Kreative Korner…
‘A DISTRAUGHT Hope’ was the caption under the photograph in today’s newspaper that showed a woman, Hope, who had lost her home to a fire; yet one could not help but wonder at the paradox — distraught hope. Another absurdity that came to Shelly’s mind just then was the phrase: ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me’.

“That’s a load of crap,” she said to her reflection in the mirror in her room. She still lived with her mom and dad. As an only child, leaving was not exactly an option.

Shelly King was 21 years old, talented and had the potential to go far with the job she currently held, a photographer with the Guyana Graphic, a weekly magazine dedicated to showcasing the country’s beauty and happenings through photographs.

Still a newcomer to the field, with no kind of tertiary certification in photography, she got a ‘fight-down’ of sorts from a few of the junior photographers who had been there for years and saw her as a nobody.

As the words of the quote floated across her consciousness, Shelly said: “It can never be ‘only’ words if they have the ability to break one’s spirit… Breaking the spirit is not a physical break but sure as hell does more damage.”

And that was exactly what happened; she let it happen because she paid attention to it. But how was one supposed to ignore COMPLETELY what people say about you, even when you know it was not true.

Sighing, she finished dressing and made her way to work, which was about an hour’s drive from her place.

As she drove, Shelly thought it strange; in her ordinary and mundane life, an opportunity had arrived — her job — and threw her into a world that held everything she had ever dreamed of.

Still, sometimes she wondered at the cost of her success. She got to do a job she loved, but had to contend with the verbal onslaughts and a barrage of other negatives almost every day.

“I love what I do; I just dislike the people I have to do it with. But I love my job,” Shelly told herself.

Her job – it seemed her entire life was filtered through the transient thing of a job, tempered by a screen, a glimmer of hope for better, for something more.

“I don’t know what I want; I only know what I don’t want,” she said to herself, laughing.

Talking to herself was something she did a lot, she realised. Shelly laughed.

Financially, she was kind of okay, and being single, pushing as hard as she could, left her with a non-existent social life. That didn’t help her much by way of an outlet for comfort.

“I’ve drawn something, I think; some truth from the thousand lies that have pierced my ears and surrounded my life,” she thought.

That thought stuck with her for the rest of the day.

At work that day (it was Tuesday, which meant time for the weekly staff meeting), thoughts flew and pens raced, and when the chairs were finally dragged across the floor back to their respective cubicles, the clear signal was that it was going to be a rough week.

Pretty soon, Shelly got down to the task at hand. She was assigned a project that needed her to focus on landscapes.

At that moment, for whatever reason, she remembered the thought.

“I’ve drawn something, I think; some truth from the thousand lies that have pierced my ears and surrounded my life,” she repeated and let that stay with her, a kind of motivator to push her forward.

She needed that, and she needed to block out the world; a world that cared nothing for her; a world that was intent on asking her a question, not because it needed an answer, but because it wanted you to reflect on the question; wanted to leave the imprint of that question on your mind.

The question: What is success? Is this really it, or is it something else?

Shelly sighed.

Armed with headphones, she plugged her ears and set down to her work, mapping sites that she would visit to get the scenes she wanted. Photography was a job that required observation, and with her ears plugged, she was able to see more; focus more.

And she did just that; focused on the things she wanted to.

The days rolled into each other and before she knew it, Shelly had a 12:00noon deadline and fourteen hours till then to get all she needed done completed.

That night, the twilight hour was long past when she left the office, and the stress of the days past weighed heavily on her shoulders.

Sighing, she drove away, glancing back only to see the silhouette of office building fade as she stepped on the accelerator.

The regular sights on the other side of her windscreen told her she had another half an hour before she was home. The road was pretty clear, it being late and all.

Lost in thought, the loud honking of a sand truck overtaking her vehicle left her heart racing as she was jolted out of her reverie.

“That $%*&!” she hissed.

Slowing down, Shelly could not help but wonder at the close call. The idiot truck driver overtook on a turn.

“There could have been an accident,” she said, still fuming.

As she continued on her way, the truck driver kept trying to make a point of sorts, overtaking at every possible turn. Slowing down next to her, Shelly made out something he said about “lady drivers.”

Most annoying was the lecherous smile he threw her way, second only to the loud blast of his horn.

Visibly outraged, Shelly shot him a look that could have stopped a man dead in his tracks.

Weird she should think of him dying, because as she refocused her attention on the road, she barely caught a glimpse of the car coming headlong in his path.

He had lingered much too long in the other lane; he swerved, hitting her. Both catapulted off the road into the rice fields that bordered it. Everything happened so fast that Shelly and the trucker barely had time to breathe, much less think.

That was the last thing she knew. Waking up, she tried to get up and was duly rewarded for that feat. A searing pain shot through her entire body. She felt it deep.

Groaning, she looked around to see two nurses rushing her way. The doctor, one Dr. Hira, she found out later, told her she’d barely survived the accident and would be in the hospital for three months at least. She had minor internal injuries, a fractured leg, a broken arm and some fractured fingers.

“A real mess, aren’t I,” she said to the doctor with a hint of humour. He smiled.

“And the driver?”

“He died,” Dr. Hira said.

Shelly was quiet. There wasn’t much she could say either.

Over the next two months, her parents were her stronghold. They even brought her the week’s Graphic. There she saw that her editors had used some other shots since she’d not been able to finish her piece.

They’d gone to press without her, understandably.

She was not exactly indispensible.

Shelly stared. It was all she could do. Stare. Her office had sent her flowers and a ‘get-well card’. It was impersonal. Adding to the neglect she felt from an establishment she’d poured her soul into was the fact that no one had been to see her.

Three months was a long time, and it gave her time to think; gave her time to decide… well, not decide, she had done that already. It gave her time to substantiate her decision.

“I’ve drawn something, I think; some truth from the thousand lies that have pierced my ears and surrounded my life,” she said, recalling her last bit of inspiration.

She had drawn some truth. She had also answe
red the question voiced by her world; a world that was intent on asking her a question, not because it needed an answer, but because it wanted you to reflect on the question; wanted to leave the imprint of that question on your mind.

The question: What is success? Is this really it, or is it something else?

Now she knew.

She went back to work as soon as she was able to. She got the best wishes of her ‘colleagues’ then. Her editor even asked if she got the flowers. She answered politely. She felt no malice towards them; they owed her nothing.

And neither did she them.

Retiring to her cubicle, she packed her few belongings; they were just as she left them.

“Mr. Amsterdam?”

Shelly smiled and slipped an envelope his way. Have a good day, Sir.

She smiled and left.

Shelly had answered an important question, and that was enough. She had defined success for herself; her time at the Guyana Graphic had served its purpose.