Pt. 2 An Exercise In Reminiscence (Because Remembering Is Sometimes Painful)

Welp, it seems I wore myself out by writing all that nonsense in Pt. 1 about Nashville’s snow, Northern Ireland, chronic pain, and the privilege that it is to miss something. Now that my task is to sit down and pen some kind of coherent followup, I feel unable, ill-equipped, and sort of silly. It’s frightening to share real, wordy musings on the internet! I guess I understand the instant gratification of Twitter (x?). 280 characters means you’re practically off the hook for whatever it is you just posted! In that case, the available defense is endless! “I was expressing an idea.” “I was making an obvious point.” “I was trying to be quick-witted.” Or, my personal favorite, “I just don’t give a shit.”

Ok, I’m not actually dismissing the issue of thoughtless, public commentary that causes real harm to other folks. People in positions of power and on the front cover of magazines should probably be held to higher standards in an age where we, the masses, have access to such immediate, sometimes reckless opinions. What I’m trying to be open about is a much more private (and low-stakes) dissonance…that I do, I do give a shit.

Not only that, but I can’t honestly answer why it is that I care so much. I can’t get to the bottom of my own perfectionism. Thankfully, I see the absurdity in assuming I’m the only person that has ridiculously fluctuating attitudes towards public existence; I’d go ahead and take a gander that we all have this perplexing but natural reflex to living within our own lives and within the presence of others—a reflex sometimes characterized by gratitude, and communal joy, and comfort with the way we are actively being perceived, and other times a reflex in yucky, negative reaction to our own essence. Sort of like, “Gross! People look at me? People might know how I feel if I tell them, and they might know how I feel even when I don’t? I am OBSERVABLE?!”. I understand that this kind of internal dialogue is a product of insecurity. That’s without question. The layered question, the one that might actually clue me in to my self-imposed drawbacks, is this: What in the world am I so insecure about?

Unfortunately there are a multitude of possible answers. I don’t admit that for pitying purposes, simply to say here and now that I am often, inconsolably embarrassed of my own writing. Of my photography and poetry, too. I’m embarrassed that the way I contribute to various kinds of creative endeavors can be judged! It’s awful, isn’t it? That though I am naturally inclined towards these mediums, I am not spared the perfectly healthy critique and the perfectly acceptable standards of others! *Hopefully that tinge of sarcasm is noticeable.* Why I assume the worst about what people think is beyond me. I know that friends and family support me, celebrate my projects, and have found value in what I have to share. Maybe I’m just ashamed that I might have anything worth contributing or saying in the first place. Is that arrogant of me? I mean, are all artists just narcissists in disguise, veiled by barely humble sensitivity and by self-assumed genius? I hardly think that’s true, and still I doubt my own motivations and abilities.

I guess that in a weird, monologic way, this secondary post functions as an unconfident followup to Pt. 1 and also as a precursor to whatever else I might publish on this site.

I guess that in the end, I’m trying to lessen the blow of opinions I’ve not even received by saying upfront, “Careful! I’m not actually tough or brilliant or eloquent or original! Definitely not talented either!”.

I guess that by the grace of God and the “I don’t give a shit” attitude which is sometimes a byproduct, I still find a way to do what it is I like doing and to invite the people I love to take a closer look. Because so, I’m spared the incurable loneliness of not being known and the pointless accumulation of photographs otherwise unseen. If not made accessible to others, they’d take over my laptop storage and my desk drawers and my own visual imagination and they’d only add to the excess of my already excessive, American life.

Hmmmm… that jab at my national identity is a pretty decent segue for the pictures I’m about to share of the absolutely magical, faultless, and classically dreary weekend I spent in London last year, right? Ha! I’m sure I could write a number of essays (or, are these blogs?) on what I did, who I romped around the city with, and why it was so wonderful, but what I’ve already written is fine for now. Before filing random photos below, it would probably be good of me to mention that these were shot on my little Pentax point-and-shoot with Ilford HP5 plus. As I strolled through neighborhoods like Notting Hill, Soho, Covent Garden, and South Kensington—whipping out my camera when I remembered to—the last things on my mind were precision or professionalism. What I mean is that I fell in love with London, and simply didn’t care to be romanced by my own technique along the way. An inflated ego and an unhealthy preoccupation with one’s gear is a bad combination. Honestly, I trusted my biological senses to inform long-term memory building more than I did my camera.

And I’m so glad that was the case.

We do not stretch and strengthen the muscles of being fully present &/or remembering when we rely on technology to do all the heavy lifting. That doesn’t mean it’s not ridiculously fun to browse these black and whites again, remembering how much London surprised me and how much I felt there was to love about it. I am glad some physical stills of my time there exist. I am also glad that I can re-conjure these moments in my mind’s eye, in a more detailed, instinctual way than I really know how to describe.

Note: I’m a little apprehensive that I purposefully included the word “s-h-i-t” in my writing three whole times, and that my lovely grandparents might read this, but I had to be genuine to the d-r-a-m-a that is the backbone of any overly vulnerable article and that is often required of over-thinkers. Please know I (try to) only say this word aloud when I see a mouse in the house, or a possum on my back deck, or when I am in the company of my dear roommates and we are dealing with all of the above.

Gosh, that’s probably too frequent.

Now, for the photographs.