between

Up in the air, at umpteen thousand feet, suspended between Elsewhere and somewhere else, would seem like an appropriate time to reflect on the last few weeks, in the hopes of pulling together some loose threads and rendering some insight into what just happened. Things don’t go the way we expect them to, and I’m in no position to come to any conclusions at the moment.

I thought that I was going to be finished with my photography last week. I figured I had plenty of time left over, time to sort through everything, to explore the other installations at Elsewhere, explore Greensboro, relax, pack, visit, write, read, bake a perfect loaf of bread (finally), arrange some scenes from the photographs, say goodbye gracefully.

In the end it always seems the same: it’s a rush, and when all the dust settles I think about all the things I wish I’d done, wish I’d taken care of, wrapped up, explained, said thank you for, delivered. I guess life is like that, and suspect that dying is like that too. A number of times in this last month I had glimmerings of mortality, a sensation that while I am not unfamiliar with, I found curious. I think we all occasionally wonder about dying, trying it on like an imagined tuxedo to see if it fits in our mind. I come from a culture superstitious enough about Death to be afraid of pondering it, let alone discussing it (Was it Octavio Paz who wrote “Duerme con Ella”? I can’t look it up right now). Basically, the end always comes up too soon.

What I found curious essentially came down to my sentiment about my work. If I found myself superstitious about anything lately it was when I noticed autobiographical references cropping up in the work. It made me feel like I was reviewing my life from a point of distance (which is of course always necessary for reviewing by definition) which as a sensation it left me a little vertiginous. For the most part, the idea that I might die soon didn’t bother me (shh- I don’t want it to happen and mentioning it makes me nervous, as if through some sympathetic magic we can bring into being what we think about) because in theory we all die [or at least while the Universal Consciousness part doesn’t the particular does, and since I haven’t realized my inseparable connection to that Universal Consciousness yet (although I play one on stage) this particularized consciousness is understandably reluctant to call it quits] but theoretical understanding only gets you so far. In any event the thought that kept intruding on my speculations was that I would be profoundly disappointed if I died and my work somehow got destroyed. It makes sense that having invested so much of my life into my work, exploring it as a way to make sense of my place in the world, and trying to express that understanding (or in my case lack thereof) I would transfer my attachment to life onto my work. Dying in a plane crash didn’t bother me as an idea so much as the thought of losing my film did. Not that the work is any better than anything else I’ve done, and my feelings are the same with regard to that stuff too. And not that the work would make much sense at this point, since there’s still a lot of editing and presenting to do before it would begin to be accessible (although you could ask Monique to explain it - she knows the work better than anybody else - she’s too smart to do anything more than give you hints). No, if I die I suspect that my work would lay unfinished, although I have my doubts as to whether I can wrangle meaning out of it even while alive - much like how I feel about life I guess.

I stayed up till Sunday morning shooting the rest of the 9 rolls I bought Friday afternoon. My old friend Chris Keenan came to visit and I did what I could to visit with him while I continued shooting. Everyone at Elsewhere was running around too, even pressing Keenan into service in the video they were shooting and in the end it was a lot of fun. Sunday should have been a day of packing and sorting out my affairs, but I got distracted in the afternoon (shooting up all the Polaroid film I’d bought and not used) so I confess things were in a bit of disarray as we raced out the door to return the tripod I bought (it wasn’t very sturdy and was already starting to fray a bit after only a couple weeks). The store closes at 7pm on Sunday, and after several wrong turns, including a stint on some surprise freeway, we got there at 7:10. They hadn’t locked up and were perfectly nice about it, thankfully. I would have preferred to have a relaxed, lingering last meal and some tearful goodbyes, but then things don’t always work out the way you think they will.

I did bake a final loaf. I wanted to use up the starters I’d cultivated, and of course I had hoped that I would finish up this project with a flourish, wrapping the narrative up neatly in a last minute stroke of genius: a perfect loaf wrestled from the firey maw of the oven and displayed victoriously, cue the trumpets. I used about a tablespoon of yeast, and this time it did rise well (and despite the olive oil did stick tenaciously to the Dutch Oven) but I forgot the salt until late in the game and the dough was over-kneaded, and too wet in the final analysis. The loaf might have been ok but I think I didn’t bake it long enough.

I left the Dutch oven at Elsewhere, for when I return, and I gave the bread book and the starters to Monique. I suspect she’ll be a much better baker than I was, anyway. It takes patience, and a certain kind of methodical approach that I’m too distracted to practice.

Jesse, you can have the Genmaicha: it tastes good cold too, although it’s definitely hot tea season. Christopher, you should check out that copy of Tassajara cooking, you’ like it. There’s a knife sharpening block inside the bread box: sharper knives are safer knives. Sorry I forgot to sweep up upstairs. I’ll do (almost) everything I said I would when I get the chance. Meanwhile, be good and stay warm. Thank you all for everything. Oh, and don’t forget to take care of the cast iron pan. Don’t soak it, don’t use soap, and if it starts to rust, scrub it with steel wool and bake it, oiled, at 250 for a couple of hours.