It’s snowing right now. I’m on the way to the beach in Little Compton. It’s snowing and my windshield wipers are not working.
I originally came here because I was interested in documenting the lighthouse everyday. I was interested in this because it’s a structure that is operated by one person. It is a form of communication across a vast space—the sea. It is a type of communication where you don’t know who you are reaching out to, and you never actually come in contact with the person.
I’ve been bringing my binoculars out every day to look for the lighthouse and to write notes about it, because I thought that I could see it in the distance. Then, one day I got lost coming out here because my phone wasn’t working. I met a man on the beach named Tom (his dog is named Max). He showed me around the city a bit and told me where the lighthouse actually is (so I’m not sure what I’ve been looking at).
Is this us (I’m looking for the turn)?
I think part of what has been exciting about this process is that every time I get to the sea it’s completely different than the time before. I never know what to expect.
Sometimes I get there and it’s beautiful and pleasant, and sometimes it’s freezing with hurricane winds.
Something else that has been interesting about this process is that not only does it change when I’m there, but the process of getting there changes, and the way that I feel while driving changes.
It’s a long drive with lots of back roads, and I had to use my GPS the first several times I drove here (until I got lost). It was because of this that I was forced to learn my way. Now when I drive here I zone out and just end up there. I know the curves of the road. I know the sounds my car makes when I go around the curves—how it responds.
We’re getting closer now. I realize that I need to be alone during this process, because when I’m not, I’m more aware of how long it takes to get here. The drive is a period of reflection. I think about what will happen when I get there, why I’m doing this and what I’ve discovered.
When I’m not alone I lose that.