Magic Lantern, Love
i was a part-time film projectionist
slash ticket-taker
slash barista
at the two screen indie theater
in my mid-sized backwater hometown
i worked the evening shows, solo,
running to the back to catch the reel
as a film’s final moments unspooled
running back to the front to serve
cappuccinos in chipped Fiestaware
(knockoff) mugs delivered to your seat
watching trailers from the booth
with the ghost called Isabella
garlands embossed on film—
Sundance, Cannes, TIFF
drops of nectar on parched
small town tongues—
the promise of elsewhere
loading film onto a projector
a task both dainty and technical—
clean hands, precision, the
foresight to plan ahead, avoiding
the need to strap and lift a film,
a heavy two hours, in your arms
Isabella, the ghost, was in love with me.
the brick building was once a brothel
and she was in charge
maybe i reminded her of her girls
and she was a movie buff, casting
me, surely, in all her favorite roles
gently handling film in the booth and
cleaning the espresso machine at night
one day, the theater went digital—
scheduled, automated, so different from
the timing, the planning, the fire hazard!,
the rickety train sound of film on film
i noticed the quiet most of all
my role reduced to moving on silent feet
to draw the curtains before the feature,
to prop the doors as the credits rolled
one Valentines Day, a tourist told me
he couldn’t believe someone my age
had ever been a projectionist and said
there’s something romantic about knowing
there’s someone back there
preparing the magic…
winding it up for everyone
i tapped what he said into my Notes,
a temporary sentimentality
i thought about my romance with Isabella
in the steam heat of the dishwasher,
laying out rows of silver bowls to air dry
in the audience that Oscar season,
i saw the trailer for
Portrait of a Lady on Fire
i nearly swallowed my own tongue
i didn’t breathe for two minutes, sixteen seconds
women looking at women
LIKE WOMEN
shot, framed, lit, written by women?
the smell of fresh bread wafting out
across the path of a starving orphan
by the time it reached our market,
theaters were closed due to pandemic
i planned a date to stream it
with a girlfriend, synched, texting
i dumped a quote (surely more
pure in French) into my Notes:
In solitude I felt the liberty you spoke of,
but I also felt your absence.
The longing! The agony!
The windswept beach!
The green dress!
i think about it still, all the time
i think of the scene when they first go walking
i think about the female gaze
i think about how she takes off
running right towards the cliff,
how not-Isabella follows not-me
(or perhaps the other way around)
and we turn around at the last minute
out of breath, heaving,
almost smiling beneath
a half transparent mask,
right into the lens
i can almost hear the film rushing
through the projector through my laptop
all the way from here.