Creative: The Cave Days

Ernesto tunneled into the hillside. Yep. Hogan’s Heroes style, full-on tunnel with exposed rock on three sides. Ernesto was a man of the world and a man of the people. Upriver Zodiac runs on the Colorado. Magdelena Bay excursions, and axle swaps in the driveway in La Jolla. The first time we shook hands, I wasn’t sure I was going to get mine back. Meaty. A calmness of knowing he could crush me on a whim. My birdlike hands and tendencies to chase pictures were an amusing pastime to someone who knew what it meant to change a tire in cartel land. There was a residue of this time that doesn’t exist today. No matter how crazy things got, you never lost track of sightlines and the best exit if things went sideways.

The vortex of life was a distraction from the task at hand. Make pictures. That was the primary mission. Anyone who has ever been obsessed will know how this feels, will know how what this means. Forget about friends or family ever knowing. They won’t. They don’t. It’s more than that. The thought of the time to make pictures began to creep in days before the event took place. When can I go? Where do I park? How long will I have? Should I go solo or with a wingman? Numero Siete taped to the side of the driver’s door. Pointed south. La Frontera.

Across Pendleton at one hundred plus. The black Pontiac singing. Cameras on the seat just in case. Down through San Diego, past the industrial sites and into the cramped drama running along the north side of the border. Dirt parking lots. Human streams back and forth. Taxis gleaming in the sun. “You want coke, heroin, a buck naked virgin?” he asked. In and out of The Zone. Kodachrome and Leica. Conejos. Ninety-nine cent Chinese. Risk vs reward.

Back north through post rush buzz. Into La Jolla, around the house on a wooden platform, down the hillside and into the cave. Rodinal, HC110, TRI-X, HP5, Xtol, TMZ. Process, print wet and grind through negative memories. Prints spread across the backseat of the Pontiac, on the dash, and stuck to the rear glass. Offshore ships sparkle in the blackness. Border check, up the coast on PCH past Brewer’s place, up and over the hill into South Laguna. Past the hospital and into the guts of downtown. Eyes closed, listening for the sound of swell. Salty air and fixer fingers. Thoughts of a return. Inside she waits like nothing happened. Light spills from the split in the door as laughter floats from somewhere nearby.

Collassal piles of books stacked to press curling prints. 3D to 2D. Better to forget about them until later, until the experience has faltered and faded and the mind is more capable of separation. Then I’ll decide. Which one or two has a chance. Those will be with me forever. Sealed inside the walls of accomplishment. Just for me. Coal burning hot in the pit of the stomach. Knowing there might be something there. The curl of a smile impossible to deny. Uh huh. Ya. All me. And you, and all those before me. Walking in well worn tracks but the flicker of film on screen is forever changing, second by second, never the same. And this answers the why, at least it should. What other motiviation do we need?