Brit Frasier/Peter Wadsworth

Peter Wadsworth
Artists apperistion. Living dead. Invisible visibility. The jewel toned paint that survived power washing. Condemned to Tent cities. Illegal bonfires keep blood warm.
Peter Wadsworth. Its either sleep in your broke down Honda or on the streets. From couch to couch, to floor to door. You are a working artist who can’t afford a real roof or food to eat so you sleep, dream awake. No rest for the weary. Sweaty fingers losing grip to the hope that one day we’ll make it. Whatever that means. Told you, told you so; your dream is bigger than your pocket book. Steady setting inner fires daily to keep blood warm.
Peter Wadsworth. Better figure out how to eat your work cause your looking thin, slim. No one wants your sad painting, lopsided pottery, stained glass artistry. No one cares about your play. Your a talented actor, sure...ok. Haven’t showered in days; Unbothered caked in judgment, the dirt, sweat and stench, simply mediums for the masterpiece. One day I will make it. One day...or die trying. Or they will know me when Im gone, a ghost. Drive names the fire that keeps blood warm.
Peter Wadsworth. Then amidst the fog of uncertainty, a prayer is answered; a Ghost Ship docks the promise of a different tomorrow. With four walls and rent you can pay in installments and best of all, you are no longer alone. An artist commune. A place of refuge. Not perfect but ours... still no heat. Fires burn in doors now to keep blood warm.
Peter Wadsworth. This space was deemed unsafe years ago but this Ghost ship the only safety I know. Try to forget; The city I grew up with has cast me out into the cold. Use the hurt to mold, to shape, to paint, to create a reality where there is space for me. This is only temporary, see. This is an opening to new doors for me. Surrounded by like minds, lion hearts, eccentric electric eclectic souls who like me chose to feed the culture. We inspire each other. Collective creative fires burn to keep blood warm.
Then it happened. The night that everything changed. The night the collective creative bonfire inside ragged angry and our host Ship, Ghost Ship refuge had become a trap. No lights, save the fire just thick black night. Sirens in the distance. Running a maze, screaming, fingertips grip walls for guidance because there is no visibility. Waking up choking, smoke filled lungs. Look over at my roommate sleeping. Wake him and run. Its dark, the fire burns, bits of the roof we were so grateful for fall before us engulfed. He trips. Bleeding, I see bone through haze. Try to help him up but he’s too heavy to carry. I let go thinking the sirens are not far off. I let go thinking the city will save him. I let go thinking... we will make it. Whatever that means. Now he is gone. An artist apparition. The fires within and without put out, like us, Zombies, the living dead. The ghost ship floats up a river of fire back to hell leaving nothing but soot , ashes and bits of bone that cannot be identified. Cannot be blessed.. Stuck. Just the smell of smoke induces Ptsd memories. Every nights a ride down the rabbit hole of terrors that flash and burn, the only thing keeping blood warm. Peter Wadsworth.