I’d like to tell my story, but I don’t know a single language.  And I have no one to tell it to anyway.

I roll these photographs into a tube, place them in a bottle, and try my luck.  At least, objectively, they’ll outlive me.

Here in the heart of the city, I leave the bottle against a wall.

Looking back, I still don’t know—what was the way in?

I had endless time, but I couldn’t figure out where to go.  I never ran into that person who would help me, or wandered into a place that seemed familiar yet heightened, like all my thoughts were already there, dressed beautifully, in tuxes and gowns, and shining at me from the ceiling, from even the corners of the ceiling!

And I could never get it right.  How you wave to each other.  And give each other a thumbs up.  The palms pressed together and the slight bow to say thank you.  The fist raised in rage.  My hands wouldn’t obey. 

I’m human—shouldn’t some of this be instinctive?!

To your credit, many of you looked at me, and tried to understand, interpret.  And then, with a smile of regret (which I could never mirror), you moved on.  I count you as friends and lovers; those are my best memories, and of course my most painful.

So in these photographs, I wear the costume of Pierrot.  Sort of.  I wear the clothes of a convict, but the stripes go a different way. 

I wear bandages, but even these are in the wrong place.

The one thing I can do—I can curl up in the fetal position.  Thank God.   This you’ll understand.  This will bond us.  No?  There are too many of us like this…

The background in each image is ash.  The ashes of Pompeii.  Here you can see me, just as I was–all my major emotions, from my time on earth. 

And as best I can, I show you my ending.  I obliterate myself with an X.  A glowing molten X, that I hope you’ll feel as passion, the passion that always survived despair.  The urge to communicate.

I had to go inward.  And this is what I came up with.