, walls, lamp posts and sidewalks. I walked along the Hudson River Park, thinking that's where it was, but I couldn't see it. I asked some people at the information booth, but they'd never heard of it. They told me that there was an administration office on Pier 40 where I could ask. I found the building and entered the lobby. It is totally empty aside from a couple of pay phones, elevators, and an ominous staircase leading up. I walked up the stairs and found long, windowless corridors, broken ocassionally by windowless doors. I walked down corridor after corridor, without seeing another living thing, and thinking I should probably just turn around and leave. But if the sculpture park was gone, I wanted them to know that I was not happy about it. Finally I found a door called Planning and Projects. A sign instructed me to ring the bell and push gently. I did so, but the door didn't budge. Finally I heard voices inside telling me to come in. I pushed harder and the door opened. Two women sat behind a counter and a man leaned next to it. I asked about the park. One woman said it was way back down at Pier 84, too far to walk. The man asked me if I was looking for the sculptures of people or fruit. People, I replied. That one was just at the next park down, in Battery Park, he said, and I noted an Australian accent. I asked him if he was an aussie, and indeed he was... from the Gold Coast. What a relief it was to find nice folks in that horrible building! I set off down the corridor again, and found an exit, but when I got outside it seemed to be miles of loading and parking, and no obvious way back to the pedestrian park. So back through the mazes of corridors I went, and escaped back into the sunlight. I passed one of the people I had asked directions from earlier and told her where the sculptures were. "Oh! That's Battery Park. This is Hudson River Park." she said. These entities are no more than a couple of miles long, sitting shoulder to shoulder along the edge of Manhattan on the Hudson, and yet they might as well be different planets.

Photo copyright 1996 Edward Devereux Sheffe, New York, NY

I finally found the place and sat down to do a watercolour. I quickly hit 'the zone' as Margaret calls it, and lost track of time, space, and bodily functions. Then I started getting annoyed because I realized that the shadows had changed drastically on the piece I was painting. Some kids came by and crawled all over the brass head stuck half way into the walkway. I didn't say anything, because its there for everyone to enjoy, not just me. But suddenly I heard my stomach rumble and realized that my fingers were numb. So I packed up and headed down Chambers St. to the nearest cafe. I ordered a latte and a crepe with ham and swiss cheese. The crepe was huge but incredibly yummy. My body thanked me for remembering it, and I headed home to prepare for the evening.

When I got home, one of the residents had invited her little brother and 5 of his friends to stay over for newyears. It was nearly a party in the apartment already. The room I had been using had been rented out that day, and the new tennant was there with her girlfriend, ready to move in. I quickly gathered my gear and changed into my party clothes. I had a quick glass of bubbly before heading out to join Margaret and her host, Jeremy at their place for dinner. Jeremy is from Sydney, and Marg's sister-in-law Debbie is also from Sydney, but has been living in new york for 9 years. It was great to be able to speak 'strine again and crack aussie in-jokes. I showed them the spoof version of the original Australian tourism ad campaign "Where the Bloody Hell are You?" on YouTube. They all thought it was hilarious. (Watch the original one first if you're not familiar with bad Australian adverts)

At about 11, we headed over to a party and had some more bubbly. We only stayed a little while before heading out to the park to watch the fireworks. They have a reproduction of the Arc d'Triumph, which was covered in LED netting, with and LED christmas tree underneath. Midnight struck and the fireworks started. The were so close, it was as though the show was just for us. Gorgeous colours filled our field of vision... more and more... faster and faster... better and brighter. Tears came to my eyes. I thought about the people who weren't around to see another year, and I thought about how lucky I was to be there, and to be with fantastic, lovely people.

We went back to the party, and met more cool folks. Jeremy showed us his skills at creating practical sculpture using a coke bottle and a bucket of water...

I crashed at Jeremy's at about 4am, realizing that there was no room for me back at the house... and even if there was, it would be full of drunken teenagers.

In the morning I went back and washed up before joining Margaret at the Poetry Marathon at St. Mark's Church. The line up of poets was amazing... Penny Arcade, Patti Smith, Philip Glass, and many others. The event goes for 12 hours. We only managed 9 hours before we both felt like zombies. 4 more days in new york...