Carpe Crustum! er, Momentum. Carpe Momentum!

One of the 'side effects' (if you will) of having  my particular brand of ADHD is impulsivity. It can manifest itself in your words (lack of a brain-mouth filter), in the risks you take, in the activities you choose. For me it was always a tendency to realize a sudden very deep NEED to purchase fifty lego MiniFigures and a webcam RIGHT NOW, things I wouldn't call harmless but certainly not as risky as, say, getting intimate with Jose Cuervo before starting your neighborhood drag racing career. And MiniFigures really are freaking awesome.

BACK ON TASK. I work pretty hard to curb the insanity. I put the legos back before I make it to the checkout. I try to think before I agree to do something that borderlines on insanity. I've managed to stay employed and married and somewhat solvent, so I figure I'm doing okay. But I have to be careful about walking the line between managing life and living life. because sometimes it's good, really good, to throw caution to the wind and just do what you want. If it feels right, it isn't necessarily wrong, know what I mean?

I've been on this line of thought since the beginning of the weekend, after I read an article online discussing the publishing of photographer Steve McCurry's images taken on the last roll of Kodachrome to come off the assembly line. If you're not a photography geek, stay with me anyway. You've heard of Kodachrome, I'm willing to bet. Paul Simon had a Nikon camera (good choice, Sir), and he loved to take the photographs...so much that he begged his Mama not to take his Kodachome away. There's a national park in Utah named after it. Some of the most famous editorial images in history were shot on Kodachrome film... amazing color, a certain crispness and contrast... Kodachrome was good stuff. Real good stuff. But if time marches on, technology is a freaking rocket launcher, blasting us into the future before you can say "duck face." In 2009, Kodachrome paid the price for digital's western expansion.  And after December 30, 2010 it would be nothing more than a memory. A piece of nostalgia for those of us who remember what 110 film looked like, or the ice blue light of a flashcube burning out.  The last lab left not just in the United States but on EARTH- on the whole damned EARTH!- was Dwayne's Photo in Parson's, KS.

Not New York City. Not Chicago. Not Los Angeles, or Seattle, or Atlanta, or Dallas. Hell, not even Kansas City! Parsons, Kansas. Ten square miles of southeastern Kansas small town, ten thousand people, a few hotels, a nice little community college, and the last place on earth where the K-14 process of film development was done.

And that's where my impulsivity kicked in.  It was the morning of December 30th, cool but not frigid, and beautiful. Lots of sunshine. I was watching the news, and damned if everywhere I turned wasn't talking about Dwayne's, wasn't talking about Parsons, wasn't talking about the end of an era. I'd shot Kodachrome; not a lot (I used more Tri-X 400 because I could use the school darkroom), but some. And the more I watched and read- the New York times, the BBC, Time, Newsweek, CNN- the more I started to fidget. The more I started to contemplate. Parsons was, after all, only three hours away. I grew up in Southeastern Kansas. I knew the way. I could even stop in at my parents' house along the way and see if my dad had any cake. (My dad makes REALLY kick ass chocolate sheet cake. I can be bribed to do just about anything with the promise of his cake. To be fair, it started as my mom's sheet cake, but it's morphed into his, but jeez, I don't care WHO makes it, SOMEONE MAKE ME SOME CAKE.)

It was getting into the afternoon. I had a lot to do, really, still catching up after the holiday season. The husband was home, but working in his home office. Not that any of that MATTERED, though. Every reason in the world I shouldn't have gone, but by a little after 1 pm I was southbound.
Call it impulsivity, if you will, It was impulsive. I'm grateful to have a spouse who shrugged and said "Why not?" and waved as I pulled out of the drive. I'm glad to have parents who just laughed when I called with my plans and had coffee (BUT NO CAKE) for me on the way back. For me it was living in the moment, realizing that there are some things you can't do another day, that you can't get back, and for those moments you've got to say 'Screw the housework. I love you kids, but Mama's taking a break."  You've got to jump in your Parrotmobile and drive three hours to arrive at a little photo lab just a few minutes before closing... or, you know, whatever strikes your personal fancy.

Next time, on Hoarders: Kodachrome...

I was nearly trampled by a couple of guys with some SERIOUS gear as I slipped into Dwayne's at a quarter of five. I watched as a couple of very worn women in bright yellow Kodak Kodachrome t-shirts answered phones and answered questions. I bought a roll of film- I don't shoot film often anymore, but it seemed like the thing to do- and two of the Kodachrome t-shirts, one for myself and one for a friend. The woman that helped me was friendly, but obviously beat. The interviews, the photographs, the curious onlookers amid the seemingly never ending deluge of mail: thousands upon thousands of rolls of film.  A man from Arkansas with over 1,500 rolls, nearly 50,000 developed slides of trains. A woman from London who took her first ever trip to the states to hand deliver three rolls and shoot five more. Hundreds from Germany, dozens from Johannesburg, 199 developed rolls headed to a college in Taiwan.

She could have handed me my stuff and waved me off with a smile. I had my trinkets. I had my adventure. I was THERE. But it's southeast Kansas, see, and the people down there don't just send you off when you mention you drove three hours for a t-shirt and a look. They offer you a closer look. So as the minutes ticked down closer to five, closer to closing time, I went back. It was the mail room first, boxes of developed and packaged slides ready to be sent out all over the world scattered everywhere- on racks, on tables, on the floor. There was pallet after pallet of bagged packages, thousands of rolls that had squeaked in under the wire. The door opened and a frazzled looking FedEx driver pulled in another overloaded pallet. "That's it for me today." "That should be the last of it all," my tour guide replied. Sure enough, it was almost five. There in front of me were the final rolls of film to squeak in under the wire.

The tour continued- the chemistry room, the enormous slide reels Dwayne's makes and sends out all over the world, and even the baths and processing station for Kodachrome film. I watched as one of the "Kodachrome Girls" took a length of newly developed film as it came down, turning it into slides. You don't think about that sort of thing, you don't think about the fact that there was a person somewhere whose hands were all over your vacation memories, your childhood mementos, your family history.
It was ten after five by this point. It was time to go home. I said my goodbyes and stepped out into the fading light. The lock clicked into place behind me. Dwayne's had closed for the night, and every canister of Kodachrome film that would ever be developed was safely inside. It hit me then that this wasn't just a lark, this wasn't just Heather being Heather being silly and going on a trip. This was the end of an era that was unfolding around me. History in the making.

I needed one last shot. I ran across the four lanes of 32nd street and stood in someones front yard. There wasn't a lot of light left, and I'd forgotten my tripod in my rush to leave the city. My lens was beginning to show signs of trouble, and I'd find out within a week or two that I had issues with the focusing elements. I was also, unbeknownst to me, about six hours from being almost ridiculously sick. But there in front of me was a moment. The drive through window for film drop off was typical, hours and policies neatly noted beneath the large, red "KODACHROME LAB" decal across the top. It was perfect, and I wasn't the only one that thought so; the same image was shot by dozens of others, some for major media outlets.

But, see, it's me. And perfect isn't always good enough. I got downright magical. I was standing there, getting ready to take my shot, perfectly happy with my day, when a woman walks towards the window. She's wearing the yellow Kodachrome shirt, she's moving with purpose. In one motion she flips the "OPEN" sign around to "CLOSED", turns, and walks away. Kodachrome processing had, indeed, CLOSED.

I looked around. There was no one else there. No news media, no writers, no curious onlookers. Just me and Lucille (my Nikon D300), alone with history. So I took the shot. I took it, ran back across 32nd street, got in my van, and drove away.

It's just a picture. Not even a very good one. It's soft, it's grainy, it really could have used some better composition. But it tells the story... and it is the only one that exists. Though the last roll of Kodachrome was actually processed on January 18th, 2011, for the world it ended just a little after five on a cold December evening, and I was there. And I was there because... because I did it. Because I lived in the moment. Because I listened to that voice inside of me that said "you will regret this if you don't go. The laundry will wait. Your children don't need you to hover while they play video games. Go." I listened, I went, and I will never, ever regret it.

 You probably don't have ADHD like I do. You probably don't struggle with the need to BUY LEGO MINIFIGURES UNTIL YOU FIND THE SHAKESPEARE ONE!!!! But I'd bet dollars to donuts that you talk yourself out of listening to the voices in your head. (the good ones; don't listen to the bad ones. Keep your neighbor's cat out of the oven!) We let the "shoulds" override the "wants" in our life far too often. There is nothing wrong with giving in from time to time, when it feels right.  We're more than slaves to our jobs, our families, our homes. We're more than a to-do list or a work description. We can be anything. Even a part of history, no matter how obscure.

But I still wish there had been cake.

Mams don't take my Kodachrome away.... oh. Too late.