Scenes have come and scenes have gone. Fragmented clips play in the background.
Heavy curtains hanging silent at distant edges, become visible, bringing
about a curious tilt of the head and a questioning furrow to the eyebrows.
Supporting. Names appear, rolling from the bottom, falling in to a steady
rhythm. A grin, a grimace, a sleepy nod, a slight tug on the memory and then
off and away.
Dim, yellow circles are rising, sneakily, in this corner, over that doorway,
below the rungs of each stair, surreptitiously, slyly trading places with the
glow and flicker of the screen.
Heavy, deep-wine curtains.
Shadowed figures are rising and leaving, whispering, hunching low.
Most go unnoticed but some elicit a turn of the head, others a wave, as
they move on. A few garner long stares at their now-empty chairs and the
black doorways.
Heavy, deep-wine, velvet curtains invoke a longing to brush them with the
tips of the fingers and the palm of the hand, and contemplation.
Scenes are playing, nonsense, out of time and focus, fading.
Acknowledgments and disclaimers, musicians, artists, designers,
and the key grip.
The popcorn bucket is empty save for the unpopped kernels. The smell of
old salt and butter enter the memory through closed eyes and a deep
inhale and lands on the lips where the tongue licks them away with a
satisfied groan just a time or two. Or three.
An unopened bag of candy falls to the floor.
Discarded boxes of treats and snacks are strewn in the aisle and in
abandoned seats.
Heavy, deep-wine, luxurious velvet curtains wave just slightly to some unknown breeze, forward,
then away.
Major characters. One by one.
Hearty laughs.
Bittersweet tears.
Fermented anger.
Gratitude.
Curses.
Gratitude.
Heavy, deep-wine, luxurious velvet curtains wave on a
gust of an unknown breeze.
Applause.
Proof of My Existence 