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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.