Here’s a photograph of a portion of Johnny’s piece, “Two Miles Deep”. I watched him make it. Not the entire thing, but pieces. I approached his homemade desk, perched my head on my hand, and closed my eyes. The song of the friction between his pencil and the divot he had produced was so soothing to me. I opened my eyes and watched his body, the machine, strumming reams of cashier paper. The look in his eye was focus itself. I put my hand near the roll of paper and felt the ripples of air he produced with his pulling. It was such a simple action, making the mark. The performance of the mark was so sweet. A man, making. Somewhere, oil derricks plunge in harmony. Flames breathe invisible distress calls into the night sky. Somewhere, a man is making. Johnny pulls a little too hard and the paper rips. With a sigh, he pulls a length of tape, and turns to place the piece in the garbage. I made excited animal noises and held out my hands, hoping I could have it as a souvenir. “Sure.” I taped it to the front of my Field Notes.