William Gibson’s famous adage from Neuromancer, “The street finds its own uses for things,” catalyzed a deep realization within my skull. That the street is not only an exciting, alluring, dangerously deterritorialized zone of possibilities, it is actually alive. A god, even—one that as I walk within, I am (a very, very small) part. From this assertion expounds many resonant theories, but for now I speak of its skin: street art as an organic form of ritual dialogue; communion, if you will, as the writing on the wall.

Plastered to the surface of this art piece is the following quote:

“Human consciousness and cosmic consciousness are one. The field dances and waits for us to join in. It constantly folds and refolds itself, like an infinite wool blanket tumbling in a dryer at infinite speed”.
—Deepak Chopra

I stumbled upon the work of Alyce Santoro while reading her engaging and lyrical account at the Wooster Collective detailing her recent arrest —for putting a sticker on a flagpole in New York City’s East Village. (Full disclosure: I am someone who has, in times past, been involved in similar nefarious activities.)