NIGHT ROUNDS

I wait in the orange rind darkness, my left shoulder pressed against the grime smeared walls. I watch as the 18 something director of a film , son of a high profile artist , places his silhouette in my line of vision. My right hand swivels upwards with the black mechanical contraption and a distinct clack reassures my ears, as i press the button.
A black carved sculpture frozen in time against blazing red-orange -yellow of the overhead streetlamp. The film in the contraption is black and white.
It degenerates that harsh moment into a timid image , drained of its color.
The shoot continues. A man standing at the corner of an inner lane crossing gets bumped into by 2 youngsters running by. He turns and stares into the group of people huddled behind him as the boys run in their direction. Take 1. Take 12.
The man’s arm is throbbing by now. They decide to take a break or head home, i didn’t know which.

I head off, unenthralled by this self indulgent art, an excuse to gain power, to exercise it , to finally create a 2-hr story that compensates for not having bed time stories been read to. Seeing the world through another's eyes, riding on another's imagination is the preferred pastime of the world. The quintessential characteristics of leisure. I would be privileged to join that self -indulgent lot, and shove my thoughts onto the world, unmindful of their bed time stories.

So, I mutter goodbyes to utter strangers, and drifting through the capricious streets of the junkyard, wait for something to happen. Underneath the not-so-false facade of a photographer lies a curiosity to uncover what transpires in dark corners, littered with skeletons of ancient cars crouching in wet mud.
As I am clicking away frames of underlit nonchalance, a man comes up to me, asks me what I'm doing.
"Shooting photographs." "Are u a reporter?" "No. I'm training (they usually don’t respond favorably when I say I’m a student)."
"Oh. Ok.(an almost inaudible sigh of relief, escapes his breath)."
I keep silent, though I am curious about his reaction. I turn to him. I want a subject for my photograph, meditative and static. I snap a few of him against the sedate skeletons of movement.