Cold and picturesque, the Farm this week; a winter idyll. The drive upstate was unfettered by traffic or difficulties; highway dark on the eclipsed solstice, save the odd bling-lit freight truck. Not a wink, not a star—no Orion out the passenger window.
I went out in the afternoon to say hi to the Dudes. The new horse is still being kept separate until they’ve become reliably friendly, so he was down in a separate pasture. Seneca and Prince were feeling feisty and joined me in running.
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After dinner I unearthed the super 8 film projector and its tin of reels. Something about the metal box slotted for specific storage reminds me of a world war ammunitions case, but it’s square and gold-colored, so it’s all in my head. Anyway, it arms us with lost moments of the past, the sound of the projector a kind of covering fire in the sentimentally charged dark.
We made it through ten reels. During set up, I had a stray thought, marveling at how the bulb has lasted us through so many of these viewings. A doomed thought, for after I threaded reel eleven, the bulb didn’t come on. We opened the machine and took the bulb out; filament had finally given out. So the session ended with us researching where to find. They are expensive things, and rightfully so. What a beautiful and intricate thing; and now in low demand. My father is off now to find a replacement.