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there is always something (why I shoot film)

There are maybe ten shots left on the roll. Outside the metro, a collection of pigeons sit on minuscule ledges above two old men. They talk as all old men do, with operatic waves of their hands, sour expressions, belly laughs, eventually scratching their chins as they stare off at nothing in particular. I am pretending to take pictures of something near them, then swing across when they are not looking to shoot a few frames. At one point I surrender to the afternoon and move on.

And now, the courtyard that leads to the film lab. A great old building rests here, a school of architecture where students mill around dressed in black sucking on cigarettes with giant portfolios tucked under their arms. A young man approaches me. I am ready to tell him I have no idea what he is saying, but he wants to know where the film lab is. I jut my chin, telling him the door is just beyond a few bushes. He nods his thanks.

There are screens set up in a jagged line, sheathed in filthy white plastic to …

dusty pianos (far from home)



Somehow I know that if I walk into the best restaurant in town, there will be a place at the bar for me. In between the thunder and the clouds I find the address and at the next seat is a woman with a fountain pen that has leaked all over her hands as she calculates the final grades for a class of tenth graders. The bartender is her friend and within minutes I am sipping a Dusty Piano, which is not on the menu. It has some barley whiskey and absinthe and many other ingredients. Sweet, sour, cool on my tongue I feel it wobble around my mouth as the sky grows dark.

I eat salami and homemade pickles, lamb chops with a sweet pea puree, and then a sticky toffee that is disappointing but the bartender slides a little glass of madeira to me and somehow this makes things right. I finish with a ginger sazerac. The woman grading papers has gone home. Alone at the bar in some odd corner of Boulder, Colorado the world seems suddenly minuscule and infinite at the same time.

The streets are wet from rain and I have had that perfect combination of two cocktails and a glass of wine and those extra sips of madeira that put me over the top. I am not drunk and but I am not sober and my belly hurts from trying to finish that dessert.

There are streets musicians playing gospel, with barefoot girlfriends traipsing around. A man with a superhero cape and some balloons tied to his hat stands next to me. I give them all of the change in my pocket. He stalks off into the rain. I might have put some rubles in their case by mistake but I say thank you and they say thanks man.

I think of my girls on the other side of the world, about how I am very far away from them and there is nothing I can do to change that. I find my way back to the hotel, set the alarm for very early so I can take pictures of some old bicycles or graffiti before the taxi to the airport.

The sky is huge here, and there is silent lightning without a sound, just flashes in the sky. A young man walks in front of me singing in a loud voice with his hands shoved in his pockets.

          Where is my tuna,
          right right now.
          Where is my tuna,
          right right now.

I know he is saying tuna, nothing else. I feel like I am back in college again.






Comments

David said…
"Far From Home"

Maybe that has grown on you a bit? I know what you mean. I would love to see the street musicians face when he picks up the coin and it's in cyrillic with a double headed eagle. Givin you are in Denver he probably thinks he toked on the Hookah a little much. Good post. Check your email.
Anonymous said…
Transformational writing. Don't stop. You possess a gift, nurture it wisely. I will visit you again.

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