(Planet Me)
Sunday, November 27, 2011
 
The Great Adventure Of Cinema
P1100315

Every once in a while, X and I go to the cinema. It may not mean much to anyone but he and I, but for us, it is an event. He remembers them all. The walks to the cinema. When we went to see Megamind, and Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs, and Up, and Cars 2, and yesterday, when we went to see Tin Tin : The Secret Of The Unicorn.

yesterday, as the credits scrolled, I fought back tears, and hugged him. In the deserted cinema, with just he, and I, and the dark, and the stairs, we had a magic moment. I remember the sense of wonder myself, when I was his age, when I looked up to the back of the cinema, and I saw the flickering at the back. The glass lens of the projection booth. The sea and rain of dust projected through the light bulb. The images in an out of focus microcosm of the film. It was magic, that through that window came my dreams and my nightmares and the images I cannot forget. The moments that have defined my life. I saw almost all of them in a room like this, a moving picture projected my dreams, nightmares, memories and heroes.

"A man makes a picture. A moving picture. Through the light projected, he can see himself up close. A man captures colour. A man likes to stare. He turns his money into light to look for her."

And X, not even 7, stared at the projection booth in wonder and joy and fascination, and I felt my voice well up, and tears run down my face. For I remember this moment myself, thirty years ago, when I stared up at the screen in wonder and fascination. I remember this exact moment, when I was like him. I held his hand. We walked up to the booth, to see the stained, illuminated light in the dust of the air, and then to the screen, to see our shadows eat into the screen, the tips of our fingers at the bottom of the screen.

I told him about film, and sprockets, and projectors, and reels of film, and why it is called film, and when he is older, that his children may not ever experience this the way he does. I held his hand, and cried quietly with joy.

Sons become Fathers. The memories we had become the memories our children have. Life in a circle, our lives becoming memories. It's beautiful. He remembers the days and the things we do. I used to look up to my Dad as a hero. Nowadays, I hope he may do the same to me. We walked the bridge with sticks that were our wands, casting spells upon the cars below, and holding hands in the cold.

Life is amazing.

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