prose poem

>>> the camera pans over to him he’s listening and smoking after I say print the scene he keeps smoking he doesn’t ask me to explain which is what I want from an actor no self-involvement just action and repetition a kind of ritualism the intimacy of juxtaposition comes from the risk of the images cannibalizing each other we want to believe that what lies beneath the strangeness and incomprehensibility of the persona is inert and won’t hurt us but we’re lying to ourselves lines have appeared around her eyes it’s driving her crazy no wonder she doesn’t want to have kids what a frivolous waste of life this relationship was he tells her it’s apparent he’s very wealthy at one point he loved her when he was still capable of feeling the poor man slow dancing their first date at the club jammed with military she was nineteen a cruel accordionist was yelling into the microphone I was much older too every moment pulls me deeper and deeper into the tomb or womb of my own art the mirror image is all I have of the original self I’m a blind shell-fish opening up exposing its body to all the small fish playing about it in order to lure them in and crush them between its valves the image acquires force through the effect of isomorphism with our primitive feelings I’ve taken the shot from the dark fires I want to cut the skin so that the bone shows my dominant idiom is naturalism punctuated with what lies beyond and leaks cinema marks the return of infinite daydreams to humanity the great rhythms restored