The Moving Theatre
In my quest to combine feeling, thought and reflection into one activity, and thereby save time to watch more sports on TV, I have cycled back to cycling.
She's making movies on location/On my Making Movies-red bike, I get the same feeling, as houses and light posts and steeples and treetops go by. I see in wide shots and mediums and tights. If a newspaper blows by, it's an insert shot. I can focus on a blade of grass or a petal on a flower or the font on a sewer grate. And then on the horizon. In the mountains all those years ago, we made epic movies, and felt heroic. Now, I glide by the open garage doors in west Edmonton and see in the frames quick scenes in the homeowners' lives. My legs still put the scenery in motion.
She don't know what it means.
They are silent movies, for the most part. Or maybe they're the first talkies, because every sound from bird or tire through puddle or car horn or goose honk or bus brake whoosh is everything.
Cycling to work in the October morning is noir. Coming home it's the light of adventure.
It's making movies on film spools of wheels.