Chinatown, After the Take

To whoever stayed after the wrap,

Someone calls the wrap, the slate clacks shut for the last time, the lamps go out one by one, and outside the set, Chinatown in Los Angeles is only just lighting up. This letter comes from Los Angeles in early 1991. The envelope is jade green. Its English title is brushed as boldly as the lettering over a bilingual corner shop, exuberant yet perfectly clear. Around it sit a cream slate grid, muted red cinema marquees, a line engraving of a pagoda gate, an ocher restaurant docket, and a small film-perforation tab.

The play is done, but nobody has left. A playwright gave an old magician these words: "Our revels now are ended. These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into air, into thin air." — William Shakespeare, The Tempest (1611)

We will not say how fast the lights go out, only that after they do there is still a bowl of hot soup. Please sit down, eat slowly, and then write a letter.

The soup is still hot

Storm Post Office

Early 1991 · Chinatown, Los Angeles