Making sense

Anne Lamott, on writing ...

"We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason why they write so little. But we do. We have so much we want to say and figure out.”

Monday, October 29, 2012

Gone, Girl

Pictures, taken at MacDowell: gone. Gone. G-O-N-E.
How many? Upwards of 230. I took pictures of my studio, my screened-in-porch, my food, the books I read inside Mixter, sitting pretzel-legged on that wonderful orange chair, the one in front of the fireplace. Pictures of that fireplace, pictures of my desk, pictures of that desk taken in morning light, afternoon light, evening light. Pictures of the deer that came up to my window. Pictures of the expansive windows, taking up two entire walls. Gone.
Pictures of fellow MacDowell residents, gone.
Pictures of what my bathroom looked like, that amazing shower, gone.
Pictures of the outside of my studio. From every possible angle. Snapped in morning light, afternoon light, evening light.
Pictures of my walking path ~ 250 steps ~ from my porch to Colony Hall. Pictures taken on September 26, the day I got to Peterborough and the Colony, and then a picture a day, to document the falling leaves. The beautiful falling leaves, the ferns, the bushes, the tall, tall, tall trees.
Gone, gone, gone.
Freakingfuckingstupid iPhone. A crash. Everything lost. Lost before I could transfer them to my laptop, or that iCloud thingy (whatever that is), when I returned to Kansas City.
So frustrating. Hair-pulling frustrating. Going to the Plaza to the Apple Store.
"I'm sorry to tell you this, ma'am, but you've lost everything. If you had pictures, they're gone."
This, what the twenty-something man with the spiked hair and piano keyboard tattoo on his left forearm told me, within, what? five, ten seconds, of holding my phone in his hand.
I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. There were half a million people inside that hot store on a bright Saturday afternoon.
On the drive home: tears. Self-loathing. I must have done something stupid to shut down my phone.
That's what I get, being forty-seven and stupid about technology.
Look. I could give two shits about losing my contacts. I would rebuild that list. Hell, I could get my music back from my laptop. But those pictures? Gone, gone, gone.
Once, in my lifetime, have I been to New Hampshire. New Hampshire in the fall, for crying out loud.
Once, in my lifetime, have I been to MacDowell Colony, inside Mixter studio, inside Bond Hall, inside the dining room, sitting elbow to elbow with Guggenheim recipients and Pulitzer-prize winning playwrights.
Pictures of it all. And now, gone.
Me? A gone girl.
Grieving, I am.

1 comment:

Jo Annette said...

My heart breaks for you. The images are forever in your soul. Write them back to life.