I was abandoned under the marquee of a movie theater. I was raised by
ushers and ticket takers and projectionists. My earliest memory is of William
Powell and Myrna Loy. My earliest memory is of Silvia Pinal in a wedding
dress, holding a candelabra. My earliest memory is of a
gun, a merry-go-round inhabited by horses missing pieces. I was born in Kansas. I
was born in New York. I was born on the moon. I always had enough to eat. I
never had anything to eat. I had plenty to eat but nothing I liked. I attended
all the best schools. I am completely uneducated. Sometimes, I call myself an
autodidact, but that’s a lie. Or the truth. We first met late in life scouting a
gazebo by a river. The first time we met was in a ruined bathroom where you
held my hair. I spent some time in a war zone. I shot portraits of anyone who
would stand still. I made it all up. My relationship with food has always been
problematic. Binge and purge were not so much an issue as my compulsion
to film it. After you faded away, or finally decided to save yourself, or just
said fuck it all, I died several times. Or not. There were horses. There was a
fireworks display. There was a carnival. There was a feast. There was my ghost
standing at the crossroads. Ephemeral. Extravagant. With or without a knife.
- A Meeting of the Film Society - March 11, 2022
