Elvis Christ

He was not what I expected him to be. He was far older and a little crazy, but in a good way, Mad Hatter crazy, not menacing or dangerous, but rambling and bouncy. He was older than I imagined, but  I could still see the boy in him. He was puckish and buoyant and he was proud of his work - not arrogant. If anything he was humble about it. He didn't even consider it to be his true talent. He said he was a painter and told me that I should see his *real* work sometime. This, the street writing, was something he just did to kill time. He'd been killing time for five years.

I'd seen his work before. Random quips and pithy phrases scrawled on masking tape stuck to the sidewalk, all over North Beach; the birthplace of the beats. At first I thought, they're kids. It had to be. Hipsters, or maybe some homeless college dropouts. It was too tongue in cheek to be a serious political commentary. It was too restrained to be the work of a true lunatic. It was disconnected, sometimes whimsical, often nonsensical, always smart and aware of itself. I liked it. And whoever it was I liked him. I knew it was a he because he left a signature. He called himself Elvis Christ.

I wasn't searching for him, so when I finally did meet him it felt surreal.  As soon as I saw him I knew. Of course it was him. I was kneeling on the pavement shooting one of his random thoughts recorded on a strip of tape - when his voice came out of the ether. I expected someone younger, but I turned I  knew it was him and when I asked him his name he said Elvis Christ with a straight face, deadpan-serious, as if that was the name on his birth certificate. And for all I know it could be, I didn't ask for proof, I didn't need it.

He is a man who is more than just filled with words, he is boiling over with them. He's a word volcano. And this, he said, this is his therapy. Writing things on the sidewalk with tape. Peeling it all back up again days later. Writing more words. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. His head is filled with facts and figures, images and ideas. You get the feeling that if it weren't for this, his art,  he'd be one of those street babblers, ranting like some deranged auctioneer. But he was perfectly coherent and he made sense. And he was smart. Obviously educated. Clearly well-read, up to date and informed. Yet he was distant. He didn't seem to really see me, though we were talking. I got the feeling he was talking through me and not to me. Until I gave him some money. Then he saw me. He asked me my name but he would not shake my hand. He said he had dirty hands from the street. We did a fist bump.  Then I asked to take his picture.

I didn't have the right lens on but I didn't want to fumble for another. I had his attention and I knew I wouldn't have it for very long. I was shooting in wide angle; which was good for the street shots of the words, but not for capturing a person. That's him in the flannel shirt wearing the Cal Poly hat. He dresses young but I'm guessing he's north of 40 - or maybe that's just an illusion, or the affects of  life on the street. I don't know. But he possessed an air of stoic wisdom, as if he was a veteran of hard living, and I could feel that he was no kid, despite how he dressed. 

I loved what he was doing. I love what he does. Now I want to be a street poet. I want to spend my days writing things on pieces of tape, ephemeral things that don't last and don't mean anything to anybody but me. He is like a Navajo sand painter. He writes for no one. He is paid nothing. He works alone. He answers to no one. His audience is everyone. His public is nobody. He has no agent. He has no publisher. He doesn't have a Facebook page. He doesn't Tweet. He gets by on the kindness of strangers. He is unknown and perhaps unknowable. He is neither the legend or the myth. The suicide or the crucified. He is not the darkness nor the light, the son of man or the fallen man, but his name embodies both. He is the street genius known as:

o O o