Cinema Muto

The Projector

82 The Projector The projector is the only creature alive— hear it singing in the Teatro Zancanaro? Singing its clacking heart out, singing its clacking hot electrical heart out just for us— though we have left it behind. We who are the projector’s greatest admirers, who make the seconds it counts down— 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 all the way to fin— the rhythm of our lives, who dream in lively black and lovely white—we are flying back to our lives, our hands falling to our sides as we sleep heavily or sit restlessly through the God awful video projections on our transatlantic flights. We will be back, we want to sing out—please wait! We alone can hear the tiny fly buzz of the distant projector. We alone fret that disaster—broken film, melted acetate— might arrive before we do, stop the heart of our beloved. We will return, we whisper—wait, wait! Our lives spent in passionate silence in love with that hot light falling on the screen. So in love, we will scream through the night in aeroplanes to reach the projector, ready to kiss it with our dry jet-lagged lips. So full of love, our faith has taught us, like magicians, to levitate. So full of love, our faith has taught us, like angels, to fly. ...