I went to Williamsport last week to pick up the final few rolls of black and white film that Ralph Wilson had developed for me. We collected all the rolls of undeveloped film that Miles had siting in his room– in drawers, in backpacks, in boxes, in cameras– and Ralph helped us figure out what to do with them all. He was able to develop the black and white rolls. We are so grateful for his support.
But it was very sad to go up there and get the negatives. We gather up everything we found. It is possible that we may find some more here and there. It is possible that we will discover a few hidden in some pocket or hidden in a drawer. The finality, though, of getting the last rolls was sad. The finite limits to what exists in Miles’s hand or in his words or with his own cameras or from his own eyes is difficult to comprehend. It is heartbreaking to consider.
As a kid, infinity was a concept impossible to imagine. And now as an adult, I am having trouble with the limited and the known. I am struggling with the finality of everything in Miles’s wake– the final rolls of film developed or the final zine I recreate. Six thousand four hundred and fifty eight days. A number in a series, a finite series of days and nights.