Jeremy Fish is a modern day Griot. Instead of West Africa, his storytelling stomping grounds are cities across the world where you can almost always find someone wearing a t-shirt he’s designed.
Z serves me a rumrunner and Dietra and I share a club sandwich with fries, using our bev naps for dinner napkins. We ride to Midtown and veg at Tim’s place on 11th, until they depart for a birthday party in Marietta. Then I walk into the night.
We encounter madness on a daily basis, hopeful that clarity will soon emerge. The veil between us and the rest leaves us isolated and our vision, cloudy. It’s a funny thing when we slightly alter our perception and come to the realization that the rest is merely an extension of ourselves.
A writer lives somewhere within his loud and heavy conscience, attempting to filter out his purified thoughts and leave all others inside to reside. And really, there is no better high than the rare occasion of easily doing so. Still, his need to transfer thought and feeling in a most profound manner and overcome perfectionism is, realistically, his job title. And thus presents the ground of which inspired my preceding subject, British-bred artist Alex Daw.
