We met Brendan when we were living in the trailer-park in Bushwick. Twenty-two
trailers hidden inside the cavernous space of an old factory on Meserole.
When they took our trailers away, we built secret apartments out of found
objects. Brendan played the accordion, obviously.
I’ll miss the family dinners every Friday. Passing joints around, thirty people
talking about art.
The other anarchist place that we found in New Orleans had a bike shop
attached too. But we used aquaponics here, and kept koi fish in a trailer.
Each trailer was assigned art studio space. We shared a large workshop, and
kept some chickens in a coop. We played instruments, sang, danced, drank,
and built bonfires in the backyard brickyard abandoned by the railroad.
Sometimes busking to make money, dumpster diving, buying the cheap stuff at
the deli on the corner, always riding the subways underground.
A year had passed, and then, the railroad sent out a surveyor. He walked in like
a minor explosion. Suddenly the gig was up, the fire department came, then the
police, the marshal… and we scrambled out of there.