I spent some 18 years at the bench, a bench, wondering where up was. Ya I was in England for a spell at the front end but at my core I’m self-taught. And with that comes the anxieties and psychosis of wondering if, no when, I’ll be exposed as a fraud.
Almost two decades and thousands of frames came and went, yet nothing derailed me. For most of it I thought, “Well, fuck it. Eventually I’ll call Goddard back, express my regrets for stringing the college along, and then resume that dream of chasing a writer’s life.”
In the meantime all those years and frames dropped me off at a stop I never even considered. Hey, maybe this is it. The poetry and short stories were part of my past and no amount of wondering about the what-ifs would change the narrative.
And then this happened. I’d already been used to people telling others who I was. But when Bicycle Guide delivered this gem to my mailbox, part of me went weak. Part of a part of me has remained weak ever since that fateful day some thirty one years ago.
Who am I? Am I this cat in the story? Would Michael and Christopher shoot the same images and write the same article if they came a month earlier or a year later? Words and pictures and ink and even colors can have a lasting effect, and also fade as quickly.
I’ve lived my adult life wondering about stories. And constructs. I’ve told and created enough of my own to know how fleeting they are. And full of holes too, if you dig deep enough. I go through long periods when I ignore it all, but I never fully forget them.
In June 1990, my life was outed and persona defined. Was this me, is this me? Timing, editorial agendas, and personal connections are part of the whole. I’ll never know how these past thirty one years might have played out if I missed that call. Wait, yes I do.
All This By Hand
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