No Cheese And All Ash
I was invited to a 5 course fancy dinner. Two sets of everything, had never seen anything like it. It was extravagant; a company treat. The waiter dressed acting very quaint with a hand behind his back, served us an inbetween snack of melted sort of exquisite cheese, sprinkled with ash. He didn’t mention where the ash came from. I hadn’t even tasted it and I remembered this moment, across the world, in Cambodia, looking down at Boupha sucking her finger; covered in a fine layer of ash from the process of making bricks. Burning hard wood. We were all covered in ash, it got in our ears, nose, eyes and any surface it could attach itself to. By the end of the day it had deafened the tastebuds and breathing was apparently affected. I was documenting the people not just working, but also living there. It was slavery, a short life. In reality not worthy of any life, but reaffirming our desire to keep breathing as human beings. The cheese and ash combination was obviously delicious, but somehow I couldn’t really sink it properly.