And I couldn’t even read half of it. So many names to remember, writers and crews, and hovering above the fray like a UFO from a futuristic civilization were the kings. Back then the fence around the yards was a mere suggestion, tumbled down in places, and holes clipped at others, so I could walk myself through the process of trespassing, but what then? Stepping over a threshold into a criminal realm for the sake of Art, for that I was prepared, but just look at that tangle of train tracks- and which of them was the deadly third rail anyhow? And if I was going to dare it, I certainly didn’t want to walk right into the waiting hands of the police my first time, but where were they hiding anyway? And these gangs that waited in ambush, hardly even interested in writing their names up, but legendary for robbing and beating up writers, another variety of boogie-man we had to be careful to avoid. Rats and darkness, and all those threats surmounted, somehow those big kids had taken a steel slab bigger than my house and turned it into something bright as a birthday card, cool as an album cover, conferring immortality on the anonymous artist. And of all the risks, measuring your own name against the peerless names who had already won their fame that was the most daunting confrontation that loomed ahead for the rookie.

For whatever reason the “worse” the neighborhood, the better the graffiti. There was a sprinkling of talent throughout the five boroughs, sure, but a higher concentration of kings hailed from areas where day-to-day survival was far from guaranteed. And I faced a dilemma to stick close to a comfort zone and be some kind of graffiti stylist or hobbyist- or to navigate increasingly mysterious and objectively dangerous zones in search of deeper Meaning. And I still didn’t have a name.