Promenade Street along the river to Olneyville. Wandering through the brick courtyards searching for numbers obscured, up wooden stairways or freight elevators down dark halls lit by bare bulbs to secret doors.
Behind dark doors we claimed rooms brilliant with 18 foot windows and skylights. We hung Indian spreads and canvas and monumental sculptures of found objects and industrial trash. An old claw foot tub full of goldfish, an indoor trampoline, a church organ.
No one lived there, bedding rolled in a corner, wash up at the shop sink, cook on a hot plate.
Dark times. The girl who stepped out of the studio into the deserted building to bring the freight elevator up for the night, found dead at the bottom of the shaft.
Milo said he saw her ghost, she waved and vanished around a corner. Milo said he heard the voices of children and the din of machines and saw dreams perched like butterflies on the rafters. He said that was why the space was so potent for art. Slave cotton woven by child labor worn by women and men whose days were measured by the beat of presses and combines. All those dreams had to go somewhere.
Image of Promenade Street from Hardcore All Ages.
Where Milo was Before– Milo Stranger Part 9-Feeding Strays