It's possible that writing might be more rewarding than producing a correctly proportioned print from Adobe Lightroom on a pokey computer. It's possible that I miss my darkroom, all trademarks and patents long expired. Besseler, Gra Lab, Time O Lite. Kodak, too. I miss my quick easel. I felt nostalgic smelling some terrible chemical odor that reminded me of fixer. It's only possible, because I also remember equipment breakdowns, spills, darkroom dishpan hands and an overpopulated Rutgers darkroom, a sweltering Philadelphia attic darkroom, a noisy neighbors uninsulated floors Philadelphia darkroom, a cramped Queens apartment darkroom, a suburban Michigan bathroom darkroom, a cold and damp Sourlands basement darkroom. Now, I have a slow computer next to the eye-drying woodstove Sourlands lightroom.
Balsam fir - the smell of Maine's spruce-fir forest and all the smaller souls that aren't valued by woodland eco-nomics. A single white cranberry blossom, the search for late baked appleberries, the reds of bog plants. Almost makes me forget the gloomy, musty cabin we rented, the chronic cough that we returned home with, the unmatched (I repeat, unmatched population of mosquitos; the bayside trail at Island Beach State Park in 2007 is a distant second) mosquito population at Bartholomew's Cobble, and the feeling that we should have chosen a new place to vacation.
I would like to thank the fellow that ran a bookstore out of his garage in Machias, Maine for the sun tea and the recommendation to walk Tunk Lake. We heard a loon call and saw the spruce and fir canopy stretch to the ocean, broken only by the lake and a bog.