Every fall, I buy a squash, and every fall, without fail, it sits on the kitchen counter and taunts me. Butternut. Acorn. Spaghetti. All excellent varieties, capable of making me think, Wtf am I going to do with this thing? Because, as I philosophized to Will the other day when we were at the grocery store and I was holding up a super cute tiny crimson kabocha, as if to say, How sweet and seasonal is this and I’m getting it, when you buy a squash, you don’t just buy a squash. You buy a task. A responsibility. A ticking time bomb, and, along with that, a persistent, low-level dread. If you don’t know what I mean, you’ve never left a squash to sit on the counter for two to four months, only to realize that it had rotted and leaked putrid liquid everywhere. Procrastination in the name of uncertainty has its cost—and with squash, that cost involves gloves and disinfectant and a total recalibration of who you think you are, clearly not someone who can waltz into a store and buy one with the intention of cooking it. Ha-ha-ha! No. That is not you; that is a fantasy, and now you know it, and the squash knows it, and your mother, who generously gives you squash from her garden that you then squander, knows it, too. Everyone knows it. The grocery clerk knew it when they scanned the squash for you and asked, “Ooh, what are you making?” and you responded, “Hmm, I haven’t decided yet.” They knew. And deep down, you knew, too. You just couldn’t admit it yet.

I feel twitchy because something similar seems to be happening with the darkroom equipment that’s squatting in the open corner of the basement. Every time I go down to do laundry or cat stuff and stroll past it, I’m like, Oh god, there it is again. Boxes heaped with beakers and stacks of plastic trays line the concrete floor, alongside the giant (and fucking heavy) enlarger, able to make prints from 35mm negatives all the way up to 4x5 and shrouded with a black garbage bag to protect it from accumulating dust and dirt. Oh, and the 9-foot fiberglass sink, idling nearby like a dry canoe. All taunt me, beckon me, berate me for not tending to them, i.e., enclosing them in a lightless room.

What the darkroom equipment doesn’t understand is that building a space, which includes proper framing and electrical, not to mention adequate ventilation, requires time and careful planning. It’s not as easy as picking up a squash and hacking it open with a knife—also not easy, but significantly easier than drilling into concrete, in my view.

What the darkroom equipment needs to understand, needs to trust me on, is that it will happen. We will make things. Tangible things that people can hold. Not today and probably not tomorrow, either. But soon. Soon, there will be walls and darkness and flashes of light; the tang of chemicals and the click of tongs, as visions magically manifest and drip-dry in the air.

Then again, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the darkroom equipment knows something I don’t, something I don’t want to admit to myself. Perhaps I’m not the darkroom rat I thought I was or could be. After all, it’s been years since I stepped foot in one. Maybe I’ve forgotten everything, all my skills and knowledge, whatever meager ones I’d accrued, swirled down the drain. Maybe the dream—of having my own darkroom and making beautiful prints—is merely a figment of an overactive imagination, the remnant of a potential I once hoped to reach.

Maybe soon I’ll walk downstairs and find a puddle of decayed darkroom equipment. Maybe I will cry a little, like I did on the day in early August, just before my 36th birthday, when I went to pick up the enlarger and other supplies. Except then it was tears of joy, along with the strange sensation that all was right in the world for a change. I was right in the world, right on course, and where I needed to be.

If only it were possible to maintain that feeling without also harboring dread.

Oh god, there it is again.

And yet, light shines, as light does. New work is being made. Lately, it comes to me in a rush, and then goes, sometimes for weeks. Then it returns. Nothing new there. But energy-wise, it feels different. Like I’ve been permitted access to a room I’d previously been denied. What that means beyond just that, I don’t have words for yet. So instead, I will borrow some from Diane Arbus, who said, “The thing that’s important to know is that you never know. You’re always sort of feeling your way.”

And now with that, I will slowly feel my way towards the kitchen, to where the tiny kabocha squash is nestled, not far from the jar of sourdough starter, an equally daunting and demanding task. Both require my attention, and at this moment, I feel capable of offering it, to the extent that I can try, anyway. I can crack things open, mix, shape, dust, slice, and place everything into a warm, darkened space, where alchemy occurs, surrendering whatever outcome to fate. ✶