Sunday, lovely Sunday
Some days are gifts and today has been one. It has been a beautiful spring like day and I was able to see Amelie on the big screen at the Paramount theater with a good friend. (The paramount is an old theater that has been restored to it's former glory and is a treat to be in for any function). Afterwards we sat outside at Miller's and ate hamburgers, people watched, and discussed how one would choreograph all of the elements that make Amelie such a remarkable movie. I think it is possible that it was a very well written, specific script that pulled everything together in such a delightful, effervescent, authentic way. But all aspects where so essential.
Last night I was reading french surrealist poetry. This author, Robert Desnos, is one of my favorites and this poem is icing on the cake for today
It's strange how you wake sometimes in the middle of the night in the middle of sleep someone has knocked on a door And in the extraordinary city of midnight of half-waking
and half-memory heavy gates clang from street to street
Who is this nocturnal visitor with an unknown face
what does he seek what does he spy
Is he a poor man demanding bread and shelter
Is he a thief is he a bird
Is he a reflection of ourselves in the mirror
Back from a transparent abyss
Trying to re-enter us
Then he realizes that we've changed
that the key no longer turns in the lock
Of the mysterious door of bodies
Even if he's only left us for a few minutes
at the troublesome moment when we put out the light
What does he become then
Where does he wander? does he suffer?
Is this the origin of ghosts?
the origin of dreams?
the birth of regrets?
No longer knock at my door visitor
There's no room on my hearth or in my heart
For the old images of myself
Perhaps you recognize me
I'll never know how do you recognize yourself
Robert Desnos, translated by Amy Levin