The Last Picture Show

Abstract

70 martine bellen The Last Picture Show I can’t be sure if both sides of our conversation Occurred in my mind—An underground transmission Or film’s ability to realign metabolism. I/S(H)e/We walk through the field of light: Delicate traceries of windows, The “takes” of a film (it takes my belief, my body) (it takes my breath away) Shots deepening, narrowing now With synapse activated, the movie slips into breeze—the crisp taste on the tongue of spring; an airstream encircling the actress, her illuminated room absorbs the temporal light that remains on the brink of morning, revealing a sequence of reality—pool whitewashed with eddies, glistening starlight on still water. Continuity of wind replaces subject matter. A film of a symphony must respect time An autobiography respects dates Both absolute and relative In transcendental balance. She checks the show time so she won’t be late, purchases tickets online , approaching the ineffable/ The field of light on the wall she circumnavigates, the field She wanders, it transforms Into a flora sculpture— CRSP09 poetry.indd 70 1/30/2009 12:51:00 PM 71 yellow cress, honesty, periwinkle, blue bugle and windflower. How can light not be made into wildflower? Each cut offers clarity that reawakens the daytime mind, sometimes called meaning. She understood The darkest night, the white night, gaps in memory & continual renewal. Is she watching herself or another who shares her name? Living a film-life or asleep? Released from the material, she wanders a world of symbol. Cosmic architecture Of the human spire. The camera caresses its subject, and she is transferred To celluloid, To video, Next, afterimage—angle after angle the perspective widens, Ripens, and we believe We know her thoroughly as she shifts space. On film No moment appears more important than any other: She passes a stand of handsome men, a group of yew, Who watch her—we are them, staring at the actress; We are the actress watching the river, the viewer, displaced and yearning; The wind in young men’s eyes, their breath flowing through Tree branches that quiver; the eyes in the knots of the boughs. We are the camera’s eye that selects shots, When to look away. Like the cat’s dream, nothing is solid. I tell him I know he is dying, but I don’t know What that means. I remember a breeze replacing my feelings And that he began to rain, hail, conical clouds gather above the mountain’s peak, Tornadic waterspout touches down on my heart, A beating pond, thunder bellows. CRSP09 poetry.indd 71 1/30/2009 12:51:00 PM 72 That’s how our film ended—a crescendo of fiery breath— The transition From one weather system to another. Time passing. How he appears, then vanishes, animates my mind—the borders of his body isolate him from matter and from me. A full-frame shot of the sky. Still. Spiraling swifts in the distance. Unguarded honesty. Tenderness. Darkness. CRSP09 poetry.indd 72 1/30/2009 12:51:00 PM ...