Friday, November 9, 2007

file sleeves + bong spill=no bueno

after chloroxing the coffee table and vacuuming the floor, creating a safe and orderly, photo safe zone in the apt. (a most certain first) i spent ALL day yesterday organizing the last 6 months of 6x7 negatives, from nyc, maine, new mexico, london, and arizona.
once this task was completed, i thought, why not carry on and go into further archives, might as well go ahead and organize the 35mm negs as well. so, i gathered the boxes of negs and brought them in to the living room. having run out of floor space, i casually scooted over the stack of hat boxes that was residing in said floor space.. i say casually because this action led to near and complete fotografic disaster.
this subtle and well intentioned action led to me inadvertently knocking over the bong (that was still out from my meeting on monday eve) with the hat boxes. yes, that's correct the bong water spilled. into the binder. with the newly organized and labeled negatives. FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK
as i exclaimed and attempted calm and collected action. running to the kitchen to pour water out of what is meant to be kept dry and dust free. i had a wash of sheer panic, watching my fotographic- past and potential- future implode in a bong tsunami. the next hour or so was spent with frantic precision, attempting and actually for the most part succeeding in drying out these most delicate and crucial tactile memories and notations. {it felt like that movie, when the protagonist writes his most incredible novel on the typewriter (clinging to his belief in archaic methodology within his chosen medium-much like my personal belief in analog photography) and right after he proclaims he's completed his book and is finally ready for his editor to take the hard copy to the publisher, the wind picks up and his novel flies skyward willy-nilly into the river...}he was most obviously distraught. i was.
given that i spend my daily life, striving for professionalism and adulthood maintenance. trying my damndest to get this ball rolling and building the track. only to watch the track overflow with of all things, bongwater. leaving me feeling like a sober pothead doof.
libra, this is the balance of today, the delicate interlacing of priorities and social stature. better luck next time. and lesson learned. bong lives in the kitchen, when not in use, which is actually most all of the time. as college was a long while back now.

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