The World's Story is Yours to Tell
4.30am, 10.10.10 SAG HARBOR, NEW YORK, USA - I OWN THE VILLAGE!
I leave the building with my camera. It's just me and the world at 4.30am on 10.10.10 and the night is mine. Main Street is utterly deserted - am I the only one who lives here? The American Hotel is closed and silent. A vacuum cleaner in the window of the hardware store glares balefully at me as if to say "Hey - this is OUR time! What are YOU doing here?" I smile back.
Down at the harbor, the water is glassy smooth, ducks conversing somewhere far off in the velvet night, a tern or maybe a bat swoops over my shoulder. The limbs of a tree are eerily lit in a street lamp. They might be breathing, holding their breath to learn what happens next. On the little beach at Long Wharf, ghostly reeds silently line the shore. The sand is patterned with thousands of footprints - sneakers and snails and squadrons of slimy slugs have been here, creating this undulating carpet, shadowed, where tiny creatures pulse and swallow and fight.
The traffic signs painted on the street seem significant. Arrows direct no one nowhere and suddenly, piercingly, I notice that the street is deeply cracked, all the way across - a mini earthquake here that no one noticed. No bodies fell through the cracks.
At Bay Street Theater, the aluminum chairs and tables on the outdoor patio wait, ghostly, for their guests and in the back yard of a gallery, a cheerful sofa waits patiently for summer soirees. An earthen pot full of crisanthemums emits an eerie, orange glow. I could swear I saw a creeper stretch a millimeter along a wall.
I look down and see the shadows my own legs cause, lit red by some invisible safety light somewhere, doubled and tripled as I walk, run, sit, play with this new vision of myself, at 4.30am on 10.10.10 in Sag Harbor, New York, USA.
Down at the harbor, the water is glassy smooth, ducks conversing somewhere far off in the velvet night, a tern or maybe a bat swoops over my shoulder. The limbs of a tree are eerily lit in a street lamp. They might be breathing, holding their breath to learn what happens next. On the little beach at Long Wharf, ghostly reeds silently line the shore. The sand is patterned with thousands of footprints - sneakers and snails and squadrons of slimy slugs have been here, creating this undulating carpet, shadowed, where tiny creatures pulse and swallow and fight.
The traffic signs painted on the street seem significant. Arrows direct no one nowhere and suddenly, piercingly, I notice that the street is deeply cracked, all the way across - a mini earthquake here that no one noticed. No bodies fell through the cracks.
At Bay Street Theater, the aluminum chairs and tables on the outdoor patio wait, ghostly, for their guests and in the back yard of a gallery, a cheerful sofa waits patiently for summer soirees. An earthen pot full of crisanthemums emits an eerie, orange glow. I could swear I saw a creeper stretch a millimeter along a wall.
I look down and see the shadows my own legs cause, lit red by some invisible safety light somewhere, doubled and tripled as I walk, run, sit, play with this new vision of myself, at 4.30am on 10.10.10 in Sag Harbor, New York, USA.
Comment
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Comment by luisa contarello on November 15, 2010 at 2:47am
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I can see you there, kenny...breathing the night, here and there now gray morning outside in the garden, padua, italy, europe,, my dog yet sleeping on the divano inside, silent house..vimeo friends...words and images...
thank you for that
luisa
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