I picked up two black and white contact sheets at the new photo lab after work, a lab specializing in black and white film and print processing. They look OK, so I left another eight rolls, two or three of them taken at MSJ's wedding. Time passes, things change, even (dear God) your film processor. I'd rather find a new barber. I'd say I'd rather move, but that would be a lie. Even I know that would be a lie.
The Honeywell air filter whirrs away in the bedroom. Three days, now, counting Sunday, when it was purchased. Do I feel better? I said I'd say something in a week. I hope I know in a week. I hope the answer is yes. Whirr away, device. "Scrub that stuff".
One thing, though. The new photo lab has a cat, a black cat, a totally black cat somewhat smaller, but about the same age as Emmy. I say about the same age as Emmy, but I don't know anything about determining the age of a cat. I think you look at their teeth. Or is that horses? And how do you walk up to a strange cat and look at its teeth? Carefully, one imagines. Anyway, let's consider this a good sign, a dovetailing of needs and interests. Let the film development tanks gather dust in my bathroom. (No, no. No dust. We're no longer into dust. We're into cleanliness. Spotless, never used, still in their cellophane wrapper tanks. Spotless, never used thermometers. Spotless, never used beakers and stirring rods; changing bags and film clips. Spotless, the word needs to reverberate, to echo.)
Do we detect desperation or deteriorating mental facilities, the mind gone?
We detect a tired guy home from work this Tuesday with two contact sheets (People seem to call them "proof sheets" these days. Seems a harmless affectation.) on the desk in front of him thinking, well, there are one or two shots here, one or two that appear to have been taken with the new exotic lens, but why hadn't I held in there longer (looking at a sequence, one of which is printed above), shot a half dozen more shots, stayed that last extra minute to get that half glimpsed, but never nailed expression? And then I think I'm crazy to even think about it: put the damned things in the binder, my son, and crawl into bed; forget this journal entry; get some sleep; get to work late tomorrow and leave early in an attempt to save your very sanity.
Sanity is over rated. What is there about your life that's lent itself to sanity, other than you've survived to tell the (repetitious, boring, less than cleverly stated) story?
You don't have many friends, do you.