"Maybe I’ve just become obsessed with dirty cloth & dull rags, objects that have been touched by a million different hands then set back down—right there—just for me. Things that are made by chance or found on the side of a road, rather than bought or sold. What’s a story anyways? Why do people tell them?
My first memory was when I was a year old. Imagine that. Lyin’ by a river bed, Arizona is hot in the summer, and even worse when you have an earache. One-year-old with no pants on, screaming and crying like it would help or something, my face bright RED. The blanket I was lying on, made of prickly pear green wool. If that cloth was still around, it would tell you a story. But its long gone, underground somewhere, tired.
I’ve been shittin’ and pissin’ for 20 years since that day. Most of the time I miss, but I “make photos” now, valued by some. Who are these people? One of my favorites is still that one my mom took, my dad cuttin’ into a turkey like a man—in prison since, my grandma laughin’ drunk in the foreground—dead now. I still have that one. As for why, who knows? This is where I am and what I’m doing. Everyone I’ve ever met is responsible for it, and those eyes of theirs—never blank—always tryin’ to focus right there on the pupil. It’s always difficult to get a good look at both of ‘em. Go ahead and try. You’ll just end up starin’ right at the bridge of the nose.
The photos. I want people to see ‘em just as you’d want to tell someone a good story. Nobody enjoys boredom. And when I’m good and dead, maybe my lungs’ll still be around, with some words beneath. Everything comes as a surprise—thank GOD."
