When my own mother died one brother had gone out for a breakfast burrito while the other brother had decided to take care of some administrative work down the hall. I sat with her by myself, holding her hand deep in the California desert when she shuddered and the room changed and I felt the prickle and I knew she was floating up there with her spirit brushing the ceiling tiles. Did the room change into black and white for her? Was there something waiting to nod and give her a hug? I’d just flown in the night before and I can say that it all felt black and white enough to me. There’s a great deal of looking up, both literal and otherwise. There’s a certain amount of normal absurdity and a fundamental amount of active loneliness. There’s the necessity of being. When my mother left I finally understood and eventually I walked out and watched a colony of ants in the parking lot for a while. When did I become a character in a Wim Wenders film? Certainly the first time I watched one. And then the second, the third, the fourth and the eighth.
-Toddy Stewart