Mind The Gap

SchiltPublishing
20 x 24.5 cm
Hardbound with linen cover
160 pages, 65 photos in full color and duotone

Remote Control

I couldn't take pictures inside but I ask you to witness what’s described as the year’s most deliberate performance. See the man split seconds after waking up from another clenched night of sweating through stiff hospital sheets. Watch a hint of panic start in his chest, permeate throughout the body as he walks past the medication counter to the TV room. The remote he reaches for has seventeen buttons of equal size and texture and three slightly larger along the top portion. The indented rubber keypad which makes up twelve of the seventeen buttons has been removed exposing a warn out metal plate.   A ripped piece of duct tape with the words TV room on it gently hold the broken plate to the remote.  The day has started and any brief moment of potential has been lost to the series of tasks that have been set into motion. The top buttons labeled DVD VCR and AUX remain in pristine condition despite serving no purpose.

He turns the channel and with remote in hand settles into the empty chair as if he was back in the basement he so often escaped to.  The middle button FAV somehow knew it would always be the center of attention by distinguishing itself with a green outline and white bold letters.  I am there and I see him.  I see it all only not unlike everyone else I cannot move or speak to argue as such. I wonder if the journey he made from the bed to the chair would be lost on him in a few moments as mine was on me.  All channels with the exception of cable news have the distinguished characteristic of being preprogrammed a fav.  The tiny screw whose purpose is to keep the battery cover secure has been replaced with droplets of rubber cement. 

Did you ever hear the story about The Prince and the Mad King? Each morning The Prince awoke to a gaggle of attendees ensuring that all his needs were met. One day The Prince woke early only to find that his attendees were still sleeping. Alone for the first time he decided to sneak out of his room and explore the castle on his own. As he passed the grand staircase he noticed something felt different. Between the floorboards by his feet was a large crevice unlike anything he had seen before. As he looked down he saw that it was getting bigger creating a gap between him and stairwell. The Gap grew so large that the prince was pushed up against the wall unable to move. With the gap still growing the prince knew that the only way out would be to jump over it. With all his might he jumped as far as he could. His Thoughts went to winter in the mountains and how the snow made everything seem so beautiful. When the snow melted the spring flowers reminded him that summer was near and soon he would be in the water waving to his family by the shore. As night settled, the sky grew dark, the water turned to an ocean and the shoreline disappeared. It was then that the price saw the gap again in the distance. The faster he swam the rougher the sea grew and the closer the gap was. Eventually a giant wave engulfed his body bringing the prince down to the bottom of the ocean.

When he awoke alone in his room The Prince knew for the first time that he was the true son of the mad king. 

The watcher was making him crazy. Technically there were two of them, but only one was a problem. This particular watcher created a value system in a scheme that was designed to make life better. The watcher in you may be asking what’s so wrong about that, but this story isn’t about your watcher. It’s about his.

From the moment of daybreak, the system was at work plotting ways to improve him. It was a constant battle between watchers, each one pining for his attention. Wake up or start dreaming? Now, you might think the good watcher is the one pushing all those positive goals, the one urging him to improve, and the bad watcher the one that encourages a more passive approach to life. It isn’t that simple.

Somewhere along the way, the watchers got confused and switched roles. The bad watcher was promoting self-improvement and the good watcher was okay with the way he was. But this isn’t a story about values; it’s more of a murder mystery. A murder because he killed the watcher, both actually, and a mystery because no one knows how he did it.

When he inquired about doing so he was told he was too young. He was told it was something he could not yet understand. He was told that explaining quantum physics to a newborn would be more practical. He was told that the words he would need would only ground the experience in something that was groundless and that sounds were problematic for all the reference points they evoke. He was told that images, on the other hand, could be useful as long as he never looked at them. He was told to stop trying.

The big misconception here about killing the watchers is that you also have to kill the one being watched as well. Again, no one knows how he did it, but what we do know is that one day the watchers were gone, never came back and somehow he was still there.

“And then you’re gone,” were the last words she said to me. For her, the meaning was not as it sounds. You see, I’ve written this so many times in my head you would imagine it would be a lot easier. No one knew the real Gloria. Not even me. That sounds like a eulogy, doesn’t it? Jake, you may feel differently, and I know how important her presence was in the last few years to everyone at Elisian. The truth is, her presence was important to everyone she met. This past weekend has been fueled by the love from the countless people who have told me that Gloria was their best friend in the world. Their best friend. That’s a lot to swallow.

Most of you know that she left home at sixteen. For someone who has raised two children and seven grandchildren in that same house that Gloria left, you can imagine leaving home wasn’t something I ever did so well. For Gloria it was no big deal.

We were twenty-five the first time she came back. It was like staring at a ghost. This face I had become so accustomed to looking at, this mirror, had grown up to be a beautiful woman. Gloria, of course, was laughing so hard she fell off the porch.

She stayed a year that time. It was one of the best years we ever had. As swiftly as she came, she left, with as much advance notice. Ten years later, we had another incredible year building the guest house together. We both knew she wasn’t going to live there, even though she agonized over every last detail. She literally hand carved each and every one of those faces above the front doorway.

The big misconception about Gloria is that she was running from something. That something awful must have happened to make her spend a lifetime picking up and starting over. Despite the illusion she often cultivated, I’m here to tell you there was no tragic childhood event. Besides dying too early, our parents were two of the most loving and supportive people anyone could ask for.

I used to refer to it as “the haze.” This look that Gloria would get right before she left. Sometimes it was for a week or two, other times it went on for months. But I always knew what was coming next. After whatever new identity that had been built up and defined came crashing down, there was always a moment of pause before the new one would get fully formed. I often thought here, right here in this gap, was the real Gloria. I know that those are not the times when you all would see her. Those were not the times when Gloria would dance all night and make everyone around her feel like they were the center of the world. Those are not the times that all these stories being told today are about. I am, however, grateful to have been a part of her life during those times. We want to hold on to the good so badly that we forget that just being with someone and nothing else is good enough.

The most widely believed theory at the time was that it was the work of the devil, a curse from the indigenous people for taking their land. Some came to view it as an omen, others as justification that was sharper than any bow and arrow. At the end of each growing season, plants would harden into stone and hide just beneath the surface of the soil. The next year’s harvesting months would be spent hauling rocks instead of planting crops. It became an impossible task and the rock piles grew and grew. In order to make room, the farmers would haul them to the edges of the property, creating a gap between once communal spaces. It is said that no matter how deep you dig, no matter what you build, the land of the devil will always be cursed.

Jacob LaCroix

“With all due respect, do you think that if Darwin was right you idiots would be leading this panel? I can’t in good conscience sit here and hear about how a butterfly flapping its wings in China caused my house to float away. Fix the goddam fucking levee and you can have all the butterflies you want.”

David Moore

“We completely understand your frustration. We are not here to take away the impact the hurricane had on you and your family, nor is our panel here intended to steer blame away from inadequate infrastructure. Our intentions are merely to have a discourse around the interconnected nature of our world and its potentially cataclysmic effects.”

Jacob LaCroix

“I don’t care what your intentions are.”

David Moore

“Again, this discussion is to look at the reverberating effects our actions can have and how every action has a consequence. What we do today right here in this room, however small, has a major impact. It is up to us to choose our thoughts and connect them to actions. As Dr. McGowen stated in the introduction, we may never know the true nature of ourselves, but through careful insight one can pause to reflect on the gap between where our thoughts lie and our actions reverberate. I would like to end on that note with a special thank you to…”

Jacob LaCroix

“You’re a fucking idiot! Get someone up there that can help us rebuild our city!” David Moore “A special thank you to New Ideas Center for Creative Construction, the Planning Committee and the Foundation for Better…”

It really is a great house. As you know, the back stone wall butts up against Ramapough Preserve on the south end and the corporate park only on the west corner. Remember, the inside is the exact mirror of the one we already looked at. The only difference is that they extended the back deck and opened up the wall between the living room and kitchen. Don’t worry about going upstairs; the big misconception is that it was done in the house, which is not at all true. He killed his kids outside on the swing set and shot his wife under the deck. You can read the police report, which clearly states that no one died in the house. The property itself is worth it. It is officially double-lot zoning, and it already has a five-bedroom septic, so you can add another bedroom.

Blood

The waters of the land will be turned into blood.

Frogs

You did not listen, the ribbiting frogs will no longer sing in unison.

Lice

You still did not listen. And with an outstretched arm, the staff of Nurse Ratched will come striking down with all its might and she shall spread lice upon all the patients.

Diseased livestock

What did the mad cow say? MOOOO!!!!!

Boils

A boil, also called a furuncle, is a deep infection of the hair follicle resulting in a painful swollen area on the skin caused by an accumulation of pus and dead tissue. Hail Hail, hail, hail. Locusts And the locusts sang off in the distance.

Darkness

Winter for one thousand years. Death of firstborn. Death of firstborn. Death of firstborn.

To begin, grab a large shaker, the kind that sort of explodes in all directions when you try to pull off the lid. Stir in narcissism and borderline personality disorder with the cheapest liter of vodka you can find. Chase it with whatever anti-psychotic pills* you have around.

• 64 oz Narcissism

• 32oz Personality Disorder

• 1.5 liter Cheap Vodka (We recommend Crown Russe)

• *Optional Clozapine 2500 mg (may be substituted with 1500-2000 mg of Seroquel)

He wore the attempts as sort of a badge of honor that he had suffered on levels we would never understand.

The irony of the plan was not lost on me or my siblings. A last-ditch attempt to create an illusion and the appearance of an honorable legacy. He knew we wouldn’t get the money. His only hope was that we believed he wanted us to get it. If there was any real beneficiary to his life insurance, it was his release from believing that money would resolve his suffering. At some point in the following weeks I tried to explain to him the suicide paradox. The premise is that the wealthier we are, the more likely we are to kill ourselves. This is true both globally and locally. The wealthier a country is, the higher the rate of suicide, and within that country there is also a direct correlation between suicide and wealth. I went on to explain that it is not the money that makes us want to kill ourselves, but the belief that the money is going to solve our problems. If you have a problem and you think it will go away with money, what happens when you get the money and the problem is still there? He looked at me with a vacant stare as if he couldn’t believe that his offspring could be so naive.

I wish I could just give him all the money in the world so that he would end it and finally succeed at something.

The watcher was making him crazy. Technically there were two of them, but only one was a problem. This particular watcher created a value system in a scheme that was designed to make life better. The watcher in you may be asking what’s so wrong about that, but this story isn’t about your watcher. It’s about his.

From the moment of daybreak, the system was at work plotting ways to improve him. It was a constant battle between watchers, each one pining for his attention. Wake up or start dreaming? Now, you might think the good watcher is the one pushing all those positive goals, the one urging him to improve, and the bad watcher the one that encourages a more passive approach to life. It isn’t that simple.

Somewhere along the way, the watchers got confused and switched roles. The bad watcher was promoting self-improvement and the good watcher was okay with the way he was. But this isn’t a story about values; it’s more of a murder mystery. A murder because he killed the watcher, both actually, and a mystery because no one knows how he did it.

When he inquired about doing so he was told he was too young. He was told it was something he could not yet understand. He was told that explaining quantum physics to a newborn would be more practical. He was told that the words he would need would only ground the experience in something that was groundless and that sounds were problematic for all the reference points they evoke. He was told that images, on the other hand, could be useful as long as he never looked at them. He was told to stop trying.

The big misconception here about killing the watchers is that you also have to kill the one being watched as well. Again, no one knows how he did it, but what we do know is that one day the watchers were gone, never came back and somehow he was still there.