Time is a fetish; I once sold it by the hour to clients around the world; but principally through The New York Times and one or two Editorial Agencies . . . never in that era finding the courage to go out and sell myself to other clients I was well qualified for.
Retirement for my peers seems odd to me since I’ve not yet realized that I am in fact 'retired.' Many of my associates remain idle reliving the "glory days." I am still in the trenches pushing the envelope of creation forward and outward. Chuckling now I remember dad calling them "war stories." I have yet begun to die in the traces; always noticing odd incidents and coincidences; what CG. Jung called 'synchronicity.'
I am, to myself, a train wreck of ideas . . . have you ever seen one? Enormous mass hurtling in one direction. Engine going off track or burying itself into something stationary.
By vocation I was a professional photojournalist. Teaching the topic at The University of Rhode Island. Writing a photography column for The Providence Journal. Where I was employed as a staff photographer. During this time I went to Missouri for a photojournalism workshop taught principally National Geographic Editors. And there I met Howard Chapnick of Black Star Publishing who later on gave me an assignment to cover the “Dump Nixon Rally” in front of the Rhode Island State House. I declined fearing it would imperil; with my son’s diagnosis of Leukemia an employment assured Medical Insurance Policy. I recommended a coworker who did the work but my photograph made Life Magazine, double page, with an Associated Press credit line. My son Randy died six years later and my career as a photojournalist had for all intents and purposes died with that missed opportunity. This is not a resume, but another page in my journal keeping. I am surprised to recall that particular loss right up front. Until recently I could remember only becoming blind to my ambitions then. Of which Howard, over lunch at his invitation said; “Jack you are one the the twenty best photojournalist in the world.” . . . I was stunned and having no self-esteem presumed he wanted me to crawl beneath the table and fellate him; as it was I managed to leave the restaurant with a white linen table cloth firmly stuck in my belt.
Between then and now everything has changed. It is difficult to explain in detail and irrelevant; my focus it other and outward directed; away from myself to you and your Self.
I had begun keeping a journal shortly after my son’s death, his death following that of his sister’s; born with Spina Bifida. Traumatised in childhood as most of us are, in one way or another; my life became unendurable: depressed and suicidal. In 1993 I threw away all that I had created; images, tearsheets and my writings; everything.
This business of keeping a journal is not exclusively for posterity. I find the act of writing therapeutic; lending both peace and joy with the added benefit of clarity recorded for later review. Even if only to edit and rewrite before publication a deliberate effort to save others who like myself lived with daily suicidal ideation.
I argue synchronicity both ways, for and against myself, attempting to deny what eventually became obviously undeniable. Events and words strung together that were too fabulous to explain otherwise. Looking at now, the before and endless afterward I am simply humiliated that I could not own it or fulfill the gifts bestowed; instead I fled. Even now I am compelled to transpose or translate what I sense is appropriate and meet or match the language of those I encounter . . . those who call me long distance to say goodbye dying after hanging up. Bereft of excuse or shrugged shoulders I need to be explicit with both, myself and the audience of one.
Remembering is part of keeping a journal; placing events and choices within a context. Though I’ve kept it for years and well remember surprises discovered being now rediscovered newly minted bright shiny and new coins from common materials. Choices seen seminal, roads taken others abandoned. My ego surrendered to a newly discovered truth. An old man with the ground rising to meet my journey; distant mountain tops ahead beckoning my stride increasing. No longer laboring.
The teacher taught that I have light years to travel yet vigorously. To myself I seem younger returning to innocence all previous lessons learned well. A night train running full bore joyously; whistle echoing behind me.
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
