The Projector

The Projector, The Interpreter, And Provenance

Sitting uncomfortably in a schoolroom desk as a young boy. Maybe Tuesday could be Wednesday, I am not sure. Mid-afternoon, I stare at a screen that flickers an unwavering bright light of the old film projector’s bulb. The projector is unaware and unconcerned of the stories it tells. The images, jumpy as they remains off-track while the teacher, at her corner desk, grades papers - paying it no attention. Trying to find myself in the images of life beyond the classroom, I sit, restless and uncomfortable.

Mid-twenties, at happy hour with coworkers, I spit out the years between then and now in an effort to interpret my next move. Doing what I should be doing. Doing what we are all doing, sitting uncomfortably amongst the herd. My next step to a new level in my career, my happiness, my acceptance of my life. This comes with unrecognized ease as a white male of privilege, interpreting the blinding light of life just outside the door. 

Today as an old man, but not like that of my father, or his father, I sit on the old park bench next to the woods where I grew up - unrecognizable. I can only look back as I listen to the sounds around me. The sounds of nature, the sounds they created. Holding tightly to the only gift that remains, the gift of being. Comfortably I sit, hoping that my being, who I was allowed to become, will return again, to its provenance for one more attempt.

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Feature 3

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