Diary Monday 16th 1996: Driving through Liguanea. Past Sovereign Plaza. The beggar who never begs was there again. Strangely dressed in object he has found and his skin smeared with pastes from shaving cream canisters of foam canisters. I saw him at five o’clock this nmorning, inspecting a bin. A bin that is both food and clothes cupboard. His interest in the bin had already struck me as being motivated by more than food. I have observed him for the past two years, always dressed in found objects, always rummaging in unlikely places, picking things up and putting them away again in a careful way. He was never rummaging with all the urgencyof that word. He was ordering. Ordering his house, the larges house under the sky. He travels his territory meticulously making small adjustments, re-placing stones in their proper place, re-orienting discarded objects to his own satisfaction, dressing himself with those that have special possibilities, a pink ribbon around his penis. The whole of the Liguanea area is his house, carefully ordered everyday against the disruptions and dishevelment of people passing through.
Diary, Wednesday 30th July, 1997: I have encountered an old favourite of mine. The beggar on Knutsford Boulevard who used to lie on the ground with batteries and newspaper articles attached to his arms and legs. He has much advanced. He now stands and carries with him a large “thing” an electronic jungle of bits and pieces vaguely the size of a royal mace. He carries the thing with an appropriate sense of reverence. The mace is made up of a complete confusion of thick electric wire, batteires, plastic tubes used for electric wiring and other electronic waste. I wonder what it is.