I arrive late via scooter. A bad idea to take that white Vespa ripoff into a howling downtown Woodstock South Easter. Tweeting while scootering should be specifically highlighted in Arrive Alive 2011. Entering into the white tank of young art crowd eager to be known, to be recognized. Hipsters. Boys and girls with tight shorts and low slung v-necks who could consider stabbing another hipster to have their work on these walls. Hierarchy’s. Levels. Identities. Art circle in-crowds. People who know people. People who know people who know people. People who know people who’ve heard of the people who went to school with the featured artist’s people. I only know four people and all of us engaging with the cattle posing quite seriously in their exposed wooden box-frames. Dignified stances under critical glances. On cow pattied hills somewhere in the Transkie I’m guessing. Composed, the Royal Nguni Bull, 6 feet high. He stares at me eye to eye. Sizing me up in a breath. Him and I alone in this humid white tank while friends forsake us for other prospects in the bar queue. He repositions himself, chin up, horns up. He’s into it. The dogs are into it. The sheep straighten backs. The goats hold their breath. The Zebra’s neck arches an inch. God. We’re all into it.