It Was a Year, That.
/On the road to the Silver Lining: Words will fail to tell this tale. Images will fall short in filling the blanks.
The struggle to communicate seems so overwhelming it almost seems pointless. . . . and yet . . . Here is this series of ‘editorial entries’ into the journal . . . Is it that to stay quiet is unacceptably nihilistic? Or is it the competitive challenge of overcoming ennui? Or did something(s) nice happen in the thick of the muck?
For the first time I can recall there was reason this year to wonder “exactly what did I do on New Year’s Eve a year ago?” I had totally forgotten, but my journal entry reminded me: I had been on the beach, photographing “The Wreck of the Constitution.” That was five days before the events of January 6. Here we are one year later and not much has changed.
The year began in intentional isolation and contentedly so. But the heavy anchor began dragging rock and sand when attempting to comprehend the world’s developing events. Shock, awe & disbelief were parents of intellectual indigestion. “I read the news today, oh boy”? When the news bloats with the poisonous discharges of bald-faced mendacity, lies and deception, when from One-One of Twenty’s first moments mass psychosis seemed to have descended upon the land as if by some spell laughingly cast down from unseen mythical sources a news blackout seems prerequisite as a means of survival.
On the home front, as almost a manner of shoring up a line of defense, sure-footed steps were taken in an ever-expanding home renovation project that instilled a hint of satisfaction. Yet, with exhausting efforts that encountered never-ending extrusions of obstacles, days progressed ever more slowly. Each time the goal line was approached, the goal line was moved farther away. Thus, a “month long” project to fix a hole in the deck remains ongoing a calendar year later. If there was one note of encouragement it was the absolute proof of miracles. As each wall was opened there was proof positive that the only reason the house had remained standing for near 70 years was the result of miracles. Unfortunately, sideline melodramas of which I was not a part but which involved me nonetheless left my eyes aching from too much eye rolling. When workmen are in your home from 7am-4pm 6 days out of every week one eventually gets a soap opera. So even win the last quarter of the year, just when it seemed there was light at the end of the tunnel, the global supply-side debacle entered island-like environs of Montauk sandbagging progress in a non-negotiable and sorry swamp of “out of stock” and “not available.”
Compounding matters on the up-close-and-personal matters were profound losses both by fate and by choice. I don’t mean anyone close died or anything. Let’s face it: when simply offering help to a fellow shopper in a big-box store, results in an opportunity for said shopper to rant oppositional political views, how safe can ANY encounter be? Thus the reluctance to go far beyond “hello” with anyone (don’t even comment on the weather!) — and especially even with close friends and relatives due to the fear of learning some shocking revelation that spins the head. These are not mild disagreements over a Thanksgiving dinner (I gave up risking those decades ago). No, this is a discussion of that type of heretofore unsuspected secret information that flips reality on its head, leaves jaws sore from bouncing off the floor and results in the severance of all modes for communication. Do you think you know all there is regarding family members or friends known for decades? Think again. Sadly, MANY relationships have been lost, or jettisoned. The latter being the most confusing, disheartening, disturbing and exasperating stew of feelings. Most family members, of course, are expected to be found out as walking impersonations of rectal tissue but FRIENDS?! They were chosen for their supposed like-mindedness. Social Media was cast out like a smelly towel. Contact with many was lost but the risk of being drawn into internecine warfare was heightened by algorithms designed to do just that and all for the profit of the greedy.
All of this left the mainstay of Creativity adrift — either there was no time or, worse, no impulse. That went adrift in a sea of meaninglessness and purposeless. And if that didn’t do it, having to wakeup two hours earlier than normal, to greet the aforementioned workmen, killed off any remaining interests in picking up a camera, a pen or a brush.
It reached a level of frustration that resulted in an ever-growing, gnawing subtext of dreaded “artist’s block” . . . hmmm, or was it just battle fatigue? At any rate: not a pretty picture. And by the way, as a means of transparency, this is my second draft, the goal of which has been to add a bit of levity. Why? The first one, my “editor” told me was too bleak and heavy. She was correct. It was. To me, that was an honest summation. The past year has been one of intense heaviness.
My definition of my choice to said editorial comment would have been “Total, Brutal Honesty versus Something More Akin To Bullshit.” But when I began writing that was a reflection of the cynical, snarky mood I was in . . . as it started pouring rain . . . AGAIN.
. . . and yet . . .
I did opt for “Something More Palatable” because to be fair, if only to myself, when sitting down to recount these slings and arrows of our outrageous fortune I had to remember that there was always the intention to say: “Yes, it was a bad, maddening, terrible, awful, disgusting, distasteful, disappointing, deflating, defeating year . . .
“And yet . . . and yet . . .
Wasn’t this pointed down the Road to Silver Lining?
I.E.: “to be continued”
END OF PART ONE
