I began reading Anne Truitt's Turn, for comfort and inspiration, and saw our ages match. She was 62 when she began this memoir, so facing some of the same existential pains and pleasures. There has been a tightening since my sixty-first birthday. Left unchecked, I am more fearful of getting hurt, whether on the subway or climbing a ladder at home. I feel a more poignant despair. I have an impulse to move, as if exurbia would protect me. The passage below was like having Truitt name and expose my direction, and it left me ashamed - that I would collapse in the face of all the privileges I have to keep me upright. That I would retreat under the guise of wanting to garden, move to Wassaic, and further isolate myself.
So it is summer, a year after Japan, and I'm struggling for traction, motivation, purpose. While this writing is self-absorbed, my living is not. I'm more outward-pointing than I have ever been, from my outrage at the amoral prick in the White House and his supporters to my street behavior to my commitment to students. This shift has made the studio foreign again; my photographs seem more communicative.
I began drawing from my photos some months ago and can see that as a point of departure, and an arrival. I should stay with this blog.