…no longer three.
I have spent the better part of this misty morning, hunched on a step stool at the MIT Press bookstore reading Rineke Dijkstra: A Retrospective. It is a large white book with a solitary female clad in yellow of European origin, posing sideways in a portrait. Her expression is mixed and suspicious and hiding in the open. In the book, it had the photographers personal history, an extensive interview (which I read thoroughly) and her photographs. She had some beautiful projects of longevity such as a young Bosnian immigrant girl from age five until her twenties and a French adolescent entering the Foreign Legion and transforming into a soldier. The “New Mothers” photographs of Dutch women having recently given birth, naked and holding their babies, especially touched my tender absence. I was not sad as I expected myself to be….but rather another feeling. Proud of these new mother’s strength and a sense that after what I have just been through, and still going through, and particularly despite that, I too can see myself with my newborn healthy babe… in a future untold to me.
I’ve been reading a lot since the incident and watching less films. It is as if my brain is craving verbal stimulation, of inspiration drawn from words and interviews of good authors such as Mary Karr and Kathryn Harrison and even fiction by the elegantly descriptive Fitzgerald and his Gatsby. Having no obligation of work has also given me some new life.
Walking around Cambridge in this damp overcast air synthesizes with my mood rather than pulling it to a separate down. I get the feeling of a sort of commensalism in which this stereotypically melancholy weather is of no affection to me. And thinking of seeing him after work and being able to pull my arms around him, knowing he understands just how I feel, keeps me grounded and surrounded by such love and security that I feel safety in this sadness and most importantly, I believe more and more in it’s transiency.