Oh, Minolta

Mon, 11/10/2014 - 09:17 -- hlee212

Oh Minolta

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, your frame so shiny, strong, and stable.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, black and silver, red and green. Leather and metal come together.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, click the aperture into place, looking through your tiny rectangle-focus.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, a picture forms inside my head; I must wait to see it fully.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, to push the shutter gives me goose bumps: ch-ch-click, ch-ch-click.

I remember the first time I held you in my hands, you were my Grandmother’s first,

From the nineteen sixties.

You’ve seen a lot of the world, places I’ve never been, nor may ever go.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, going into a blindingly dark room, I don’t know how big, feeling around the canister with my fingers.     

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, done so many times, I could do it blindfolded; it’s what “they” say.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, I crank open the mouth, pull, pull, pull- so much strength needed for such a little piece of metal .   

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, I reel it around, once, twice, three times, try again. I’ve got it now. 

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, just keep pulling and squeezing, pulling and squeezing.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, push the lid on tight, light tight; out into the open, light burns my eyes.    

Just a few days ago, I went into that dark room with a friend.

She turned her phone on and when the light hit the walls, the illusion was broken.

No longer was my knowledge as dim as the lights; I now knew the smallness of the room.

I can’t help but think that darkness leaves room for more imagination.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, water first into the can, swish, swash, swish, swash- time to develop, twelve long minutes.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, I wonder how the water travels through the reels of you.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, pour it out now, time for the next one.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, fingers tapping on the table to music in my ear.    

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, keep checking the paper on the wall; I’ve done this so many times, I still can’t remember.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, pour out the chemicals, smell burns my nose- I don’t care; this is my favorite thing.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, looking around, I see others like me, scrambling around looking like idiots, getting Carpal Tunnel; staring into the abyss whilst their pictures emerge.    

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, all of us a little different from those outside; we stare out the window, not sure if we’re jealous.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, standing at the sink with my hands dripping wet- Ansel didn’t use gloves either.

In class we watched a documentary on Adams, how he lived his life after his glory days-

All day he just took photos and prints them, heating them in the microwave to see the finished product.

I use a blow dryer.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, last one in the can; remember to tap twice at the end.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, standing, staring out the window.     

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, sifting through my memory: so many pictures I hope I’ve taken.

Oh Minolta, how I love thee, crank open the lid to see what I’ve done; unreel, unreel, unreel, unreel, unreel, unreal.

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