South Side of the 64 Overpass at McCausland

This post would be much better with a visual. I’ve meant to snap a photo of the south side of the 64 overpass at McCausland for a few weeks now, but the first time I was driving and the second time I was walking, which impeded my snapping for several complicated reasons some of which one would only comprehend had one been on that walk also, and the third time I was driving again, and now I’ve lent my camera to someone who is currently staying in another state. This doesn’t totally excuse me because I could a) borrow a camera or b) take a terrible picture with my phone, but given the impractical stoplight placement and slim chance that I would actually hit a red light when I wanted to anyway, I’d probably have to park up the street somewhere and walk down, then balance precariously somewhere while taking the photo, which is complicated given traffic and embankments, and frankly, I simply haven’t done it.

Back in June, and for an unknown- to me- amount of time prior, the south side of the 64 overpass at McCausland was the canvas for some unfinished graffiti… of a sort. Its decoration wasn’t elaborate, or even done in the typical stylized fashion, but it certainly consisted of spray-painted letters. In very plain, thin, black block letters: L, O, V, and what was surely the beginnings of an E, left unfinished. I was once told a story about this overpass locale. However, the tale didn’t address the biggest question aroused by this unassuming piece of urban art. Why did the E remain unfinished? Was the artist interrupted mid-work, perhaps by a slow cruising cop car? Did the can of spray paint let him or her down, clogging, or even emptied, before the word could be completed? Was it purposeful, symbolizing an event unresolved, a question unanswered, or even the very nature of love? (I personally was leaning toward the one of the former, more practical explanations, but one never knows. There are street poets.)

Then one day… let’s see? it must have been in late June, I drove under the overpass and everything had changed. First of all, the E was finished. And following was the word “EXISTS” in slightly stylized letters more typical of graffiti. This was- or more accurately, is, since it’s still there, after all- followed by an exclamation point. Well. There you have it. LOV… transforms, seemingly overnight, to ‘LOVE EXISTS!’ Ok. Interesting. That would have been enough for me for one morning, but an additional phrase now proceeded the original. Arranged as two rows of two-letter words, forming a sort of grid, was ‘OH NO.” The ‘o’ were actually 0s, with diagonal slashes through them. So, now suddenly we had a triumphant completion, ‘LOVE EXISTS!’ exclamation point, trumpets blare… proceeded by… ‘OH NO.’

Great. Another thing my stupid brain will feel compelled to think through, probably for several days at a time, ignited every time I drive north on McCausland under the 64 overpass.

I hate my brain much of the time. If I were to draw a diagram of it’s process (and I use that term loosely) there would be two parallel lines stretching out into the distance. One would be my basic things-I-have-to-do-like-drive-and-have-logical-conversations line, and the other would be what I not so affectionately refer to as my ‘narration,’ but I’m not going to get into that right now. Then, superimposed over the top, would be a multi-dimensional spiral with little small, snaking curls coming off. The main spiral, and curls, move around and up and down in order to intersect a field of floating dots over and over in different patterns at different times. It’s really annoying. I’d like to have nice, ordered, linear thoughts so I could actually make some sort of progress and have a decent conclusion once in while, or ideally, even the once a year brilliant insight. But noooo…. instead, I have the whole spiral with branches repeatedly intersecting the dancing dots. I really have no idea how I manage to have a coherent thought at all. Sheer force of will, I assume.

So things like the south side of the 64 overpass at McCausland are wonderful. I find them beautiful and magical and interesting and inspiring. They’re also frustrating.

Oh no, love exists! Oh no, love exists! Oh no, love exists! Oh no, love exists! (Shut up, brain.)

I agree, love exists, but what does that mean? What definition of love are we referring to here? Everyone seems to have their own, or two, or three. Do I agree because I believe in love as a general force in the universe? (Do I?) Or do I agree because there’s no other logical explanation for one day sitting for hours in an uncomfortable office chair with tears streaming uncontrollably down my face? Or was that just a bad case of PMS combined with mistaken identity? And if love exists, are we talking in an intangible way blah blah blah trees and flowers and ommm, or is the graffiti referring something more concrete, like my mother’s arms, or an engagement ring, or electronic messages flitting back and forth to Cambridge or San Francisco, or what? More likely, is it referring to that slightly drunk feeling one experiences a few days or weeks into a special so-named love affair? I imagine so, because say what you want to about the whole trees and flowers and ommm love thing, that version rarely seems to inspire activities like strange and unexplainable graffiti. At least in my experience.

And then there’s ‘OH NO.’ Yeah, proceeded by oh no because if one is going to proclaim boldly ‘LOVE EXISTS!’ then one is suddenly going to have decide how one is going to deal with said existence. Especially if it’s in reference to a love affair. “Oh no, I’ve felt this before, I recognize this, oh no, this feels amazing, I can’t believe I can still feel this way, amazing, amazing, wow, but…. oh no. Oh no! I remember what happened last time, and I felt like this last time, I remember, and then it hurt, it hurt, oh god, seriously, not good, not good, oh no, love exists, it does…. f@%#!” Oh no is bloody right. Perhaps the graffiti artist went out to the overpass in order to slam his or her head repeatedly into the concrete, at which point he or she noticed the unfinished LOV and suddenly became inspired.

Or maybe not. Perhaps if I catch someone with an empty can of black spray paint, there will be an interrogation.