Day 1, Sept. 1st, 2007: How to start, where to start the beginning of 365+ days of this practice of creating a physical journal of this place. There is no context for me here, in my orange cover-alls made into a dress. I remind myself that beginning is always the hardest, requires the most courage. One must just start and the rest spools from that moment of opening. I have decided to commit to this practice of walking and accumulating movement - rain or shine, to keep myself daily connected to the energy and physical changes and people of this place. Robert Morris’ Continuous Practice, Altered Daily comes to mind.

I convince myself to walk to the river; it is the great and ancient force here. I remind myself to breathe, smell, relax, feel my feet on the ground. I face the river for long look and feel the familiar. I have grown up next to this river; I know it and it knows me in some sense, as all places know their inhabitants. I decide to turn and face the towers, clutching my right arm nervously to my back with my left. The vulnerability of standing out in the open in this immense place is overwhelming. I ask myself what I see and feel and then notice that I am already dancing…

days 1-46: trace the Meriwether East with my eyes in a long rectangle; look over left shoulder to a voice coming from the river; dive hand to grasp a clump of clover; hear the creek spooling down the hill; machine part drops suddenly from an Atwater balcony; river smells of warm blackberries; dunk fingers into river at kayak put-in; three window washers swaying in unison from the 15th floor; crane is at perfect 45 degree angle; generator overwhelms the sonic environment; voice calls from the Zidell barge; follow the streetcar tracks to the tram; hike the hidden staircase; man is ranting up there about development and government and wildlife (try to commit some of this to memory); release onto back in the middle of the park to look at sky; trace the path of two birds; river smells rancid today; three kayaks in perfect unison; Betsy with her dog, back and forth; men water plants at river’s edge?; lonely boulder in derelict lot; sad girl smoking; three faces pressed against streetcar window; 6 folks on treadmill all in black; park is soggy; man stands staring at river; bricklayers crouch in perfect concentration; trough is straightened; windy today; slow boat down the river; oppressive whirling sound coming from Zidell lot; crow stands solo on lonely rock; steady rhythm of the pile driving; gnarled metal; caught a butterfly; the pace of walking; cloud of mosquitos; carpet of cigarette butts at river’s edge (who comes here to smoke?); measuring the distance; big wake; coxswain yells to boat, “more pressure here - use your legs”; flick a bee; avoid the bee; toss a stone; hand in water; shake it dry; stand and brush off pants; blown left; smell of paint; chocolate hands from planting; scrub boulders….

A day-by-day accumulation of movements sourced from a rotating series of sites in the neighborhood, this extended dance phrase will capture Johnson’s daily impressions of the neighborhood over the residency year.