Shapes Industries - I Own the Night

I Own the Night

David Rin sits in the window sill of his third story apartment. One leg dangles freely out in the air, the other is tucked under his body as he rests against a pile of pillows pushed up against the wall. Because it's dark outside, his fake Christmas tree is plugged in. His Indian elephant lamp with the floral patterns is also turned on. A slight red light from the power switch of his boom box shines on the desk. A saxophone-laden lounge tune plays softly. The first snow of the year was yesterday.

David is staring at the grain mills visible from his window. They are unlit, and hum with the sound of ventilation fans. He looks back into the room. Blueprints from old breweries, welding and racing posters, and frames of badly painted animals line the walls. The ceiling is covered in old American flags, most of which are retired from veteran's homes. Near the fake Christmas tree, there is a collection of casino related fare, numbered chips, ashtrays, a miniature roulette set and betting table. David's desk is covered in rocks, vials, glass fruit, and wine bottles. The room smells strongly of three distinct odors. A recently lit ocean breeze candle sits on his boom box, a can of Christmas Apples and Cinnamon air freshener is tucked away in the closet, and the dry stink of grain from the mills is coming in through the window.

David believes that the flags hung across the ceiling obscure the natural shape of the room. They take the converging corners and sharp lines, and turn them into more organic shapes, like curves and ballooning spheres. It's in this way that David has brought all the areas of his room together, and although they are full of things, things on the floor, walls, ceiling, and any available surface space, it does not feel cluttered. It feels more like the womb.

The effect is usually very calming, but David has been sitting in his apartment for three days, restless. Laundry needs to be done, there is little food left in the pantry, and his desk has become so full of stuff, that he can't use it. There's a university diploma buried somewhere under that mess. He drinks enough water to visit the bathroom hourly. He carefully arranges every object in the room to fit symmetrical lines and to balance the amount of space between each item. The tallest pieces of furniture are put against the wall; in either direction the surrounding bits are ordered in descending height. In his briefcase, he keeps a diagram of the room as seen from above. The room is sectioned off into four distinct areas.

1. Bed, Under the Bed, Window

2. Desk, Dresser, Storage Bags

3. Christmas Tree, Blue Chest, Picture Wall

4. Closet, Entry Way

For three days, David has been changing his room, adjusting the lighting, moving the flags and posters, and making new diagrams, trying to make it feel more magical, simultaneously lived in and alive itself, with breathing walls and shifting moods. He has been staring outside at the mills, watching the changing sky and imagining a myriad of fantastic things happening all around him, buildings crumbling to the ground, gusts that carry paper messages through the air in lazy arcs, miracles in coincidence he wishes he had the good fortune to find. Here he muses on the entirety of his independent life, from as soon as he was able to leave the house as a child, to today. All the magic he has ever encountered in the world, he can't see it anymore. His perspective feels barren with age, dull with exposure. There is nothing new left to discover, and this scares David because he is only 22. Even the excitement of a new apartment faded almost immediately, and sent him into a decorative frenzy to capture what he seemingly cannot find. Sometimes David wishes he were a child again, and that the world, the earth itself, would respond to his presence, would acknowledge his life and purpose on this planet in some way.

There is a digital camera charging, resting on top of a chest full of ropes, flashlights, and other tools of exploration. Tonight, he is going to use it. It will be his reason to leave this apartment, it will make sense of the aimlessness, it will frame the night's silence into tangible little rewards for moving instead of being still. The first picture he takes before leaving is of his room. The image glows on the LCD screen for a couple of seconds. He deletes it, and acknowledges he might be addicted to magic.

"A couple walking arm in arm on a midnight stroll come across a distraught looking man on his hands and knees under a street light. He is looking at the sidewalk, in the gutter, and along the curb for something. They stop and ask him what he has lost. He responds that he can't find his keys. They ask him where he had seen them last, and he tells them in his house, but his house is dark, and there is light out here, so it only makes sense to look where he can see."

David keeps this story in mind as he drives down the street, wondering where to look for magic on a night like tonight. He thinks to himself, I'm on a mission, I have to get a few photographs or return home a failure, so where is the light? He's slowly driving around the city thinking, imagining where he would want to go if he could travel anywhere, have any adventure, and document the whole thing as proof or testament to his outgoing nature and self-authority. Proof to who, though? David knows that it's proof for himself, a small step to please his harshest critic. The car pulls up to a stop sign. He looks around the middle class neighborhood he's stumbled into. Each house is a one story rambler, each in a different shade of pastel siding. David decides he needs to go somewhere exotic. There is no ocean around here, but the river is a perfect place. There are docks and boats, and the downtown lights look beautiful from a distance. If he can't find the pier, any place that looks like another place will do; another country, with different architecture and geography. A substitute for a foreign place, like the pier mirrors the ocean. He pulls away from the stop sign, and although no one else is on the road, he waits at every red light, is very deliberate and slow with each stop, and makes his way across side streets until River Road appears.

His car is old and rattles with every bump, but he loves it more because of this. He can feel the frame shake, the wheels turn, the brake pads squeezing against the rotors as he slows down for a stop light. He imagines that he is the car, capable of yelling and shouting and barreling into the world at break neck speeds because he has a muffler full of holes and a sturdy engine under the hood. David's car is like his room. The cabin is bathed in dim red light from the instrument panel. A scented tree hanging near the floor makes the car smell like Sun-Washed Cotton. There is a touch tone telephone fastened to the dashboard (military issue), an American flag stapled to the ceiling, a television antennae from the 1950's in the back window well, and as his finishing touch, a pair of presidential flags on the hood, one above both of the headlights. They flap in the wind and make David feel terribly important. He used to keep snacks in the ashtray before it broke. In the trunk, there is a load of emergency equipment, automotive fluids, and camping tools. The trunk is packed full, but meticulously organized and tidy in its appearance. Most needed items up front and easily accessible, larger items placed horizontally and in front of the emergency supplies to keep them from sliding when the brakes are applied. It's now a game to see how tight he can get it, how lean and light and efficient the trunk can be, and still serve every possible road-based scenario. Fuel efficiency is a factor, so is the chance of a tree blocking the road during a winter blizzard. With preparation and organization, there is control in every imaginable situation. He also likes the feeling of driving around with an axe in the trunk, just because it seems like something worth doing.

Driving along the river, certain trees have lost all of their foliage and others seem to be fighting to keep theirs. The only snow fall that is left from yesterday is left in great patches of sun-spared dirty white. If it doesn't snow tomorrow, David thinks to himself, there will be no evidence of the changing seasons left. Street signs point out that the pier is just ahead. Grabbing his camera and tripod from the back seat, David walks down the boardwalk to the entrance. The river is flowing silently, but a moored show boat sloshes against its tethers. A banner hung from its second level promises it's "The Greatest Theatre On Water!" There is a white walkway that leads straight up to the boat. He composes a shot, and triggers the camera for a 20 second exposure. He waits for something to happen. Wonders if the river is always flowing. Lights a cigarette even though he does not want one, and spends a few minutes being still. A ship of the same size is moored next to the show boat, and is labeled "The Covington Inn." There are a series of smaller boats docked nearby that have no boasts of entertainment or accommodation adorned on their sides. They resemble personal fishing vessels. A true dark has finally filled the sky, driving away the sun-blemished clouds from the early evening, making the quiet air all around David intensify. His camera hums in exposure as the boat pinches water between its hull and the concrete, spitting droplets along the walk way with a wet, smacking slap of sound. An airplane passes over head in a trail of blinking red light. The shutter clicks, but David is staring into the camera bag that rests near his legs.

On adventures that he had taken years ago, to creeks, farms, mills and abandoned houses, he would carry a duffel bag, and inside would be every tool he owned. He would take several different types of rope, metal clasps and clips, hammers, pliers, multi-function tools, smoke bombs, spare clothes, snacks and magazines. He was equipped. He felt like an action hero, capable of anything, ready for any situation. David's camera bag tonight, the one resting near his legs, is lean, light, and efficient. It does not account for doomsday scenarios or murder mysteries, but he realizes it should.

The LCD screen on his camera is glowing, displaying a picture of the show boat. He glances at it, and decides to get closer to the river for a different photograph, one where he can see the city better. After that, he says to himself, I'll find a new place to see.

From the pier, David drives towards the local airport. The roads become skinnier, with more curves and turns and wrought iron gates alongside driveways. He is still riverside when he parks in a circular lot, and climbs a grass hill to oversee the hangers and field. Multi-colored lights are spread out across the grounds and only make sense from above. There are also lights on the nearby hangers, and towers with antennae and cables leading to other buildings nearby. David assumes the antennae are speaking with aircraft beyond the curve of the globe. He decides then and there, that when he has a child, he'll teach him or her to look at every passing plane, to stop whatever they're doing and watch it cross the sky until it's out of sight. He wishes there was a plane near him now, coming in to land. He knows that he wouldn't be able to get a good picture of it in the dark, so he'd have no choice but to watch, and leave his camera alone. Another cigarette is lit. David wonders to himself why he came here. The world can't promise excitement and adventure, is he trying to lure it out? The pier, the airport, places that feel romantic and foreign, they seem like the best spots to find perspective, but David is beginning to doubt if this trip was worth the effort at all. He could be rearranging his room again, or hiding underneath the bed, listening to the sound of the neighbors fight. He then remembers exactly why he's out here, to escape that desperation, to find the magic and write their myths with his camera, to prove to himself that he can still see wonder in the world.

A wispy, cloud-like fog rolls in from the river, creating smeared patches of visibility as it crawls along the ground. The grass is wet and shiny where the fog snails have crossed. David decides to take pictures of each cardinal direction, zooming in on details for some, and catching the whole landscape for others. He packs up his camera before the last exposure has even finished. The shutter clicks closed in the bag as he starts the car.

There's an above ground parking lot near David's apartment that he wants to see, so he parks his car near home, and decides to walk the distance. He crosses rail road tracks that lead to a section of mills, and pauses to consider a photograph. The fog is still clinging to the earth and thickening, which at first seems curious to David. He speaks out loud to himself, maybe I'm tracking their migratory patterns? These would look much better from above.

The parking garage is a six story concrete structure. It services an office building that resembles a tower of stacked televisions. As David rides the elevator to the top floor, he glances up, and immediately flinches at what he sees. His unexpected reflection glares back down at him from the ceiling mirrors. The elevator dings and David exits out onto the concrete apron of the garage. The city is neatly spread out before him, in empty streets crossing over one another, in lamps lighting up small portions of pavement and trees and building side, and in the sickly, dry smell of grain that permeates even the air six stories high. From this height, the crowded city appears to have a structure, appears tidy and clean and controlled, even though it is none of those things. Everything is wet, and every surface shines or glows. David sets up his camera and begins taking pictures of the landscape, positioning the lens, triggering the shutter, and standing nearby for as long as it takes, sometimes 10 seconds, other times 30 seconds, in complete focus for the task at hand, composing the next shot in his mind as the camera hums along. He privately notes his momentum; he has gotten into the flow of things.

David considers another cigarette, and decides he does not want one. He does not want anything in this moment. He feels purposeful, and can find no other thoughts to describe this sensation. David feels that the next photograph will take itself, and that he is not making the images. Through feeling the work, he understands that the photographer is doing what the photographer does, and the images have always been, regardless of whether or not he is here to make them. He is practicing consecrated action, doing for the sake of doing, and nothing more. He imagines that being on the sixth floor of this parking garage, with nothing but open air above him, he is open to God, more receptive to heaven, and is asking to feel the bright fortune of breath, the vinegar that filled him in his youth, of having no other sense than that of instinct, passion and fear. David asks that he be put into an adventure, and promises his full dedication if some force is listening and grants his request. Even if there is no blood, no sweat or tears, this garage has done the trick for now. He enjoys the city from up above.

The fog has cleared when David steps out onto street level. The elevator squeaks shut behind him. There are birds chirping in the trees, and David wonders what time it is. He has a clock in his pocket, but doesn't check it. He thinks to himself, why haven't these birds migrated yet? The air is still warm, and winter is struggling to get a good foothold on the weather. He passes along the railroad tracks again, and has purposely left his camera unpacked so that there is no excuse to leave without a photograph of the mills. He focuses on the close structures first, the offices and weigh station. As he shoots, a strong wind blows and nearly knocks his tripod over. Near the mills, the dark sky is peeling upwards from the horizon, pushing the air as it curls like a giant wave. David, with wide eyes and deep breaths, realizes the bright pink of the rising sun, not yet visible, was hidden underneath a blanket of dense evening clouds. Colors rush into the landscape, their new appearance becomes surreal and hypnotic as the grey of night time disappears completely in seconds. Here, a miracle has happened, and David aims his camera to capture it, unsure if the sight will translate into a still image. He says a quick blessing to who ever may be listening, and thanks himself for going out to search tonight. He says to himself, I hope this is reason enough to venture out again. David realizes then and there, that he is trapped by his own stagnation. His blessing turns to prayer; he prays for momentum. He hopes that the lifting night sky is enough to keep him on his feet, to remind him that the earth is a miraculous place, but he secretly doubts his affirmations. David considers throwing out every possession he owns, but shakes his head and gives a world weary sigh. He will do as he does, and pray he is accounted for in the grand scheme of things, taken care of, and his desires recognized and accounted for by the miracles of this planet, by what ever form God takes these days.

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Chapter Navigation

(Introduction)

(One - I Own the Night)

(Two - Tourists)

(Three - Manifest Desire)

(Four - Crane Fields)

(Five - Decommissioned Power Plant)

(Six - Illusionary Delusion)

(Seven - Heart Cave)

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