bmattock
Veteran
And in the end, it comes down to something like this:
http://www.callalillie.com/archives/2006/04/we_found_you_on.html
This is a poem, and one that is not often told. More often than not, our negatives end up in the local dump, along with the other treasured detritis of our lives when we are no more.
Perhaps the best we can do is hope that someone finds our negatives floating in a puddle and looks at them briefly, trying to figure out who we were, if we mattered.
And then, silence.
Best Regards,
Bill Mattocks
PS - I need more coffee.
http://www.callalillie.com/archives/2006/04/we_found_you_on.html
April 26, 2006
We Found You on Beard Street
Dear Arthur,
We found pieces of your life last evening scattered across Beard Street. It began with the inspection of three buckshot shells and a slide sitting in the gutter. Next to them lay one negative, then another. The decapitated head of an old enlarger poked out from a pothole puddle. Floating around it, we found bundles of medium format negatives, warping and staining in the dirty, stagnant pool. With each step, we discovered more. An old pay stub from your workplace, 1969. An electric bill, 1990. We held one slide up to the light of the streetlamp. It was the sugar refinery, labeled August 1981.
We collected everything that we could carry. We returned home, stinking of photographic chemicals, and drew a warm bath in the kitchen sink. Slowly, we eased the negatives into the water, carefully peeling those that had stuck together, rinsing them gently. You were an avid hunter. You built a house. You wife looked quite lovely.
Based on the artifacts we collected, it was easy to deduce who you were. We learned quickly where your house was, what army base you might have worked near, your wife’s name, and when you passed away. A quick check on your pay stub revealed your profession, clearly connecting you to the old shipyard, which is exactly where we found your pieces.
Beard Street was silent. The wind and rain were working themselves up against the twilight. In a matter of hours, you would have dissipated into the night—the negatives staining beyond recognition, your address fading, the evidence of your existence erased. I wonder if we would have found you had we come the next morning, staring up at the shipyard, looking for changes, just peering down once to inspect the buckshot.
Yours Truly,
Corie & Alexis
This is a poem, and one that is not often told. More often than not, our negatives end up in the local dump, along with the other treasured detritis of our lives when we are no more.
Perhaps the best we can do is hope that someone finds our negatives floating in a puddle and looks at them briefly, trying to figure out who we were, if we mattered.
And then, silence.
Best Regards,
Bill Mattocks
PS - I need more coffee.