I was lying in bed and a fly was buzzing over my me. It was dark and I couldn't see anything, but that summer there had been another fly, trapped
just the same. Obviously not the same fly, but real fly repeating all of the same things.
Its just a funny practice to try and define a certain time, a start and a finish, when there is just such a repetitive and cyclical nature to it, I can't
seem to separate myself from, we are these creatures of habit, we go to the same bars, we swim in the same rivers, we do the same stupid things
over and over again, even though we know we shouldn't. But then it isn't the same, we take one from the previous and bring it to the next, and it
changes, I like to think evolves. Somehow along this spiraling, cylinder of time a line is drawn and you move on to a new period, most of the time
not knowing it until you look back.
We had gone down to Baltimore for the night, to see our friends show, at night we pulled these two bare mattresses up to a plywood platform that
had been built about 10 feet above the floor of the apartment, in an old building that was half condemned. We pushed the mattresses together
and tried to sleep, it was so hot, Dennis spit water through a fan and it sprayed everywhere, he looked like an elephant. A bug crawled on my face
while we slept, we were a mess of limbs.
Nothing is ever new or completely clear of previous influence, but we do it all the same and I am convinced we are the first, and no one has ever
done it like we do. It's like a crossword puzzle, different acrosses but the same downs, you know good words with lots of vowels.
A lot of these pictures are from right after a great loss, Matt had died that fall and it all felt dull, I was just moving through with the inertia from
before. A year had passed and now it has been two and 3. It is a back and forth, different, and exactly the same, the changes come slowly. I can
forget sometimes but thats about it. My oxymoronic notion of time is amplified, it's all a blur, I can't focus on it, it is moving too fast it is too close,
or so slow the change is unpreceptable.
Then there are the the photographs, touch stones, neat piles, printouts ordered in line on my coffee table, they themselves go forward and back,
a reminder I am still moving, still seeing, that I wasn't left behind. The photographs each tell their own stories, but their greatest triumph is that in
their own oblique way, they come together in a refuge, a thin but steady stream.
I thought I had collected him fully, I even said that to myself one evening while doing dishes in the kitchen. I had recorded his face in its minute
variations of mood, his eyes looking above your sunglasses, the sun on his bare back and memorized the angles of your movements. Now I know
that could never of been possible.
They are my only record of the past, of everything that has been the way the light fell, an afternoon, a room, or a face I might not see for a while. I
think in that way this repetitive nature of time and memory come together for me, I photograph what I know and I photograph it often.
We were flying down the highway, it was the middle of summer, right after the fourth of July, we were in Mac's old mercedes from 1986 on of
those big old cars that seems to float and take up the entire highway. The windows were broken and we couldn't roll them down, but the roof was
open, which was good because the sunburn on my back was awful and I had to lean slightly forward so nothing touched it. We were listening to
Blondie and when we got back to Bed Stuy you could smell the heat rising from the trash bags on the side of the road, because it seems like they
never pick up the trash in the summer in Bed Stuy and it always smells the same.
There was a summer and a fall and a winter and a spring and everything I have seen since, up until now.