chromes in a slide projector
AT THIS WRITING I have twice visited Santa Rosa, or northern California, and will say that this place and its colors are brighter and more chromatic than anywhere else I've yet lived. A part of me felt as if I lived in the past, maybe forty years ago, visiting places described by works of art. Somewhere this strange thought kept with me that these images I took were for me to enjoy later—much later—maybe when my grandchildren found the slides in a metal box among dust and cluttered bookshelves. I would bring them to the closest white wall, draw the curtains, and one by one show them the photographs I took for the brief time I visited the land of color. They are memories, snapshots, fabrications, and nothing more than Kodachrome slides of the ubiquitous amateur next door.