A limit that when passed or exceeded permits of no return and typically results in irrevocable commitment.

By Patrick La Roque

I don’t understand anything anymore. How facts suddenly become fluid and the educated suspect. I don’t understand the hypocrisy, this failure of empathy, hellbent on the annihilation of others. I don’t understand the messianic appeal of an indecent, cruel and profoundly imbecilic buffoon on anyone, let alone millions of people. Not now. Not after almost two years of verifiable lies and daily obscenities. Not after bomb threats and the murder of innocents. And yet, enough Americans still stand and cheer at those “political rallies” to stoke the fires. Sparks to dry kindling. Hatred and vilification elevated to spectacle and bloodsport. Lock her up. Lock him up.

Lock everybody up.

Tomorrow the future will shift, one way or another. And if the pendulum doesn’t swing back towards decency, if unhinged anger, racism and conspiracies should win against truth, respect and civilized discourse...a new world order will be complete. Because unlike 2016, this time the choice will have been made with eyes wide open, with the full knowledge of what the man truly is—and what he stands for. This time, it will signal validation.

There’s a river ahead, red with blood, burning crosses lining the banks on the other side. Move away, please. Regardless of political leanings, help steer the ship back.

I still want to believe in humanity.

October 16, 2018 at 8:56 AM (Otterburn Park, Canada)

By Patrick La Roque

So here we are. This will be my last post for the Chronicle 90 project, as the experiment comes to a close in a few days. There will be a necessary post-mortem in the weeks ahead, discussions about the results and how each of us dealt with the project’s premise. But we’re not quite there yet.

I spent Friday on the streets of Montreal as part of a 3-day workshop, flexing my eye while discussing photography. I’m not fond of this city anymore. Part of it is the common fatigue that stems from living somewhere your entire life, but I’m used to shaking off that sort of familiarity. No, my feelings go deeper. Montreal is a city destroyed, gaping and boarded up. It’s a promise repeated but never realized, in a constant state of re-assembly, choked by construction sites where no one ever seems to work. Where barricades fall on sidewalks and orange cones multiply like some infectious disease, gnawing at the broken skin.

I should document this reality but I can’t. I’ve tried many times over—it never works. The scope never translates. So I keep framing up and around the scars, looking elsewhere. Hoping we’ll eventually get our city back.