[Twilight 3 (2002) by Viggo Mortensen, from "45301".]
Beholder *
Gait
still unsteady, he stops awhile, shakes off the last lingering
moments of sleep, picks up his steps, bare feet trailing gravel as he ambles
down the path, where everywhere is quiet, save for the whispering breeze, a
grove of glistening beeches, a fluttering carpet of rustling leaves, muted
scurryings of some nocturnal animal still savoring the thinning layers of
darkness as it yields to the first slivers of dawn.
In
one hand he cradles a Hasselblad, that battered black box, cherished companion
and aide, spies a vast canvas overhead, readies supple fingers flecked with paint. Aiming this extended
eye, he minces memory into a succession of frames, striving to capture what he
knows will not keep still.
The
ephemera he collects are as elusive as he, as silent, unobtrusive, fleeting
manifestations in a world revolving too fast for appreciation, instances too rare
for mass distribution. Furiously he shoots frame after frame, now and then
shifting vistas on a single scene, oblivious to the observers who gather
at his feet as the tide of day washes over the beeches that now seem to cover
all the lands.
They
look on in awe, marvel at how his feet barely touch the ground.
For
he is both collector and subject, both hunter and hunted, both light-painter
and point of interest, perceived only by the sharpest of sights. Magnified
under lenses, he stands against sky, a quiet light blazing, burning his own
hole in the sun.
*[This piece was a pre-cursor to Beholder II, which I posted here.]
