MOVIE SCRIPT 177

Will my memory commence with a trumpet call,
A sound’s celebration of an arrival. If so,
What will arrive? Will it be an emanation
From what was left between the iron bands
Of old trunk now cobwebbed in the attic,
This letter on pale blue paper written on
By a dark turquoise ink whose contents
Is now vague and inaccessible, as vague
And inaccessible as when it arrived.
Associations return, the wooden bridge
Make from the trunks of cabbage palms,
And the pond speckled with the gold eyes
Of turtles, but when the images return,
They return scrubbed and cleaned,
The interior feelings that fused and invented
The external images were not recovered.
Now I find something picturesque
With the grotesques of the actual living situation.
There are so many realities, the reality
Of a particularized and singular moment
Of the past, now unrecoverable in its fullness
Then difficult to encompass and grasp
And the reality of the recovery of this moment
By memory is unknowable but gratifies
And exalts by it the very nature of its fiction.
There is a wonder in what now
Is the obscurity of the event, and wonder
In the memory in which so much is absent.
I could settle all by playing an imaginary
Game of backgammon with David Hume,
But I prefer a solitary walk of Jean Jacques Rouseau,
And the study without a purpose or goal,
The wild flowers encountered beside the road.

MOVIE SCRIPT 178

We are born in our writing, and in our writing
We disappear. Writing is our existence, and outside
The words we do not exists., but our words exists.
So to the ones that observe us and talk about us,
The talk is about a fantasy they invented because
We have never been present to them. Our words exists,
But most who read our words cannot
Make our words exists, and thus substitute their existences.
To really exist and the only existence is our words
Is a rarity, but not an impossibility. What
A miracle is an existence. An existence can happen,
But when it does happen will we know it,
And if we know it, then have something equivalent
To that ancient lie, heaven, here for a moment on earth.

MOVIE SCRIPT 179

There is something of the occult, the genuine occult,
Not the false and shallow occult of the popular mind
And its exploiters, in each moment of our lives
If we do not overlook by concentrating on a fantasy
Or a falsity. There was the occult in the second
when I kissed the eyelid of a women with had
A dark I pigmentation on an otherwise
Evenly colored, smooth eyelid skin, but
There was nothing occult when she, really
Believing, placed a magic eye in my yard
To ward off the evil of my six cats. The occult
Is everywhere, but the oculists, have turned reality
Into a simplicity and a lie. Too bad, the occultist
Were not deep enough to understand the occult.
For if so, we would have had a better earth.

MOVIE SCRIPT 180

I write, I write without preconception or foreknowledge,
I just write, but I write to overcome, surpass
The ready-made and received language of lies
That is imposed upon all of us. I write, I just write,
And then I read what I write. When I read what I write,
I began to understand what I was writing during this moment
Of writing, one of the selves that I am, or one
Of the moments of a transitory self that I am.
I read my writing, and this transcription
Of a momentary, transitory self seems so wonderful.