The orchestras kept playing. They had a gin fix. Why in this fog I still see you I can’t say. With your beard and high darkness around me. In your small machine many messages and faces that once let you in. The ocean drowns time all the time, slowly. Everyone had a birthday and buried something. I was coming from one person and into another when really what are we: some accident. In this show where we all have a favorite. What we have is a taste for that thing we can feel, will not say. Some of us wanted more and in all the wrong ways too. There was of course an escape… in a year, on a street, in some near distant past when what had us was childish and flame. And maybe it would have been different and maybe it would have been this. Do you remember my hair when I met you? Much longer. The violins ended it well. Outside, the city continued to tease us. Hurricanes came, storms couldn’t please us: it was all very fast and beautifully made. You ask why I’m thinking of death but I’m thinking of you and it’s fleeting. We were terrible, unrelenting and everywhere then. All I know is I can’t stop writing about people. So much happened. I can’t stop writing about love.
She opens her heart, a heart full of needles and stands at the sink pulling flesh from bone. She waits and watches the broth for boiling and wonders if she'll see him again. He, the stack of wobbly coins. He, the train shaking the rails. The pine bent heavy with cones whose boughs reach down to sweep the roof this morning as she opens the door and casts her hope on the new snow, but finds the tracks on her threshold are stars from raccoons last night casing the house.
Looking out at the sea her heart pangs to the endless beat of blue. The tips of her fingers hold secrets, words like frozen - her toes remember squishing into boots, while teeth recall the chatter of an open mouth the gasp of inhaling January all at once Back home, 'tis the season of stalled cars, frozen tires plugged driveways, the way a sun looks warm but isn't. She knows looking out at the sea her heart will pang to the endless beat of white always longing for the beat of blue. - Debbie Calverley
This film, like many others, claims we'll enjoy life now that we've come through difficulties, dangers so incredibly condensed that they must be over. If the hardship was undergone by others, we identified with them and, if the danger was survived by simpler life forms, they're included in this moment when the credits roll and we don't know when to stand
