I guess I just never thought about it.
I filmed for the world. For everyone around me. So that people would see what I saw, could maybe catch a fleeting glimpse of what I felt when I filmed my friends drinking champagne on New Year's Eve or when I filmed the group at Life Support, hands clasped in communal love.
My camera was the extension of my soul, it seemed. I never doubted, never questioned. I just did it.
It brought us all together. The night Maureen and Joanne arrived on our doorstep with a half-dead Mimi in their arms, we reveled in the wave of memories that was Today 4 U and we all knew in our hearts that we would never, ever forget. Months later Collins and Roger and I would watch the reels from our days before, laughing and drinking together, and we were able to forget everything else. My films were the bond that held us together. We were together, and that was all that mattered.
But as I stood there at Roger's funeral, alone, a new thought occurred to me. What was the use of bringing people together through film if, in the end, you were the only one left to see it?
The filmmaker does not make his films for his eyes only, does he?
During that memorable year, it seemed an unconscious need to film everything, as if I was afraid of ever forgetting. Ever forgetting the way Angel smiled; the night at the Life, dancing on the tables; Maureen's protest. Forgetting the way Roger finally smiled after so long, dancing with Mimi on New Year's Eve; forgetting the sound of Collins' haunting song to Angel at the funeral; the roses we left on her casket.
The thought occurred to me that I filmed for myself. It was as if, somewhere in my heart, I knew all along that I would be the last one left. I was the witness. Without those endless reels of film, I could remember. Without it…I was merely alone. Alone and heartbroken.
I had captured it all on film. And finally, it was the end. And I was alone.