I took the print blocks down with me to Mystic Island, in Little Egg Harbour to stay with Dylan’s Aunt, a nun who lived in a seventies waterfront bungalow. She used to catch crabs from the little wooden pier out in her yard. I stayed with her for a week and cycled around the abandoned houses, propped up on stilts, drank coffee in empty diners and wrote obsessively. When I left Mystic Island and carried on my journey, back through New York, then Toronto, to get on a three-day-train to Edmonton Canada where I was working on a radical arts project based on vagrancy and homelessness. I left the suitcase which held records, books, the only copy of a novel I’d written and the Coney Island print blocks under the bed I’d slept in.
We were supposed to meet up in Edmonton and drive down to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, an epic insane trip that burned on the roof of our mouths when we talked about it, but it turned out to be an unspent adventure. I had a call from my little sister to say my Grandmother had pneumonia and they didn’t think she’d make it through. I had not thought of turning back, I never thought I’d ever go back to the UK and now I was being called home. I hitched down through the Rockies and across British Columbia, then down to Portland to meet my partner form New York. We spent a blissful few days together and then I got on the plane, through Texas and back to London.
Dylan and I lost all contact, and the suitcase stayed under the bed in Mystic Island. It was a year after I’d made the prints, a year since we’d hung out in Coney Island in the bitter wind under the decaying fairground, that’s when the hurricane hit. The house on in Mystic was hit pretty badly; it flooded up to the kitchen sink. My suitcase was lost, the print blocks destroyed, and everything was washed away.