#604 Rest Stop

3 disturbing coincidences: the first brings perception of moral authority into question, the other two focus that perception, through surreality and then pin-point clarity. 3 events happen at a rest stop on i-10 as one travels North through the mesa chaparral, which serves as an elevator from desert to mountain, from Phoenix to Flagstaff.
The first happens in the form of a chance conversation with a silver haired big bellied retiree, through which you discover a mutual acquaintance. He clutches a styrofoam cup of cream powder and 3 hour old coffee, brewed by a volunteer from Black Canyon city. You finish a second can of sugar free Red Bull. If coffee cooks for 3 hours the molecules change, and it produces the shakes. If you drink two cans of sugar free Red Bull you get the shakes. The mutual acquaintance is a woman against which you committed an unforgettable wrong: and though you perceive he knows nothing of it, that refuge fades, as the details of a series of cold calculations slither into present consciousness, like so many rattle snakes on a warm sidewalk.
The conversation ends, and as he makes his way back to a royal purple Lincoln Town car you bend at the waste– an attempt to coax knotted lower back muscle into a neutral state. But when you rise the scene re-draws itself in a monotone of green-orange fade to black, here and there, back and forth, brought to you by suspended floods (paid for by tax dollars,) and Taurine, and memory. And your head thobs, and demands to be seated, and vision blurs at the periphery, and the drone of trucks in idle, once Catholic in their muted insistence, now become jury and appointed attorney. Will we ever escape judgement?
There is a razor sharp switch blade in my pocket that I have fantasized about brandishing, in the case of sudden attack in a rest stop restroom. There is a camera in my hand, which I have used to clarify and extend fantasy, that now demands my full attention. There is a series of cold calculations one makes prior to capture. They remain concerned about movement and time and narrative and relationship to some archive. There is a process of detaching from those choices so as to present the opportunity for a sweet loving bitch to lose herself in your soul. And there is a moment when that bitch, now your lover, coaxes a button push, sometimes in rapid fire succession, sometimes in detached refrain, and sometimes with reckless abandoned, without regard for consequence. And sometimes coincidences come together to form a vision of judgement, transcendence, guilt, folly.

#603 Rooted

This is about Yuka– a beautiful, bright, shining star, who beats cancer. I think about her when I walk to the end of the block and the streetlight suddenly outs then flickers its way back to illumination. And when fresh cut grass sends up its scent.

over brown twist root
green stems of prosperity
attend lofty leaves

#602 Foreclosure Crisis

Yesterday I gained access to an ex-home, one where the family walked. I mused that perhaps the mortgage was worth more than the property, or some other financial/familial desperation had set in. The place rests on a once in a 100 year flood plane, but I found out from neighbors that it has knee-high flooded 3 times in the last 15 years. In any case the house was people empty, but not without it’s ambiance. I think the batteries were low in a fire alarm, so there was an occasional chirp, as if someone in sports shoes was turning a corner on a vinyl floor, or there was a bird trapped upstairs. My friend Jaynee, the real estate agent who gave me access to the property, said that that house wasn’t stripped, meaning that the people left without stealing fixtures or kicking in walls. She said that people are doing that less and less around here: which made me feel like everyone was giving up hope. Would you have your way with a dream gone bad, or just walk away? The property listed for 106 nine, which thought was cheap, given the size of the oaks that lined the street. Jaynee said that the only client of hers interested in the property, an investor, promptly withdrew his bid, after he realized that that he couldn’t make enough on the rent to pay the principle/fix-up costs. She mused that it probably wouldn’t sell at the list price, but the bank was unwilling to go any lower. She left and I settled into the empty space. It was hot and quiet and I felt as if I was trespassing. The place began to smell like mold, but the blood red walls kept me until the sun went low in the sky. As I made some images I thought about my place, my mom’s place and the American dream. I locked the door behind me when I left, and then felt panic for a moment, as if I left something in there. I plan to visit four more foreclosures next week.

#601 Theory

take a moment to look at this image.

let your eyes drift from bailing wire to wheel and then to the up-right loop-chord. let the diagonal scaffold let your eyes to do it again, distracted by a blue bucket. what’s in the barrow? an empty container in an empty container? consider the depth of the trees, the imposition of straight vertical lines. crosses, bamboo, a mess. where do the pillars lead –what weight do they hoist with such messy support? again the wheel and bailing wire, this time at the same time. what the function? what poise! what a chance stumble, into such beautiful digital noise... now you know the fullness of a conversation, or a moment of silence, with Bill Jenkins, my teacher and friend.