A “movie” is not an image in motion. The word itself is deceptive. Only when we play a certain number of frames per second—each a photograph, a pause—can the eye turn stillness into fluidity.

—

Call me crazy, I don’t mind. As if you’ve never talked to tattered cloth, consoled sad soap, caressed a white blouse like a lover. Admit it. Every time I bare my dreams, this screen becomes a mirror. 

—

Dappled light on neon lawns. Golden sand. Sidewalk palms. I see myself amidst it all. The crowded shows, the kick drums. If I left today, would anyone here remember my face? 

—

On every flight, I fall for a stewardess. Those red silk scarves. Those navy blue skirts. Even when we’ve tossed our uniforms to the floor, I play with plastic planes, stick a landing on her shoulder. 

—

A camera capturing half as many frames leaves its shutter open twice as long. The result: a smeared subject, a hazy chase. Definition comes only if you sip slow coffee, watching the world pass you by. 

—

Who are you? Yes, you in the trench coat. The blond wig. Those red-rimmed shades. Do like you pineapple? . . . Fine: turn your head, light a cigarette. I can tell a story in the space between us.

—

Focus on the dot and the ring around it fades. 

Funny how a steady gaze can erase what lies in our periphery.

—

You’re lonely, aren’t you? I felt it from across the bar. Why else would a woman be wearing shades this late? She’s either blind or she’s a poseur or she doesn’t want people to see she’s been crying. 

Okay. No one knows anyone anyway. For a bed tonight, I’ll play whatever role you need me to play. 

—

With twelve frames captured, we duplicate each to project the reel at twenty-four per second. The result: choppy stop-motion. The same image flashed twice in a row. Then a skip—a jump—the subject jerks forward. As if to remind the eye: all of this is simply stillness. We make the motion. 

—

I catch you through frosted glass, a soda door in a convenience store. I say: Hey, I still think you look better in uniform. You say: You do, too. And I ask myself if we ever truly saw each other. 

—

Five years in love, and when we broke up, you said I didn’t understand you. What lingers in my mind? Twelve pleasant memories for every twenty-four. From there, I duplicate, to fill in the blanks. 

—

Did you go to California? Was it fun? 

California? Nothing special there. 

You look good in uniform.

You look good without one. 

—

I ran into you chasing someone through the marketplace. That was the closest we ever came, and still: 0.01 centimeters between us. 

—

Here are four circles, each with a quarter removed. But what do you see in that blank white space? 

—

A woman in a wig. A state on a map. A badge, a black tie, a walkie-talkie. But what do you see? 

—

A scattered set of snapshots. Lunches, dinners, late-night coffee. Five slugs over a tin of anchovies. Four circles, none complete. And yet here we are, filling the frame with all these lovely dreams. ■

IMAGE ATTRIBUTION

Troxler’s fading circle by Swiss physician Ignaz Paul Vital Troxler  
Kanizas’s square by Italian psychologist Gaetano Kanizsa

Both free to use with attribution (CC BY-SA 3.0)

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