Hypogeous Tractatus 9
New school, high school, starting at the bottom again. Talking to a kid I knew from the Street in the lobby before dismissal just getting the lay of the land.
new york city
Hypogeous Tractatus 8
Our guys didn’t enjoy walking back to the hood in their socks, and Gil and I lost our following as ringleaders. That day the ante was raised if I was ever going to take myself seriously in the Culture.
Hypogeous Tractatus 7
Times at home or school were merely those in-between moments interrupting graffiti missions. And how I’d wasted moments of my life practicing on paper or writing walls!
Hypogeous Tractatus 6
The scent of aerosol paint perfumed the thick air and one could hear rumblings of rowdy teenage activity. We were far from alone, but the place was crawling with hordes…
Hypogeous Tractatus 5
I was little, and my hand skills were slow to develop, so the title of “toy” still hung on me- appropriately. But I would strive carelessly for any progress within my feeble powers.
Hypogeous Tractatus 4
My pops had all kinds of spray paint in the basement. Different sizes and colors, mostly used, without caps or lids, some rusted like relics from the Great Depression era.
Hypogeous Tractatus 3
Public school felt like a jailhouse watered-down, and kids had to develop all kinds of subcultures just to keep from dying of boredom.
Hypogeous Tractatus 2
My big sister Regina would write her name around the park, and other teenager hangout spots and was the first to tutor me about bubble letters.
Hypogeous Tractatus 1: -or- I Was A Teenage Graffiti Writer
Mrs Johnson used to shake me down for magic markers. I already had a reputation as a graffiti writer but I wasn’t wasting my ink on the bathroom stalls or school halls.