What You Know about Me Only My Closed Eyes Can Tell

My Own Eyes from Kate Greenstreet on Vimeo.
What might come to us in a dream might come to us in a poem, might even come to us in a film. Or if there were a film of a poet put together lovingly by the poet's husband, whose tender eye could not even bear to show her to us for more than a few seconds, then we would learn that the poet wasn't a body, but a voice. Or, in some sense, a body of words. And if we would watch the film for almost thirty minutes, but a little less than that, then we would see the poet as a painter, the poems as words seen and heard, the poem as a physical presence, but glancingly so, and we would learn that the word is the image, that the human imagination is the world itself. Especially if the poet were Kate Greenstreet and the filmmaker was Max Greenstreet. Or is it the other way around?

ecr. l'inf.