moments flung across a seeing

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Well, Ana, I’ve found a new obsession, so delightful, I don’t want to pretend to capture it, see: I write to movie streaming, stopping every few minutes or, as the story gains full flourishing, every few seconds, maybe going back several times to a moment, becoming the moment, writing to the intimacy of the moment: to an expression, to a stance. I can’t tell you aptly and briefly how sublime this can be.

I will say this: Until tonight, I hadn't seen Duras’s “The Lover” (1992), though of course I read it when you asked me to, years back. You re-
member. You remember everything.

Tonight, I apparently wrote a short book of notes lost in a story.
Detail now would ruin the enchantment of the idea: to become the story—in this case, given to the voice of Jeanne Moreau—Jeanne Moreau!—“textual” intimacy of key senses as if it’s all there will ever be, this now of ours.

So, you know I can’t discuss the last few minutes—5m:55s from the end of the stream, four minutes, until the little boat crosses the river fully—
or why I’ll not now say how, for me, way beyond him, I am her:
the writing which keeps us still as it can be.

So, yet, the lover I write knows a story truly beyond teen desire destined for loss. We cross decades, and we’re still alive.

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