RY FOSTER'S ACT UP DIARIES

At the Action Meeting my comrade gifted me an illustration she had been working on. An illustration of a photograph. Of a moment in time. My first arrest. Tr$mp speaking at the United Nation General Assembly. When my Arrest Buddy became my Arrest Buddy. She had sent me a few images of the work’s progression. At the Action Meeting when the doubts were beginning to rise to the surface, she passed me the work, wrapped in a rainbow canvas tote. I couldn’t look at it— not with the

Thursday, June 25th 2026 - just after 5PM. I shuffle out of the gallery with granola bars, bananas, my newly polished Frye cowboy-Chelsea boots in a tote bag piled atop the Action Meeting snacks. In my other am, I am clinging to a garbage bag stuffed with surplus cardboard scraps for the protest signage art build, that I am encouraging to ensue. What’s all that? The gallery assistant inspects as I hobble toward the glass doors on the second floor of the Fuller Building— Ju

Monday, June 29th 2026 - 1:31 PM Alone in the gallery - The Fuller Building. 57th and Madison. Billionaires Row. The Monday concluding Pride weekend. Full Moon tonight. Holding down the Front Desk A Keith Haring 1988 work— installed on the wall, in my eye line. I installed this Haring. On screws meant for another work— Not applying the rule of 60 inches— the middle of the work must be 60 inches from the floor. Gallery Standard. Standards. Standards in Billionaires Row.

Ben’s fingers beautifully tackle his Android’s screen; gathering the moments after, after we couldn’t get into Marco Rubio’s Senate Budget Hearing, after we stacked ourselves in line with the mini Neo Nazis— Women who have been brainwashed to give up their rights for shitty highlights with their counterparts who hold authority over their beings with their wet, slicked back hair; 80s hair trends that I dig, I despise, that seemed mythical These caucasian clowns gargling on the