When I first arrived in St. Louis I had nothing but a guitar and a bad back and an old camcorder that only worked if you sprinked mojo dust on it. I wandered down to the river to contemplate the universe and came upon a squatters camp called Hopeville.

And then what happens? One of the guys stabs another guy over a can of beer...in a tent. Was crystal meth involved? Probably, but that stuff is so common that it comes in Happy Meals now at McDonalds. The story of this event intrigues me to no end. I want to investigate but the white wolf calls to me.
Why do I mention it? The city will close it down and that would've been the end of the story.
God give me the courage to ignore my spine pain and get this story next time it is shoved in my face. In this case there is no realistic way for mainstream media to cover this story. Only an independent artist could devote a year to actually translate this into something another person could relate to. I am that artist and I missed my chance. I'm hopeless.
2 comments:
Yup, you missed your chance to delve back into your own personal hell.
Swellesley
I was going to leave that part out. Or find out if I've learned anything in 20 years.
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