Today, Roger found out his T-cell count is low. He doesn't want to talk about it, least of all with me. How can I understand? His fingers pick idly across the strings of his guitar, wandering in search of a tune. I steady my camera, trying to find the best lighting. Mimi sits by the window, running her hand through hair drenched in sweat. Roger sets down his guitar and kisses her gently on the forehead. They embrace. The light has faded, leaving them covered in shadows. But the few flecks of light remaining are soft and imbue the two of them with a subtle glow.
Collins yells up at us for the keys. I toss them down and pan the camera across the street just in case, but it's completely empty, except for the huddles of homeless people. Our door opens and Collins leans against the frame. He hasn't been the same since he lost Angel. He sings less and his speeches have become less intellectual and impassioned. Everything he says has the languorous tone of a lament. As his disease progresses, his reasons for using marijuana become less and less philosophical. He exhales. A haze of smoke encircles him. His eyes fixate on the smoke as though he must dispel the wraiths of regret and loss before he can see to lands beyond. By the pained look in his eyes, he's not having an easy time of it.
"Actual reality," Collins says with a dry laugh. He begins coughing. I pour him a glass of water and excuse myself to go reload my camera.
I shove a towel by the door to the bathroom to keep what little light there is from spilling in. I spool the film through the camera, watching it spin by on the reel like the wheel of fortune, crushing everyone beneath it. Angel and the rest of them just got there first is all. Maybe it will be my turn next.
I wonder briefly whether I should try to get some filters. Play around with effects a bit. Show off the film degree I almost got. But I know that isn't what this documentary needs. Deep down, I also know that maybe I never intended to film a documentary at all—that it's only my excuse to put another mediating barrier between me and reality. A sanctified reason to only see sixteen millimeters of pain at a time.
"You can show people," Roger keeps telling me. "Make them see." I hear Collins' chant over and over: Act Up! Actual reality! Fight AIDS! But I think they're looking for a savior in the wrong place. In the end, all I can do is watch, and I can't even bear to look at it with my own eyes.