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DISPATCH I | DISPATCH II | DISPATCH III | DISPATCH IV | DISPATCH V | DISPATCH VI
We must be sustained.
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We find that our dispatches have been received. Another entity has been watching our progress. A communication has come that our endeavor will not be forgotten, that we do not toil in vain. Our spirits bolstered, we must turn back inward, forget our collective vanity, and perform the tasks that will sustain us. We have shelter and clothing, so it is now our time to forage for sustenance.
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I imagine some future where we can be satiated by transmission instead of ingestion.
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But for now, we remain in between. Searching.
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Somewhere in that Nowhere.
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After three weeks provisions are getting low. We are quite hungry. My companions’ stomachs collectively rumble like truck traffic on an elevated highway. I hear a pounding in my head that sounds like neighbors knocking on the floor of my jaw. Am I chewing? My jaw is clicking on my tongue like some sun-dried leather, fruit or meat. Where is my tongue even? I haven’t heard my own voice in since I left myself somewhere else. I hear only my trudging feat, the crispy rubber of my Vans Slip-ons waffling through the snow. I hear every bump or bludgeon; every kneecap strike; every shoulder puncture. I hear my dry hands rubbing in hungry anticipation. But I do not hear my own voice. I’m trapped inside this husk of a Shelter, attuned to every crack and thump like I’m inside a speaker. I creak. We creak.
After three weeks provisions are getting low. We are quite hungry. My companions’ stomachs collectively rumble like truck traffic on an elevated highway. I hear a pounding in my head that sounds like neighbors knocking on the floor of my jaw. Am I chewing? My jaw is clicking on my tongue like some sun-dried leather, fruit or meat. Where is my tongue even? I haven’t heard my own voice in since I left myself somewhere else. I hear only my trudging feat, the crispy rubber of my Vans Slip-ons waffling through the snow. I hear every bump or bludgeon; every kneecap strike; every shoulder puncture. I hear my dry hands rubbing in hungry anticipation. But I do not hear my own voice. I’m trapped inside this husk of a Shelter, attuned to every crack and thump like I’m inside a speaker. I creak. We creak.
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The familiar hum of the hungry stomach, interrupting the work flow. We find a bag of white plastic wall anchors and we unfreeze a box of Milked Almonds. We eat them like breakfast cereal, yet they will not go down easily. The anchors, so capable of supporting hundreds of pounds, cannot support a human body. But these desperate times need fortifying.
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I am reminded of the Great Recession, when there were late and tired nights where we’d conjure dinner with whatever we had. Often it would be “soup.” There was the incident once when pouring cardamom pods into a stock, we found the husks of many bugs. Not willing to sacrifice our last onion, we dumped the soup through a strainer, picked out the bug husks and the cardamom ( for they looked almost identical ) and then rinsed the sautéed onions and began again. We often recount the incident of the Bug Soup as a symbol of how far we’ve come. We would never starve, but there were times when we had less choice, and so diet became a routine of things that fit into larger economic machinations.
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We are often reminded that if only we had planned better, had more foresight, taken a better risk, that our weakness would not persist. But through habit we set up a gridded system that defines us: a portrait of a life lived habitually, over the course of days. A hum, or a drone, rather than a grand composition of colliding or acquiescing parts. A cat purring, a rumbling stomach, a car sitting idly in the parking lot while the driver takes an eternity in some establishment before they come out to come drive you home.
I am reminded of the Great Recession, when there were late and tired nights where we’d conjure dinner with whatever we had. Often it would be “soup.” There was the incident once when pouring cardamom pods into a stock, we found the husks of many bugs. Not willing to sacrifice our last onion, we dumped the soup through a strainer, picked out the bug husks and the cardamom ( for they looked almost identical ) and then rinsed the sautéed onions and began again. We often recount the incident of the Bug Soup as a symbol of how far we’ve come. We would never starve, but there were times when we had less choice, and so diet became a routine of things that fit into larger economic machinations.
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We are often reminded that if only we had planned better, had more foresight, taken a better risk, that our weakness would not persist. But through habit we set up a gridded system that defines us: a portrait of a life lived habitually, over the course of days. A hum, or a drone, rather than a grand composition of colliding or acquiescing parts. A cat purring, a rumbling stomach, a car sitting idly in the parking lot while the driver takes an eternity in some establishment before they come out to come drive you home.
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Potatoes (1), 2018, inkjet fresco, drywall, wood, 13.75 x 15 x 3 inches.
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The Trudge
We trudge through many clumps of snow in a perpetual search for anything edible. We must depend on the labors of others who formerly inhabited this land. I have discovered a buried storage of root vegetables and frozen breads. I can feel the dryness of winter on my tongue, the starchy whiteness of eating without pleasure. Merely filling me, merely propping us up. Out Here, it is all brown or white or frozen blue, so what is the difference, really?
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My companions and I must carry on these missions until spring, when foraging becomes a less desperate act. We insist on honoring the Trudge, the act of providing. I look down at my shoes, encapsulating the feet that brought me here. They look like fossils, or when taken off, much like the husks of the root vegetables we found. The image of them should not be easy, brisk or consumable. When the image ceases to function we must excavate it, chisel at its tiny continent and reveal it for what it is: an illusion that must be stepped through to be catalyzed. When it opens up it is a beating heart, a centerpiece. Not quite a hearth, because it’s illusion emits nothing. It is a stovepipe, a chimney, a ventilation shaft. It sucks the conditions of this world out and spits them into some other place, some other mind, some other episode. It purports to help us, and yet it only accustoms us to the easiest unreality.
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Excavated Vans, 2018, inkjet fresco, drywall, wood, 31 x 49 x 2.5 inches.
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These tiny monuments to our days of struggle are merely reminders. They remind us that these our our own choices, that our desire for some beyond allows us to forget the ever-tedious present.
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The sun sets on another week, and the hungry wind whips again. I often find that I remain busy while my companions relax or collapse. They fall asleep when they are meant to keep watch. When they hunger they lay face down in protest.
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I often feel like we are not a we at all, but I am the sole provider.
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So I insist that we unify. We must cohere. As the wind picks up we make small journeys, both to keep up our stamina, but to prove we can rely on one another. We discover the added benefit that when clustered together, we insulate ourselves from the elements. Often, I am at the center of the tugging cloud of clothing, hair and flesh. Although it is difficult, there is a softness there.
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Cohesion comes at a cost, however. We tire quickly and stomach begins its nagging protest. I must again forage and leave my companions. One volunteers as sentry. We upright the Vitrine Sled into a wind-proof chamber, and dress the companion in the Dentyne Ice cape, so that warmth may be preserved. The companion must stay awake for some time as I must go further afield to find our next meal.
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