Walk the verb “pass” in different cities. Do not take photos, video, sound, etc. Walk slowly, paying attention to details—sights, sounds, smells—as a sort of meditation to observe what so often is passed without notice.
This series is created as a way to pass time while waiting for someone or something. I encourage you to make your own map of “pass” while you wait somewhere. Or I will make one for you.
In Manila, Philippines I walked “pass” during my last few hours before taking a taxi to the airport to catch my flight back to Korea.
In Denver, CO USA I walked "pass" while waiting for my sister who was at a concert close by.
pass. ermita/malate-manila, PHL
(click on the map)
pass. denver, CO USA
(click on the map)
dedicated to Ralph Waldo Emerson
My name is Emma Mayes. I just turned 81 years old as some of you may know, or have seen or heard but maybe not remembered or paid any attention to. Why does this matter? Maybe it doesn’t. I suddenly sat up—there life goes, and we didn’t do what we were hoping to do. We didn’t do what we expected to do. I am wearing headphones but no music is playing. They close out the sound so I can focus on my inner-workings a little and feel the pressure as they push toward each other. Sometimes we think we are going to be extraordinary, but we live pretty normal lives. Yes, here I am living a pretty normal life. And now I must start the music. And now I turn it up. There comes a point you can see where your life is going, and it is hard to stop the motion of the choices that propelled you. You will go where you are going. Not that that is a bad thing. You made decisions that make you happy, or so it seems. If we see, from side view, our backs reflection, we will sit with better posture. Take your eyes of your back, off yourself and see not what you do. You bend all out of shape; become convex. We are bent out of shape. And now I lie down, I am slightly concave. Two more clicks for louder sound. My thumb has a bubble that formed from an unexplainable friction. Not that that matters. I just can’t stop rubbing in between everything else I do. What is the self I thought I would be? What is the self that I am? What is the self that I am becoming? Why do you make art? Sometimes I want to stop, to throw it all away, to give up the struggle, but what would I do? Who do I make anything for? Who do you make things for?
I walked the verb pass for you, Eric Scott. Not in the streets, but in my house. I taped the floor with lines and walked along them. After, I sat down and wrote this:
Passing might not be what it was meant to be, but it is still something; just the same as everything else. Everything is something. Passing is something. Passing is everything. That is illogical but true. I passed through these streets, made observations, and formed thoughts. Now I will pass these words to you. You may pass them along to someone else, or maybe you will keep them until you pass away. Or maybe they will retain nothing as they pass right through you. Or as time passes you will forget everything you read here. I say read this, and you may say no thanks, I’ll pass. Maybe this is a test for you to pass. Maybe this is already crumpled, passing from hand to trash, from desktop to bin. But these words I will pass to you nonetheless. This is not a forward, this is not a chain letter. This is an exploration. This I pass.
It starts before you come into the picture. It starts with an unrecognizable origin. It has been going for much longer than I can determine and has everything and nothing to do with you. Where you come in is the middle of the story, with little understanding of the beginning or the end. You have many maps. You have written pass on some of them. You want to capture something here, right here, within the word ‘PASS.’ You want to take this with you and to pass it to others while following another map in another place that spells pass, and to capture something there, and to pass that to another place, to another ‘PASS.’ You want to pass and pass and pass and pass and pass. You want to share more with me than what you see and hear. You want to pass more than just information. You want to pass through me the way you pass through the city. Write me a letter. I will let you pass through me.
That is what I am doing now—my mind is passing through yours. May I have your permission to pass? If yes, read on.
Close your eyes and take 5 deep breaths.