moments of nonbeing

As 2020 wraps, I find myself increasingly absorbed by understanding the practices that I’m newly drawn to. The things I’ve chosen to connect with to get through what has certainly been the most unexpected year of my life, and perhaps that of billions of others. Even making such a grand statement still boggles my mind. Taking a moment to step outside of my life to acknowledge this global reality always gives much needed perspective. Life has been altered in wholly unforeseeable ways for billions of people this year. 

Exactly how our lives and worlds have been reshaped certainly looks different for each and every one of us. Our realities are constructed by so much: where we live, who we live with, what we do each day, our job, or the roles we play in society as a whole. Every life looks different, but the pandemic’s impact on these answers (and many more) is ever-changing and harshly felt. 

Reflecting on my own journey that has been navigating covid-19 and its impact on the world centers upon my age. Being 22 years old right now feels like constantly being stuck at a major life inflection point. In many ways I’m at the height of decision making- important ones at that, that will guide (the beginnings of) the rest of my life. Existential and perhaps a bit dramatic I know, but the pandemic exacerbates these emotions, so throw me a bone. 

I spent the first 21 years of my life on a set path, a regulated track that unknowingly provided an absurd amount of comfort. I went to public school K-12, graduated high school, and attended a 4-year institution, long awaiting the fantastical graduation year that for so long existed as a far-off fantasy: 2020. 

That momentous final semester was different than expected, but I can’t complain. I spent the last 3 months of college with a small handful of my closest friends, attended classes from the comfort of my bed, and graduated in my tiny apartment with two of my closest friends who hung around until the end. 

I procrastinated packing and cleaning my apartment until the last possible moment as my disapproving landlord approached to conduct the final walkthrough. Unsurprisingly, I left with a fraction of the security deposit, and the hard learned lesson that expo marker writing does not always come out of refrigerators (as the All Purpose spray, Oxi-Clean, bleach, hot water, soap, and eventually, shamefully, white paint can attest). 

With a egregiously packed car and zero rear view visibility, I was off. I blasted oldies with a twinge of liberation- I think I recall Born to Run (don’t worry, I am indeed embarrassed). I left all four windows down until I could no longer stand the sound of garbage bags flapping. Five short hours later I pulled into the driveway of my childhood home in Rochester, NY (with a broken mirror in the trunk no less- unsure if I’m superstitious but it felt like bad luck). 

The latter half of 2020- from June until now, has been full of unknowns, decision making in the dark, and hard fought self motivation. Vivid mixes of emotions old and new. 

First the dread of moving back in with parents as a young adult, and the stubborn resistance to fully unpack, so as to not get “too comfortable” at home. I now know such a thing is impossible for many reasons, one being that regardless of the lighting, art, and design, the girly pink walls of my childhood bedroom have proven immutable. 

Following this initial shock were extreme levels of self-induced pressure to find a job, do nothing but apply to jobs, and then bask in dejected feelings of never being able to get a job. While in the process, fully isolating myself from others, because I simultaneously felt I had too much to do, but yet was never really doing a thing. That concept has been fun to sit with. It comes with the realization that the carefree bliss of not having a single thing to do- say for a month long winter break- is officially gone. The list of things you could (and probably should) be doing is endless- welcome to the real world, Kate!

August was a blessed, beautiful month that, at the risk of (again) sounding dramatic, I am eternally grateful for. During this sweltering month I lived out of a car for nearly 3 weeks, camping with two pals throughout Utah and Wyoming. Even hitting a deer at 9pm, in a no-cell service zone, in the middle of a State Forest in Wyoming was a welcomed adventure at this point. A broken transmission, impromptu camping, two-hour tow truck ride, countless insurance calls, hostile car dealership conversations, two rental cars later, and we were back on track. This (incomplete) list of challenges provided beautiful life experience however, imparting lessons I could never fully know until I lived them. 

Returning home was as expected, a difficult transition back to monotony. Did I apply to vineyard jobs vaguely “out west?” Absolutely. Did I have it in me to go through with such a spontaneous life choice? Unfortunately not, though to my credit I did realize important goals that stood in the way of a dreamy vagabond existence. 

The fall has been a blur, and now there’s snow on the ground. I’ve found myself living for the future, and rarely ever for the moment, which is entirely antithetical to my personal philosophy. I have proclaimed my personal soundtrack to 2020 to be the loop of traditional Lebanese music that plays on repeat at my job as a server at Sinbad’s Mediterranean Cuisine (now as a takeout extraordinaire. And yes, despite the lack of in-person customers we are indeed instructed to play the CDs as per usual). This work, or my role as a part-time nanny is far from fulfilling (though the kids are darn cute), but that’s not the point for now. “At least I’m saving!” has been my most reliable source of positive encouragement, nearing personal mantra. 

I write this from my childhood bedroom, sitting at my desk, which was once our kitchen table circa 2002. It is as wobbly as it is sentimental, and I love it. The desk faces a window, the sill littered with glassware and candles because I have a thing against artificial light. I have a total of five notebooks, half opened, each containing swirling levels of thoughts, drawings, organization, calendars and to do lists. An orange caricature of a topless french woman sunbathing sits in front of me, reminding me that “TOUT VA BIEN!” (that everything is fine). And in minutes I will be dancing to the Moana soundtrack or drawing christmas trees and unicorns with 3 and 4 year olds. A snapshot of my life, at 22 years old, in 2020. 

Despite my life not being what I expected, or what I wanted it to look like as I embark on what’s supposed to be the most adventurous, spontaneous, and simply well-lived decade of my life, it is what it is, and as the french lady says, everything is fine. I have two part-time jobs, unforeseen savings, quality family time (both for better and for worse), my mom’s cooking, and a roof over my head. In a world with inconceivably high death tolls, rising unemployment and homelessness rates, and the constant, precarious fear of general loss, I have infinite blessings to count.

Life does feel like a giant waiting game though. How can one strategically plan out what comes next in their individual life when the entire world remains a massive question mark? In a time when we feel trapped, impatiently waiting for opportunities, experiences, and adventures to reopen, waiting feels hopeless. Because it is. If you’re unhappy with the opportunities before you, create your own.

I’m not saying I’m doing a stellar job at this myself- and as you can see I certainly struggle with my fair share of existential pessimism (day in and day out). But doing things has a certain electrifying feel that ignites and empowers you to build a meaningful life. I’m producing a web series with a group of similarly listless 20 somethings who are also doing their best to be creative and productive from the confines of their family homes. I’m practicing yoga and meditation really to cope with my own stress and internal anxieties, but in doing so am creating new habits and mindsets that will certainly outlast the pandemic. I’ve connected with a group of strangers by dancing to shamantic and electronica music in various outdoor locations throughout Rochester. Whoa! Never would I have imagined finding such deeply liberating peace through ecstatic dance of all things, but hey 2020 is full of surprises. 

This position I’m in is both uniquely my own through my personal experiences, and also shared by more people than I could imagine. Maybe only bits and pieces resonate with you, or maybe you are living your best life in the city of your dreams with a fabulous career in a lovely home with the world’s best roommates. But even if that’s you- you’re missing out on something too. The whole world is. We feel disconnected, disjointed, digitally controlled and consumed, and despite who we surround ourselves with- isolated. We’re stuck living in a world of “once this is over I’ll….” and no matter who you are it feels damn weird to spend so much time in your head dreaming of a future rather than living it out in the now. 

So… solutions? As we all know, you only have so much control during a global pandemic (very little to be exact). But what you can control is how you live your life during it. I certainly won’t preach to what works and pretend like I’ve figured it out- that work is no one’s to do but your own. But I do feel that so much comes down to mindset, perspective, mental health and ultimately finding ways to seek inner peace. 

Potential solutions are abundant, and have been explored by more people now than ever before. Though there is no recipe to conquer the inevitable fears, concerns and anxieties that accompany the pandemic and this phase of life, I’m interested in further exploring some of the ones that work for me. How is something as simple as breathing so helpful? 

This idea resonates deeply with me, as I'm sure it does with you. It seems nearly impossible to refute if you engage in 21st century social media. The precision of this nearly 45 year-old assertion compels me to consider the relationship between the human mind, social perception, and the photograph. 

It’s easy to agree with Sontag’s claim without pausing to understand a critical term within it. 

Aesthetics: a branch of philosophy that deals with the nature of beauty and taste, as well as the philosophy of art.

Consumerism: a social and economic order that encourages the acquisition of goods and services in ever-increasing amounts.

Our growing need to “confirm reality and enhance experience” with photographs leads us to curate a collection of pictures, ideas, and sentiments as a way of self expression, seeking external validation of a personal identity. 

Creating this branded image of ourselves through photos and online profiles allows the public to access, perceive, and sometimes validate that existence. Demanding social pressures urge us to join in this personal curation- not participating prohibits a vital element of 21st century interconnection. Together these forces drive a cyclical demand to develop and contribute to this personal brand, fostering what Sontag identifies as an obsession with aesthetic consumerism.

“A way of certifying experience, taking photographs is also a way of refusing it — by limiting experience to a search for the photogenic, by converting experience into an image, a souvenir.”

What we choose to capture illustrates what we seek to confirm. Content varies person to person, unveiling what we find worth sharing, proving, or simply remembering. 

A special moment shared with loved ones may be cause for a photo. This confirmation of reality serves as a reminder of a cherished memory. Be it the moment itself or the people within it, rarity often compels this kind of commemorative photo. 

A well-lit selfie has the capacity to capture beauty in a unique way. This confirmation of reality serves as an admiration of our external image, satisfying an internal ego, an artistic self, or perhaps a hybrid of the two. The selfie is embedded with notions of vanity and narcissism, but couldn’t it also be seen as a blameless attempt to preserve what is often framed as fleeting…?

Natural beauty presents another common photographic urge. The setting sun playing among the sky’s distinct clouds for instance, incites overwhelming emotion and appreciation of beauty. This confirmation of reality is (an often futile) attempt to capture the art within the world around us. 

(top: A dear pal and I share a homemade cheese tart and a chilled bottle of wine. 

middle: Not traditionally one for selfies, the power of my bright desk light compelled me to play around with angles to capture a unique image of myself. 

“All photographs are memento mori. To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s (or thing’s) mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time’s relentless melt.” 

It only feels right to preserve something we cherish, but there’s a difference between capturing a fleeting memory and documenting a moment with the underlying intention of sharing it. 

Some photographs are rooted in nostalgia, a “sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.” We take these pictures because we recognize a moment’s mortality, assume that we will miss it,  and seek to remember it though a frozen frame. 

Others images seem to be embedded in self-absorption. Egotism, “the drive to maintain and enhance favorable views of oneself” all too easily dominates modern photography. The photograph’s unique ability to manipulate reality combined with modern online sharing capabilities popularize this kind of image. It allows us to present ourselves as ___ kind of person, proving that we live a ___ kind of life.

(top: Maya, a remarkably special person and longtime friend, shows me her home in Malta. 

 “In teaching us a new visual code, photographs alter and enlarge our notions of what is worth looking at and what we have a right to observe.”

Sontag notes that photography is increasingly recognized as a mass art form, meaning that not all those who practice it do so as an art. Taking a picture with your iPhone assumes a different intention than shooting a photo with a Canon EOS 5D. 

In an age of unchecked nostalgia and aesthetically driven online curation, vintage photography has recently experienced a major revival. Urban Outfitters notably sells Polaroids, “disposable camera” apps are abundant, and the hazy nostalgia of film photos have inspired a new wave of Instagram accounts. 

The mild “wannabe hipster” association with this trend critiques those who gain sudden interest in dated technology, however these types of photos also come with characteristic uses inherent to the medium. The moments captured on disposable cameras, polaroids, or film seem to be rooted moreso in nostalgia than ego. With a finite number of shots, users must carefully decide what moments and images are worth capturing, applying a more critical, artistic lens to photography.

(top: Following a trend, or exploring a new art form? I recently discovered my dad’s 1985 Canon T1 film camera, and have enjoyed playing with composition. 

It’s a brisk December day in Berlin. The sky is grey, mirroring the group’s sentiment as we walk along what’s left of the city’s infamous wall. What once stood as an impossible barrier separating a bleak, controlled existence from one of vibrancy and freedom now serves as an outdoor exhibit. 

Expansive murals cover the entirety of the concrete remains. I watch as tourists from all corners of the world photograph nearly every inch of the wall. Slowly walking alongside the repurposed barrier, I’m stopped by the sight of a small hole within it. No one dwells by this spot, but I’m transfixed by the empty space. How did it come to be? Did someone spend hours chipping away to create a porthole into another life? Perhaps they stood right here, in awe of the unfamiliar world that laid less than a foot ahead. 

--

I make my way onwards until I approach a sudden buildup of bodies crowding a small section of the gallery. As my angle improves, I recognize a vaguely familiar image of two seemingly important men locking lips, eyes closed, heads tilted at just the right angle to express a kind of unwavering love. I attempt to take in the view over the bobbing heads, hands, and cameras of travelers and tourists alike.

 The iconic mural replicates a photograph of German Erich Honecker and Russian Leonid Brezhnev, two prominent socialist politicians connecting at the 30th anniversary of Communist East Germany in 1979. This intimate embrace is one of the most popularized images of the socialist fraternal kiss, a formal protocol that bridges European culture with Communist party conduct. The image itself conveys the strength of the connection between East Germany and the Soviet Union, while exposing an intimate alliance between leaders who represent the people of the oppressed and the oppressor. The underlying force behind the art however lies within its symbolic location. This steadfast union placed upon the physical division of two worlds makes what the mural’s artist Dimitri Vrubel calls, “a perfect fit.” That impact continues to be felt by millions of gawking visitors each year, grounded in the mural’s title below: 

“My God Help Me to Survive This Deadly Love.” 

--

We board the coach bus once more, this time driving beyond the city center towards the Northern neighborhoods of Berlin. As we navigate through the quiet streets, my thoughts wander to a different time. I stare out the shaky bus window, immersed in the torrent of ideas derived from infusing the city’s divided history with my 21st century perspective. I descend the bus in a daze, approaching a memorial that tributes each East-Berliner who died seeking freedom in the city’s Western half.  My group of fellow American students amble past the memorial at a respectful pace, but I find myself cemented in front of the long, portrait-ridden structure.

I submit myself to the monument’s somber allure as the group fades away, losing sight of the present, falling into the past. I read and reread the names of the 140 individuals who lost their lives in an attempt to reach West Berlin, some just a few feet away. I study the black and white faces of each lost soul with deep intensity. The eyes of teenagers, professors, mothers, and babies stare back at me, frozen in time. I wonder what motivated each individual to take action. I think about the many unique and intricate plans to maneuver past the militant border. I consider the fortitude required to pursue this unknown territory. 

--

As I contemplate the people behind the bold pursuit for freedom, my thoughts drift to Bobi, my Czech grandmother who came impossibly close to the same bleak existence.

The woman who woke up every day with a radiant smile to express her thanks for life, proclaiming, “I can see, I can dance, I can sing!” The woman who infallibly brought boxes of linzer cookies with every visit, marking my youth, decidedly becoming bobi cookies. The woman whose extensive language repository, vibrant warmth, and unyielding empathy served to guide dozens of refugees towards peace and belonging in their newfound New York homes.  

Witnessing her home country fall to insidious power twice, she knew that this desolate existence was not her own, and was not her only choice. At 20 years old, she left her life in Czechoslovakia behind in pursuit for one she deemed worth living for. 

---

The lives and deaths of 140 strangers connected me further to a world I’ll never know. A world without color, where enduring constraints forbid thoughts of future, of possibility for more. A world of disquieted surveillance that controls every move. Of lives that cannot be considered one's own.

Freedom had previously existed as a vague notion, one  I mindlessly repeated in oaths of allegiance to my country. It wasn’t until I experienced a city split by this very ideal that I came to understand its presence in my own life, and its variable existence in the lives of other Americans. 

The freedoms that I possess- to travel and move freely, to express myself with carefree gratification, to learn and think without constraint, just to name a few- are not universally experienced. These freedoms are founded upon privilege. Those who possess them must be compelled to ask what prerequisites accompany the American promise for “liberty and justice for all.”

 --

The Berlin Wall fell on November 9th, 1989- a direct result of shifting government authority, awakened foreign allyship, and civic protest. Over time, these forces brought an end to both the physical barrier and the oppressive government that restricted the lives and freedoms of millions. 

Though restrictions upon 21st century freedom may appear differently, the fight for them certainly isn’t new. Rather than combatting explicitly oppressive governing regimes within marked geographic boundaries, America faces the challenge of unveiling and dismantling institutional racism embedded within our nation’s structures. We educate each other about the insidious and often covert manifestations of modern racism. We challenge the systems that oppress millions of citizens to preserve the power and privilege of others. We debate the existence of monuments that hold historical and symbolic power of these oppressive forces. We demand that our governing officials combat these evils with collaborative and comprehensive legislation. 

sittin’ in the mornin’ sun // I’ll be sittin’ when the evenin’ comes

Thoughts to consider. To unweave the mess of experience, failed and passed, distant and missed. The moment you step outside your home for good, straying from comfort in exchange for life. That first step marks the beginning of what I envision as a blind contour drawing. Pen to blank paper, ceaseless lines linger and cross in hopes of creation. Certain features strike the viewer- they are meticulously crafted, and therefore seemingly important. Lines retraced back and forth, direction undecided, still bound to the last. Some lines run parallel to each other, and others intersect. Straight, jagged, curly and round; a path that could never quite be imitated.

watching the ships roll in //  then i watch them roll away again

The dock is space for distant interconnection. A place to realize the world outside the self, and to feel connected to it. Ideas float breathlessly, scenes unfold lazily. A passive onlooker sits to enjoy without responsibility or repercussion.

2000 miles i roamed // just to make this dock my home

roam (verb)

to move about or travel aimlessly or unsystematically, especially over a wide area.

to walk, go, or travel without a fixed purpose or direction.

to go from place to place without purpose or direction.  

home (noun)

the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.

                … a refuge to return to. a place of solace to regain internal peace.

this loneliness won’t leave me alone

A sort of empty you face from nobody’s actions but your own. Self isolation that is wholly intentional and curiously, not free of despair.

Being alone is lovely until it’s not. Until loneliness strikes. How long do you have before this moment? What determines these internal loneliness clocks wired within us?

Whenever and however it comes, this persistent and unyielding presence will be sure to make its arrival known.

wastin’ time

Scrolling mindlessly.

Talking in circles.

Driving aimlessly.

Giving in to distraction.

Lingering.

---

I incessantly craved this song for approximately three weeks. Its timeless lyrics were the thoughts I wanted to connect with at 8am on my commute to work, and to revel in on the liberating, windows-down ride home. Redding’s voice led me into contemplative quiet nights alone, while also creating a soothing ambiance to enjoy a bottle of wine with family.

My appreciation for Redding’s beautifully crafted verses and soulful melodies made me question how little I knew about his career as an artist. I’ve been humming this song since I don’t know when, and I’m positive other hits have similarly wandered through my unconscious mind before.

As I dived into his albums and delved through online bios, I was entirely shocked to learn that Redding’s venerable career lasted just five years. Redding tragically died at 26 when his band’s private plane crashed into an icy lake in Wisconsin en route to their next show. (Sittin on) The Dock of the Bay was recorded just weeks prior, and was officially released less than a month after his death.

The song was an immediate hit, becoming the first posthumous number-one single in U.S. history. Redding was also on the brink of unveiling a new sound and perhaps genre all together. Dubbed “The Crown Prince of Soul,” Redding’s growing prominence in the genre compelled him to introduce his own unique flair. Inspired by folk music of the decade (and notably Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band), Redding began to play with infusing similar elements into his own electrifying sound.

Accompanying this stylistic fusion was a renewed focus on the depth and meaning behind his lyrics. While on the road touring in the summer of 1967, Redding spent six nights on a houseboat in San Francisco’s Richardson Bay-  a welcomed retreat for the Georgia native. Struck by the reflective solitude the bay incited, Redding knew he had captured the start of an unforgettable piece.

From the song’s authentic beginnings to its mellow whistle ending (allegedly a spontaneous ad lib filler intended to eventually be replaced with vocals), (Sittin On) The Dock of the Bay does it all. A testament to the Prince’s pure talent and musical genius, and just a glimpse into what could have been.