I pedal away from a space I had no connection to two months ago-
I am filled with love’s satisfaction.

I pedal away with memories,
With too much liquor in my belly at too late an hour.

I breathe deep to push hard up a long, sobering hill:
Life, you love me well.

Ricky’s Theme — Ill Communication (1994)

I.
Consciousness is an inexact proposition at best. The stages and forms ebb and flow as they do, when they do, and seemingly right on schedule. External forces exert themselves as we apply them and every why is explained in hindsight.

Periodically, it all shuts down to rest the animal form — or the unquantifiable force that manipulates it. Frankly, I’m unsure myself, as my daily experience of this cycle is completely null.

I don’t often dream when I sleep: I depart to points unknown and the universe goes with me. So, I know life as a workshop.

II.
I’m learning much about personality construction in watching and participating in Benjamin’s process of remembering his. Elsewhere, I observe how the world transforms as I explore methods and attitudes of observation. In micro and macro, within and without, I’m studying choice. I don’t get it, not even close, but I see it in all of life’s parade, like wispy, diverging roads that float just ahead of each us, insubstantial till we step. In this workshop, it seems to me that we get to be as we choose to be.

III.
75% of the way in to the building of a 3,000ft² Gowanus Loft means waiting for miles of joint compound to dry. A 3-4 hour window perfect for fresh air, a snack (read: pie), and all the other work that needs doing. Today: writing, mainly.

Dust off/ grab the notebook/ & a twenty/ stroll out into high winds and warm sun of 9th street in the springtime. Warm enough for shorts and cool enough for soup: perfect.

Outside the soup spot was a dog, a good one. Inside was a family of three: a casual-but-suited father and his children. The girl may have been 8. The boy, lightly autistic, with eyes like stars and a disposition of perfect joy, was aged exactly five. I know a 5 year-old when I see one, and this one was radiant.

I put myself at the window seat I favor, beside the family. With my face to the sun and back to them, I silently tuned in to the delightful conversation between father and son.

I felt the boy’s exuberance behind me like a reflection of the sun’s warmth.

Before leaving, I introduced myself to Michael, asking if I might in turn ask his son’s permission to quickly photograph him. I explained that I found his son magical. Michael, the boy, had long before seen my request coming (I felt the anticipation on eye contact, as I approached) and was vigorously asserting YES before my ask was half over.

Father-Michael laughed at his son’s prescience and politely declined. I lingered to chat for a moment, and learned that Boy-Michael would be six soon. “In Janumember”, he said, glowing at the thought and tripping on words.

I thanked the family and carried on for pie, just next door. The distance is about ten paces from door to door, and I spent them weeping. Writing the words now again summons the feeling; it’s the emotional equivalent of looking at the sun.

Ten minutes later and Boy-Michael is outside Four and Twenty’s door, face pressed to glass, pointing at me in delight and with highbeams on. Of course they’d get pie.

I gave Father-Michael a great dad for following up with pie high-five as they passed me, opened my notebook, and wrote two words: Radiant Baby. None of the words that followed were the ones I set out to write this afternoon, and here they are, as they always were, waiting.

About a month ago, Jennifer Heister asked for help.

Well on her way as a teacher in the Baptiste “Power” method, she needed to submit a video of herself teaching a yoga class to clear one of the final hurdles of certification.

I’m prone to answer ‘yes’ to calls for help, even if they come in on a Saturday evening, for a Sunday morning class. Help like this is too far inside my wheelhouse to not give.

Also, her birthday was coming up, and I’d do anything for Jen besides.

But, I warned her, I’d only be able to use my phone because the late ask left no time to prepare otherwise. We’ve somehow made it to the future without building Skynet (well, sorta), and in lieu of hoverboards we have tricorders. The 720p/24fps output of my ‘phone’ would be sufficient.

And it usually is — when audio is captured.

But as I found out at the end of one hour of very sweaty recording (Jen does Bikram/hot room yoga, and I was dressed all wrong for it), the audio mic for my phone was shot, even though all other audio I/O (voice recorder & speakerphone, for example) were still working just fine.

Fuck.

So, a week later, we reconvened, and this time, I used Jen’s worn-but-trusty G9. No small irony that the device was the same one that once captured production footage of me at work in Cambodia, years ago.

But no time to get misty: the class was starting, and I needed to get familiar with the machine, fast. I wasn’t looking to shoot this class a third time.

I work in stills and video fluidly; the mediums draw from complementary spaces within. Put a photographic recording device of any kind in my hands, and I can work it. Though I have a long way still to go to master the craft of storytelling, I do know I’m pretty good, and I can generally manufacture aesthetic beauty at will.

All that said — presenting every second of a solid one-hour take, without edit or retake, is extremely disrobing. Given the nature of Jen’s need, I couldn’t stop shooting until she was done. And picking a static angle was out of the question: I had to show Jen’s personal interactions with her students. So in addition to the screen, I really had to watch my feet: there were close to 30 students in the class, all of whom were plenty busy holding their own weight, sweating their way to enlightenment.

Nowhere to hide, and nothing to do but shoot. So I did, and I had so much fun with it.

There are plenty of moments I’d edit out, given the choice. But in watching this before final export, I also found something beautiful in the piece… I’ve never seen a yoga class presented quite this way. And for all the moments that I’d love to bury, there are just as many that are genuinely beautiful, that I’d find no other way than in meditation. And by the 20th minute of shooting, with 40 more to go, that’s exactly what it becomes.

For one hour on April 8th the morning sun was generous, the teacher was sure, the students were focused, and I was finally wearing shorts.

Thanks for thinking of me, Jen — love you always.

I’m still getting used to being in Gowanus on a daily basis. Everything is moving fast, and I get acquainted with what I need to know as soon as I need to know it.

I have no idea where to look for my mail, for example. This hasn’t been an issue, as VR has little-to-no postal traffic. But I do know what an envelope slipped under a door sounds like, and when I looked by the front door to find the cause of the sound, my first 11215 mail beckoned.

Within this was a second envelope.

Arn Chorn-Pond is a musician, human rights advocate, genocide survivor, founder of Cambodian Living Arts, and dear friend. He was my cultural ambassador and translator throughout the six weeks of countrywide production for “Masters”.

I have vague memories of Arn toting a camera around back then; I was completely focused on the job at hand, massive as it was.

This past Sunday, I was asked to tell the story of how I came to do what I do, and why. I didn’t want to derail the flow of the gathering with an extended monologue, so I gave the shortest rendition yet: three and a half years ago, I made a promise to help promote a new Cambodian iconography – one that centers on the nation’s culture. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve built, and everything I’ve become has grown around this promise.

Photographs by Arn Chorn-Pond

It’s a long road; one that’s taught me to appreciate the journey. But there are signs along the way – rich, sweet, kind ones – and I am grateful.