Out of the womb

Recently while celebrating my 41st birthday I recalled the sensation that is: birth. More specifically: being birthed.

It was so bright. My eyes could not stay shut enough. You know no returning. Continue forward. There are words to be read.

Research: Day 4

I think the neighbors are spying on me. They don’t ask too many questions but I know they’re curious about my research. Don’t worry, I won't tell them anything of importance.  

Research: DAY 3

There are some days I get uncomfortable with uncertainty. I call the neighbors and see if they need weeding or a hedge trimmed, anything to pass the time.  

Research: DAY 2

I brought with me, my fathers net—feel free to tell him I stole it from the garage—he will laugh. I’m chasing these tiny creatures called butterflies, but I haven’t caught any yet—in fact I don’t really want to… In the morning, I’ll go out to pick some parsley, and dozens of them start fluttering happily. It reminds me I have grapes to pick and while the sun is still low, the paper man says: “everything is…isn’t it?” and I nod to assure him I am making progress. 

Research Begins...

Tonight… I made my favorite, but first let me sit out in the sun and let the wings of refinement engulf me while I write this. My research has spent the last fourteen years, yet my thoughts now only rest upon playing chess and cooking—both require my immediate attention, which I’m glad. 

On: Vibrations

...often occur in a Man’s pants—via a cell phone, a concealed excitement and often in the form of a text message. These vibrations happen several times a day and within mere seconds can contain up to hundreds of tiny oscillating recurrences within it (for one oscillation = the time interval for a wave beginning at a certain height to travel back to that same height over the course of some time period, i.e. wavelength). Now whether these recurrences are actually recurring is a simple question of essential change—does time end or is time merely repeating itself in an infinite amount of possibilities, of which we perceive, to be linear with respect to birth-life-death-birth. Moreover, how do recurrences (i.e. birth-life-death-birth) occur linearly, when upon reflection they (birth-life-death-birth) seem so circular? To even consider this question in a serious manner, we must first ask, if recurrences truly recur, how can we be sure whether these recurrences are actually recurring on the same linear path (time), as we perceive them actually recurring? 

On: Exposures

We are our own personal camera operators—each given a roll of film to re-present reality—and with each pull of the trigger—a decision to shoot, preserve a reality, we—in turn—advance our film strip forwardà and as one proceeds to capture more-and-more images, so much the sooner will his/her exposures run out… 

On: Emulsion

No matter where one is located upon this finite roll of film, the moments captured by each individual camera operator live within the each operator’s camera. Buried within the layers of subtractive colors, mixed amid emulsion and transparent bases, lies a ghost—waiting to be born and re-presented in another moment beside that in which its predecessor still survives. This ghost that lives within each camera operator’s camera is by far one of the most technological advancements developed in the last century. The instrument of the camera, allows a ghost to be born while the film within that camera allows the ghost to be preserved. By stealing the ‘light’ of an entity or alive being, the camera operator is preserving the opportunity for the ghost to appear. Then at a later moment, in which what-has-come-before ceases to exist, the magical-ness of technology amazingly conjures what has passed: one spool beings unwinding onto another, the film starts to move, the shutter spins and the light that was captured within the camera-operators box reveals itself… beautifully the light with which is dancing provides accompaniment to a ghost on the wall, entangled in the spotlight before us.

On: The projector

From behind the veil of technological amazement the spectator stares at this ghost. It is not alive,     nor dead, but decomposing. Its form cannot be preserved. The tomb in which it was mummified—the black storage box to preserve it only slows the process that is decomposing.  Here, projected upon the wall, shines an image once alive, preserved, and now decaying. With each advancement of film and gaze upon the image, the ghost begins to slowly travel from that piece of film and into the spectator itself. One can physically feel the wind that travels into our open orifices and within our bodies. Upon this moment, the spectator comes to realize that we are not only watching this ghost but also recording it ourselves, as camera operators would.

On: Duration

When one thinks of duration, an image that comes to mind is that of the camera. As I take a photo, the film advances.  One side is winding the film up and the other, unwinding it. I cannot help think about this in relation to my recent thoughts on growing older. As we proceed to capture more images, and progress the film forward, so much the sooner will our exposures run out. Now no matter where I am in regards to this roll of film, the moments that I have captured are somewhere within the camera—its body, as duration.