The Hibiscus plant erupted this week by the side of the house, the flowers only bloom for a day or two and then fall off, but they put on quite a beautiful show while they are here. Our gardens have been glorious this year, Maria has the touch. I’m a faithful waterer.
All the plates and glasses and cups we own are from thrift and consignment stores, but Monday, driving up to Woodstock, Vermont for my birthday, we passed this amazing pottery studio, D Lasser Ceramics on Route 100, we fell in love with some goblets and some plates. Maria bought two goblets and two plates, they are both seconds but beautiful, we are delighted to have them. We’ll use the goblets for wine, the plates for lunch and dinner.
It was right out of Walker Evans photo book, a store called Hillbilly Recycling in Bridgewater, Vt. It was a wonderful place in which to wander, a lost world of sorts. I asked the proprietor if I could take his photo, and he said yes, but when I pointed the camera he closed a shutter in front of him and hid. He came out and I told him I wouldn’t take his photo (which I do not ever do without permission.) For me, photography is all about making people comfortable, not uncomfortable.
We are back from my birthday celebration, Maria showed me the most wonderful time, we spent a night in a cozy B&B near Woodstock, Vt., bought some beautiful pottery (photo coming later), at something different at a wonderful Caribbean restaurant, and we stopped at old junk and used book store named “Hillbilly Recycling,” near Bridgewater.
Maria spotted this beautiful old three-volume biography set of Ernest Jones classic study of the life and work of Sigmund Freud. At an old vintage bookstore, this could cost a small fortune, I have often drooled over this set, at the Hillbilly Recycling shop it was $15, she grabbed it and bought it for me.
I guess you could call me a Freudian, during one of my first breakdowns, I underwent analysis from a former pupil of Anna Freud, Freud’s daughter in New York City. I was in analysis for nearly six years, it was a profoundly important experience for me, the beginning of my awakening, of the long road back to humanity and connection.
Some of Freud’s work has been overtaken by new and dynamic theories of healing, but his work is very powerful, it altered the course of my life and began the first genuine healing in my life. In analysis, I first came to see who I really was, and if that wasn’t pleasant, it was important.
I was thinking of Freud last night when I realized I had become somewhat addicted to a Netflix series called Happy Valley, a dark, haunting and very beautifully acted and photographed and directed by Sally Wainright. I confessed to Maria this morning that I have somewhat fallen for the lead character, a police sergeant in West Yorkshire, England, her name is Catherine Cawood, played by Sarah Lancashire.
How strange, Freud found me when I needed him, once before, once again.
The show has gotten into my head, I have spent hours in the dark of night watching this very dark program, it goes from one haunting nightmare to another. Sgt. Cawood is a remarkable character, as strong as she is vulnerable. Her life is a relentless and something nightmarish challenge, she never quits or loses her values or strength. She is a true hero, as frightened as she is brave.
Maria said she was glad I have fallen for a TV star, there is no chance we will meet, and she is glad I have fallen for a strong. woman. Not the first time, I said, which drew a smile.
This show is difficult for me to watch – it brilliantly reflects some of my almost unbearable fears about vulnerability and danger, some of which I talked about in my analysis in New York. My analyst would have surely wanted to plumb the depths of my psyche to know what I am so drawn, even addicted, to this kind of a show. I watch it in the middle of the night, and it is so fascinating and mesmerizing, I can’t skip it.
Then I am so cranked up I can’t sleep. I have had long encounters with addiction in my life, I was a valium addict for 20 years, a three-pack-a-day smoker before that, and a heavy drinker of Scotch before that. I recognize the feeling of addiction of being trapped in Happy Valley, when I should be asleep or watching those comfortable and safe British mysteries (Patti Smith and I are addicted to the same shows) where life is so orderly and reasoned and the Chief Inspector never fails.
I see in Catherine Cawood so much of the struggle in my own life – in very different ways – to find strength amid terror, adversity and nightmare. I am not literally in love with her, but I love her strength and determination and sense of justice, which never seems to fail her, even as she is confronted with one awful menace after another.
I think Freud would have same I am re-enacting my own fears and hysterias, Happy Valley and Catherine Cawood is stirring them up in me, hopefully challenging me to confront and release them. Sometimes, the plot is so unbearably menacing I fast forward the video button, Maria keeps asking me why I am watching.
Cawood has lost her daughter to suicide, is stalked by a savage psychopath, and every day confronts the worst of humans. Every day she has to find her strength and stand behind it. Why would this program touch me in this way? I don’t really know, of course.
I don’t need to go into detail, but I was often terrified as a child and into adulthood, analysis helped me to see myself and begin the long and arduous process of recovery. My analyst said it would be long and hard and painful, and it has been. I did not quit on it, and today, the fear that paralyzed me and caused so much difficult for me and others is mostly gone.
I don’t watch much TV but this program has brought back the awful nightmares. So I have to deal with it, I can’t seem to run away.
I think I will be watching tonight, perhaps dipping into my Freud biography as well. There is something here for me to face and find, how curious for someone who doesn’t even own a TV and is drawn to very few offerings. Something unfinished that draws me in, that becomes something that feels like an addiction, not an entertainment choice.
I want to hide, I need to stay.
Sgt. Cawood lives with almost unimaginable terror – actually it is imaginable for me, some of my nightmares are all too real, as I sit in the dark in bed – and keeps her soul and dignity intact. I know there is something good here for me.
I can do it, I am a Freudian through and through, Freud’s work and the work of his daughter Anna have always guided and grounded me. They started me on the road to self-awareness.
They seem to be back in my life for the moment, sitting on a shelf in a place that calls itself the Hillbilly Recycling, along with a mythical but unfailingly honorable police sergeant from West Yorkshire I never even heard of a few days ago.
Something inside of me that needs to be seen and confronted, just as Cawood confronts her own devils every day. Life is filled with crisis and mystery, the path is ever straight and clear.
Laundromats are the almost exclusive province of the poor, the mobile and rootless. Almost everyone has access to a washing machine or dryer, laundromats are vanishing in middle-class communities. I always try to stop and photograph them when I found them.
Inside, there was a couple reading the paper and waiting for their clothes to dry. They told me they live in a small trailer, there’s no room for a washer or dryer there. At first, they were wary of being photographed, then I told them who I was and showed them my blog on my Iphone.
They said they would be happy to pose. I told them I loved photographing laundromats, while they were still around. They said they loved laundromats as well, they were comfortable and safe places to them. They have a soda and read the paper and eat some potato chips from the vending machine.
The gentlemen came out to the car and urged me to come back in as I was leaving, he wanted to make sure I noticed the old Montgomery Ward “laundromat” sign outside. “You remember Montgomery Ward?,” he asked.
I said I did.
