This is the blurred
man. The man made of shadows. He does not understand the way
the crowd moves, or why it flows around him. He wants to live
forever in this forgotten film.
So he walks into the screen. Into the warm shadows, the still
rooms.
When you walk through these cities, everything leaves a trace.
Moments last forever.
His face is always lost, blurred. He telephones across the city.
Looks at the time on his watch. Finds an apartment he can almost
remember.
He looks out across the city at night. Curtains blowing. His
suit is grey and he goes into light and shadow like a swimmer.
He has decided to stay in the film. Not sure now what he might
find if he came out again.
Every time you step into the screen, become a part of the film,
you lose something of your own substance.
Eventually you become just light, just shadows. You forget. This
city is your city. The suit is a part of you and you go to find
the rooms, the streets where you feel your silhouette fits the
smoke and buildings and automobiles. Where your hands flicker
on the table of a bar and luminous smoke blurs someone's face.
He knows there is some way through all these cities. He knows
his face is changing. He is several different people, living
different lives. Layered in the films. Some moments last forever.
The gestures. The light on the pavement. The view from a window.
Recombining and reforming. All those lost places and times. Those
lost moments.
And he walks on the beach and there are ghosts on the beach and
they walk through him. Shadows on the sand. Clouds over the city
across the water.
Somewhere among all those streets it may have been that he took
a wrong turning. Years ago, without knowing. Without even noticing.
The crowd is moving all around him. Lights. Shadows. Ghosts.
A back story is being developed from every inadvertent gesture.
It is inevitable. It moves as he moves.
He cannot remember how he came to be here. You walk. You let
go. You forget.
The city is so tall. There are no other horizons. It carries
its own time, its own light and shadow, its own weather.
Rain moves along the avenues. Sunrise at the end of the streets.
Smell of the sea mixed with cigarettes and rain.
He looks at himself in the mirrors. Can't quite make out the
face. Clear light in the glass vase of flowers beside him.
Wherever you go, so will I. Shadows on the lawns, the evergreens.
Evening street lights. Cars passing.
She is almost there. In the quiet apartment. Moving light from
the headlights below. Myriad lights from the windows all around.
Almost there. A trace of perfume like a memory. The stillness
of the room.
He can hear her breathing. A rustle of nylon. A door opens into
another room. Someone's silhouette moves across the dimness.
Then the door softly closes.
Sound of rain and passing cars. He is remembering a way through
the city. Moving down the avenues.
A neighbourhood now vanished. That shop with a window of suits
and shirts and shadows. Green velvet under the display. Faint
traffic dust on the glass.
Florist shop next door. A small square with iron railings and
laurel bushes across the road. Green summer light under the plane
trees. Music in the streets, moving through the walls. Faint
but always there. Gathering meaning through the years. Connecting
moments, threads, voices, through its long rhythms.
He cannot find the apartment again. He has been looking for years.
Somewhere there is an apartment and she is there. Almost remembered.
A foyer like this. A door like this one. A pale green room full
of shadows. He knows the room is there, somewhere in this city.
Every day he goes out to find the room. Every day he forgets
a little more.
A film playing in a cinema just off a busy street. Luminous slow
motion. Scenes fading softly through each other.
A great city. Moving through lost streets and apartments. Someone
almost there. Someone searching through all the cities, forgetting
and remembering. Fading and changing like the weather.
He is shuffling through all the times, all the layers of years.
He knows he will walk in quietly. Finally be at home.
They will all be there and he will be in his own time again.
He will pass through the rooms and people will acknowledge him
with a glance or a smile.
A pale green room full of shadows. A twilight room. They will
all be there in that moment. Standing together, talking quietly
in the summer dimness. An overriding sense of calm. Stillness
and tranquillity.
He will experience a long moment of ease. Of belonging. A moment
of clarity and stillness, as if everything else had fallen away.
The moment is there somewhere. Among this world of lost apartments,
vanished streets, revolving seasons. And the tides will always
take him gently down the streets. Moving him along. Washing him
away. Memories, ghosts, rooms, music. The grey suit. The blurred
man. The man made of shadows. |
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