SURREALIST FILM-MAKING

by Aditi Machado

 

 

The train is running off track, the air oneiric and chill.
We cut across the forest like thieves. All that derails
is one thread of your scarf – I am dizzy with its unravelling.
How linear it is. Almost absurd, this logic of movement.
The train breaks; the trolley man falls back, burns
his face with coffee. Outside trees commit acrobatics
in the elastic wind. I shoot three scenes with you
by the window. We have blackened out your eyes,
but a strange science is at work: here your pupils
are visible; here your hair flies in with the draught (action-
reaction); and there your skin is so pale we see blood
channel through. I shake my black box. It rattles.
It too works with theorems and will they come apart
if opened?

 

 

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