A Luna Blued

I had to give up Kodachrome. The saturated reds, the moody blues, the black… my god, the black… so dark it even gave L.A. a night.. its emulsion so tender, it caught the city’s angels in hovered flight. And now it was gone.

Cece broke it to me over bacon wrapped hot dogs from the El Happy Time cart outside Michael Levine’s on Maple, downtown. She was shooting a video on the Fourth Street bridge about a gargoyle’s sad song. The last great saviour of that magical film, Dwayne’s photo in Kansas, had stopped processing Kodachrome three months ago, “You can probably get it done in China”, Cece added, “But I bet the turnaround’s pretty slow.”

Truth is, I probably had all the shots I needed, after three events, forty-two rolls and seventeen years, I sure hoped so. But I went straight home to cocoon the eight film rolls I had left deep inside my fridge. Then later, after midnight, sometime around three, when spirits are freed, I went out and stood on my ridge. And listened for coyotes’ footsteps closing in on those about to cross into the soft after-light, on that misty bridge.

I’m pleased to say, at least tonight, there were none.

Aggie Day.