Sunday, April 29, 2007
Our projectionist dozes when we doze. The film is slapping against the frame. There’s magnified dust on the white screen. When we wake up, he wakes up and scrambles to change the reel. It’s early summer, and the first thunderstorm is creeping over the little towns. There are red tulips against a fence, and a bee upside down on the cement. Perhaps we’ll mow the lawn in an infinity of decreasing circles, or perhaps not. The projectionist wipes his brow and settles in.