16mm

I sat motionless head thrown back staring at the patterns projected by this mind onto the white ceiling board. I had had a problem with that ceiling board ever since we first purchased this abode. I really detest cheap ceilings that have not been rinolited and floated to a single large screen encompassing the entire ceiling of the room and then finished with signature cornices. This was a cheap bit of ceiling and consequently it confined my mind to project patterns that did not encroach over the steel painted strips that held it together. I would have preferred that the cheapness had not limited me in such a confining manner. But it did.

A sound similar to that of a 16mm home projector started with its familiar cluck, cluck whir and the lights dimmed. The small clear area of the ceiling screen transformed from slow moving psychedelic patterns to the projected cellulose forms made visible through the scratchy 25 frames a second 16mm Eiki and a carnal fear gripped and ripped at my sanity as it became apparent that I was now watching the history channel, my history.

It played out first in black and white then as it progressed through the years it transformed into Technicolor. The beginning of my story was all there. Some good, some bad a little tragic and even a little sad, mostly it was mockingly funny.

Relentlessly and without interval the cellulose whirred and clacked past the carbon arc light as it wound its way through the pain the love and death I had caused projecting with specific intensity the details I had hidden from myself, tucked away so as not to have to face old demons.
Small details long forgotten were displayed with an intricate intensity that at some stage reduced me to a screaming restrained maniac as I watched myself play some of the most macabre scenes I had thought I would never witness again.
Déjà vu isn't always as cool as it sounds.