Positive Space: a taster to the working title Sylvan
I am getting old, and Maddie scolds me for contemplating getting out. Getting out into the wasteland, into the danger of places we once cherished as calm oases of respite far from the city’s concrete jungle.
‘you old bastard! You will die out there! Alone, in the dark. What would I do without you? And what for? To satisfy a foolish whim?’ Bitter words laced with the sweetness of old love.
Being the cranky old fool I am, I turn away from the words but twist to face her. Tears bead the corners of her eyes. I smile weakly and shrug. I am committed. No turning back now.
I used to be a photojournalist back in the day, always chasing a big story. Someone’s war, someone’s famine, someone’s catastrophe. The urge to capture and show off, to reveal, to warn, all in the hope that compelling imagery and the economy of words would disrupt and turn the hearts of men away from their race toward apocalyptic doom.
I never had the honour of winning the Walkley. I was a good journalist, but I knew in my heart that I was labelled just another Casandra, showcasing terrifying inevitabilities.
What does inevitability look like? It is not the sudden shock and awe of a cataclysmic life-changing event. It is more like the story of the frogs minding their business while slowly being boiled alive. Change in the big scheme of things moves gradually. Summers get warmer, Winters colder, and storms fiercer. We ignore, adapt, and pump more hot air from our homes while chewing through energy to keep cool. We release poison into the air while our engines idle on traffic-choked roads heading for our notion of work. The water we swim in gets hotter, and our pale flesh turns blistering red.
I heard stories about enclaves where people stood their ground and defied crises. People who survived the long winter and demise of the forests. These were the people I wanted to and needed to see. Record their stories like in the old days, and release their words and images to a rebuilding world. For me, there was a sense of hope that we desperately needed to experience—a salve for our self-inflicted wounds.
I gather an assortment of things. The red plastic is cracked on one of the Swiss Army knives, and the blade tip is slightly bent. The other is in better nick. I run my thumb along the crack, feeling the edges, a reminder of use.
On the table sit three cameras, one ancient Nikon film camera, one even older Leica and my Fuji digital rangefinder. Which one to take? Pros and cons, decisions are an extra burden. Practicality dictates choice, sentiment rebels. The heft of the Nikon, a small dent on its base. A tough old bastard of a camera, I feel the gaze of the Leica, an angry cyclops. Its baleful one-eyed stare challenges me to choose the Nikon. The Fuji faces the wall, embarrassed by my poor judgement for a simple decision.
Maps, all of them old, with tears along the creases, pinholes in the corners, hand-drawn lines and pencilled illegible scribbles near places once visited. I choose the South West Department of Defence topographical map. The date in the citation is 1987. No new roads after 1987. It will do the job.
I bunch up a dozen HB pencils and twist a rubber band around them. Two notebooks and one sketchbook.
The pencils and notebooks are the only new items. Everything else advertises my age. I think I have them more for the comfort of their familiar companionship than their usefulness.
Maddie bluntly refuses to help me pack. A knot of panic twists my bowels. I push its insistent pain down. I am ready to leave. Only have to open the door and step out. Instead, I stand facing it, a dumb old bull, a silly old man. Maddie fiercely hugs me, I thumb away her tears. We both cry. ‘I will come home. I promise.’ I let go, the skin of my palms soaking up her scent. Blinking into the morning light, I step out and don’t look back.