It's That Time of Year

That Time of Year

It is that time of year again 

The time when I start giving tests

When I begin interpreting results

Pretending to give meaning

To the meaningless

Though I play a good game 

Most people know-

Or at least those who have listened to me speak on this subject

Without interjecting with their own tales-

How silly

How foolish

I view all of this

I think of photographs and photography

How I have this ability to freeze people

Like those icicles in Wendell State Forest

They never melt and hang stalactite still

In my photo album

These "results" are like stalactites

They are cold and frozen

Suspended daggers or tiger teeth

They make me sick

No

They make me sad

It is that time of year again

Where I resent

Standard deviations, percentiles, and grade levels

Where the complexities of the human brain
Which are so clearly evident to me
Where the incredible potential of creativity
Is asked to be distilled
Into a frozen drop of water
Somewhere deep in the forest of Massachusetts
And then buried in my photo album

Oh, this is a sickening time for me
For I am too embarrassed, too pathetic
To  low on the totem poll of power or prestige
Unable to swim against this tide and time
In which we quantify all
Discarding the human element
Where time, space, and frozen ice are meaningless
Where we will put our results into a folder
An album
This snapshot
This record
To show growth or regression we say
To keep track
To help
To cover our asses
Diagnosticians

It is that time of year
Where I think about long photographic exposures
Blurred images of people walking
Water leaving cotton candy trails
Jets looking like ghost streaks
It is that time of year
Just like any year
Where I will undervalue what I choose
Overvalue what I will
And reevaluate what I want
Because I am far too old
Too strong
Too simple
To believe in a test
A number
A frozen icicle in the woods