Warning: This post is NSFW.

Last night’s ürbanaüt art gathering at Sanford & Son Antiques witnessed police activity, live painting, drinking out of a van, models in T-shirts, Junior Bizarre sale, laughter, great conversation, and a naked chick.

However, the highlight for this writer was the speech given by Daniel Blue of Loyalty Clothing.  Below is the speech and a few shots I snapped. â€" Brad Allen

Daniel Blue's Soap Box

When I moved to this city there was something in the air
A rigid electric tension that has been defined as change
As if a great prophet had spoken over the very land
And the citizens of Tacoma were caught in the act of faith

Everyone around me was talking about the change
The new Tacoma that was rising, a renaissance, an artists’ dream
And I watched this city invite machines to break the ground and summon
Museums and convention centers, universities and institutions of the highest order

We pulled these monsters from the earth
In order to pull people to fill them from the entire world.

And I remember, Tacoma, the excitement I felt as a newcomer
The intense feeling of finding something in the midst of transformation
It was a the feeling of upward motion, I felt that though my feet were planted on the street
I was standing on the roof of a skyscraper that had yet to be built
If only I were able to stay, the structure would be built beneath me
And push me up in the world, higher and higher as the city reached its destiny

During that time of dreams, I would stand over the sewer gates on the corners
And feel the energy writhing from the cities roots.
It was as if the very land itself was calling for change, inviting redemption
Coaxing her people to hope for her future.

There was a swelling a swirling of conversations and actions and eye sparkling
Confessions of visions. People spoke freely of their ambitions and callings, anything was possible, the city was a blank canvas, and our anticipation grew with the massive bubble of energy, we felt that when it burst, Tacoma would explode onto the map of the world
Known for its crazed artist communities, vibrant walk able neighborhoods, sustained by art and passion.

But it did not burst…

Perhaps one of the many sharp protrusions of the new architecture sliced a gash, in the thin layer of idea that surrounded us, perhaps a curious developer from out of town untied the chord that held us anchored to the ground. Perhaps a city official stubbed their tow on the plug stopping up the drain, and in their zeal, removed the clog, spilling our energy into the vastness of the sound.

Perhaps the hope of 10000 alcoholics can be wrong…

Whatever the case, our swelling balloon of anticipatory glory was deflated before it could burst…and now instead of visions of what will be, I hear grumblings of what has come.

I remember leaf and laser
Before Embellish moved and Darek had gotten any crazier.
I remember Jack and Terry Deans goatee
When Rachael had a dream before pookie monsters was called Black Water
We’ll see who comes if we sell clothes from the basement of buildings that no body knows.

I remember Jeremy Silas
I remember Paris Spleen
I remember Sincerely Elvis
I remember Tommy Dean

I remember drinking cheap beer in the parking lot of the old Longshoreman’s Hall with Steve Brooks.
I remember Eyes of Autumn
I remember The Dirty Looks
And I remember how we got them

I remember the hundred monkeys
I remember whom I’ve met and which of them are making money

I remember my best intentions
I remember how I failed them and how my friends formed interventions.

I remember a bar called Panamonicas
A Deck and a drink and a come along with us
A mike and a stage, a wall and a shelf
A Pair of hands open to receive the wealth of the artistic community
I remember deep nights of reggae and a dance floor that stretched into infinity
I remember the first poem I ever read out loud in front of anybody
I remember a man who took two of my mannequins and set them above his bar
Told me my words were golden and my loyalty would take me far

I remember an idea called Kulture Lab
A handful of dead men and a write up in the local rag
How Rob got back from India and played songs outside that made me sad
How I was invited and accepted and remembered when I came back

And yes in the light of the hopeless dawn of development

The word renaissance has been traded for gentrification, I hear stories of who has moved out of downtown, when I used to hear wild tales of people finally finding home.
I hear news of unbridled corruption, instead of praise for local heroics.

When a man hears these things, he steps back and thinks to himself, my people are loosing hope.  This is a time of crisis. Without hope, we will loose our home to condos and investment firms.  Without hope we will be developed into a consumable product.
Without hope we will not rise, we will not become what we know we are.  I ask you to believe tonight Tacoma, that this city knows herself, that she knows the beautiful place that she is to live.

My answer to this crisis, my fellow citizens, I believe, lies in our memories of what this city has been to us, and from it what we have received.

Tonight I ask you to remember Tacoma.  Remember all that we have been, all that we have hoped and dreamed to be.  Do not forget, Tacoma. My fellow artists, remind each other of dreams we have had…tell stories of the connections you made, the times you had, the places that helped you become the culture we have created.

Painters, paint your mufassa in the clouds, reminding us who we are
Poets, reminisce and speak of the joys of finally home, and selling your car
Musicians, sing songs of the time before cranes filled the skyline, before centers interrupted our walking and gentrify wasn’t an accepted byline.
Dancers, remember the time, remember the time, remember the time.
Actors, play out things you have scene.
Writers, summon a memory, and remind me what it means.

I will tell you what I remember,
I remember the Kickstand Café,
The coffee drank our days away
Tasting every flavor of Tacoma on the sidewalks of smoky conversations
Falling in love with every girl that walked by in short boots and stripped coked contemplation.
Writing in the window that had become my womb
The poems I would read that night at open mike in the back room
Learning everyone’s names and reciting them later when I drank with them at Magoo’s.

I remember 505 Broadway
Puke brown carpet and hospital like hallways
All night games of foursquare and dreams of making art there

I remember silent studios
Orange squares, dance parties
Bands you couldn’t see in videos

There is that vibrant core of Tacoma that remains…that reminds me of what is mine to claim.

Like I remember this morning at the Black Water Café
Writing this very poem and hoping I had something to say
I remember the people that came in and hopes that came in with them
I remember that I have friends, and I remember that I love them

When I remember Tacoma, I remember why I came.
Who here knows what has stayed the same?

We represent what has not changed, children of Tacoma learn the secret name.