I heard a rumor yesterday that I do not have the nerve to verify – that Fuji is discontinuing this 100 speed color pack film. I can only hope it is not true. This is a reclaimed negative, meaning that after I pulled the positive I saved the “tear away” and used bleach on the non-emulsion side to wipe away the gunk. In the end you find a negative ready to enlarge or scan! This is a spot in Atlanta called Krog Street Tunnel. Lots of graffiti and pedestrians.
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A stick a stone, it’s the end of the road,
it’s the rest of the stump, it’s a little alone
it’s a sliver of glass, it is life, it’s the sun,
it is night, it is death, it’s a trap, it’s a gun.
the oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush,
the knot in the wood, the song of the thrush.
the wood of the wind, a cliff, a fall,
a scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all.
it’s the wind blowing free. it’s the end of a slope.
it’s a beam, it’s a void, it’s a hunch, it’s a hope.
and the riverbank talks of the water of march.
it’s the end of the strain, it’s the joy in your heart.
the foot, the ground, the flesh, the bone,
the beat of the road, a slingshot stone.
a fish, a flash, a silvery glow,
a fight, a bet, the range of the bow.
the bed of the well, the end of the line,
the dismay in the face, it’s a loss, it’s a find.
a spear, a spike, a point, a nail,
a drip, a drop, the end of the tale.
a truckload of bricks in the soft morning light,
the shot of a gun, in the dead of the night.
a mile, a must, a thrust, a bump.
it’s a girl, it’s a rhyme, it’s the cold, it’s the mumps.
the plan of the house, the body in bed,
the car that got stuck, it’s the mud, it’s the mud.
a float, a drift, a flight, a wing,
a hawk, a quail, the promise of spring.
and the riverbanks talks of the waters of march.
it’s the promise of life, it’s the joy in your heart,
a snake, a stick, it is john, it is joe,
it’s a thorn in your hand, and a cut on your toe.
a point, a grain, a bee, a bite,
a blink, a buzzard, the sudden stroke of night.
a pin, a needle, a sting, a pain,
a snail, a riddle, a weep, a stain.
a pass in the mountains. a horse, a mule,
in the distance the shelves rode three shadows of blue.
and the riverbanks talks of the waters of march.
it’s the promise of life in your heart, in your heart.
a stick, a stone, the end of the load,
the rest of the stump, a lonesome road.
a sliver of glass, a life, the sun,
a night, a death, the end of the run
and the riverbank talks of the waters of march.
it’s the end of all strain, it’s the joy in your heart.
Lyrics from Antonio Carlos Jobim, translated to English by himself
Sig Nordal 