Silent No More
Silent No More
N. E. Henderson
ONE
Six Month Later
It’s a cool evening in early May. The sun has begun to set over the Pacific Ocean causing the sky’s orange streaks to stretch around the city of Los Angeles. I’m driving down Pacific Avenue in my black 911 Carrera 4S with the windows rolled down, listening to my iPod blaring in the background through the car speakers.
Well…not really. That may be construed as somewhat of a lie. There is music playing, but I haven’t the slightest idea what song is coming through the speakers. I couldn’t even tell you which song played before the one that is currently screaming words at me. My brain is consumed with too many other thoughts right now.
Music usually helps me relax and it always puts me in a better mood, but I can’t concentrate on it now, nor am I even paying close attention to the road. I probably shouldn’t be driving in my current state of shock, but it’s a little late for that realization now. I’ve been driving through the city for hours.
I’m a photographer with a gallery in the West Hollywood Gateway shopping center. It’s a gallery rather than a studio because I don’t shoot any photographs on site. Really, it’s just a place to display my work. Plus, I have to have an office. I don’t think I’m the type of person who can work from a home office. Too many distractions and I would go crazy staying in my tiny apartment all damn day.
My work consists mostly of things such as buildings and outdoor scenery. I don’t photograph people. I will occasionally photograph pets at the animal shelter I volunteer at.
I’m friendly and I have close friends, but I’m not what you would call a ‘people’ person. I haven’t always been like that. But now I prefer space away from too many people, and when I’m taking photographs, I especially need to be alone. It’s when all the built-up tension inside me releases and I feel at peace.
Most people think I’m this way because I’m an only child and because I grew up without a dad. I had one of course, but he died when I was two. I don’t even remember the man. I wish I did, but I don’t. I even wish I missed him, but you can’t miss something you never knew. At least, I can’t. The only thing I have that’s a reminder of him sits in a bank account mostly unused.
I’m currently working on my second collection of photos that will be published in book format. At the age of twenty-six, I already have one book published. Sights of the City of Angels by me…Shannon Taylor; it’s not a novel by any means. It’s photographs with my thoughts underneath each picture describing places as I see them. It’s a pretty good coffee-table book if I say so myself. A conversation book if you will.
Photos are art to me. They are real moments captured in time. Photos don’t lie and photos don’t hold secrets. Photos are real, true, and above all, honest.
My current collection captures photographs of places in the city of San Diego. It’s going to be called Sights of the city of Saint Didacus. That is “if” the publishing company doesn’t change the name. The collection is almost complete and due at 9:00am on Friday at Lockhart Publishing. I have a meeting with Teresa Matthews, to turn in my portfolio.
I finished taking the photos back in late February and all rounds of editing were completed last month, but my struggle has been with the arrangements of photographs so it tells the story of the city perfectly…the way I see it and the way I want others to see it. I’ve changed the layout at least twenty times, and I’m still not satisfied. Just six short hours ago seems almost like a lifetime ago.
“Ughhh…I’m getting nowhere with any of this.” I flipped my portfolio closed in frustration. Taking my hairband off my wrist, I pulled my hair out of my face. I’d had enough and decided that I may as well start the following day with a pair of fresh eyes. I glanced up at the clock hanging on the wall in my office and groaned. The clock read 11:31am. I’d only been working for four hours, but I could no longer focus on my work.
All I wanted to do was go home and crawl in bed with Luke for at least a few hours before he had to be at work. Luke, my fiancé, a third year resident in the ER at Huntington Memorial Hospital, and I had been together since our junior year in college, about five years. We got engaged nine months earlier, but for the last six months, we seemed more like roommates than a couple.
I couldn’t blame Luke. The hospital assigned him nights and I worked mostly during the day. We hadn’t had a lot of quality time together, which had been weighing on my mind a lot. Hell, we probably hadn’t had sex in at least four…maybe even five months. For all I know, it could be longer. My sex life may as well be nonexistent. If I was honest with myself, it wasn’t like I was missing much. Luke is what I called a “wham bam, thank you, ma’am” kind of man. I had never called him this to his face or to any of my friends. Basically, I got more stimulation from my vibrator than my boyfriend. Perhaps there was something wrong with me, but I hadn’t exactly found out what “all the excitement is about” when it comes to intercourse. It was just so much work to get to those few seconds of bliss. Sometimes, I never even made it there.