Some friends and I started to inventory Mike’s production gear last night (thanks Julie and Tom). I’m going to sell it. It doesn’t justify itself as rental gear–not enough income. And the rate at which things become obsolete, selling sooner rather than later makes the most sense.
And when I sell, I’ll be able to pay off some of our business debt.
Yipee.
Big blue plastic tub and a couple of bags filled with all manner of microphones, cords, tapes, batteries, well-worn work gloves, an empty water bottle. Two cameras, a monitor.
How can this gear be all that’s left of the production company that we’ve nurtured for a decade?
Of course, there is the still photography aspect of the company (me and my gear, which netted roughly 50% of the company’s income), but as a single mom (I hate that term), I’m pretty much crippled as a freelance photographer.
Hours are way too sporadic. Pay is marginal when you figure in extra babysitting costs to cover the weird hours, not to mention the next to impossible logistics of arranging childcare even in a two-parent household.
Prichard Productions. LLC is still a company in name, a legal entity, but it gutted, a mere shadow of a dream. Once it was real. It had a plan, it was the future.
Soon it will mean nothing.
All the blood, sweat, tears, sacrifice, planning, purchasing, bookkeeping, accounting, risk, reward, all means nothing now. Mike’s work ethic and good name mean nothing. It is all over. No income, no stories, no travel, no fucking anything.
I guess that’s why the tears fell from my eyes as I wrapped and stacked microphone cables on my living room floor last night.
Such a mundane, profound act. Another Prichard creation vanished into thin air.
As we were finishing up, Marley and Avery came home from a playdate (thanks Kelli, Bella and Clem). Marley asked what we were doing with daddy’s gear. I told her we were going through it so we could sell it. She seemed alarmed. “Why are you selling his gear?” I lamely explained that if we didn’t sell it, it would just rot in the basement and wouldn’t earn any money.
I don’t think she liked that. She asked if we would be selling all of Mike’s clothes, too. I told her we’d keep some of them for her and Avery. She seemed somewhat reassured about that.
God, I hate this.
I hate this too, Dear Daughter. I hate the thousand pound weight in your heart, the oppresive grief, and the sleepless nights that sap your energy. Yet I believe that the sorrow which has so ruthlessly invaded your life will, in time, lose its grip, as light and joy gradually make themselves known to you again. Your life is a sweet gift to your family and to this world, and you have much happiness yet to come.
Love and peace, Mom