Egg Yolks, Eyes Open In the Rain (Tampopo)
She watches a lot of documentaries.
I don't. I find documentaries difficult.
I like them, but choosing to watch them?
Difficult.
So a few months back she said there was this Werner Herzog documentary.
Or maybe a Werner Herzog interview. Maybe on Youtube.
And she said that he said that we need new images in cinema.
She said, "We need new images. Not just in cinema."
Both agreed it was a matter of survival.
Tampopo.
I had never seen a man die in the street in the rain before.
No, I've seen that. That's not new. That's in the movies.
Men die in the street all the time.
But die on his back, looking at the sky.
With rain in his eyes.
His eyes open in the rain. His eyes filling with rain - not tears.
Rain, not tears.
This is important.
Full, wet eyes. Spilling over. Not with tears.
Important.
The baby at the breast I've seen.
The child and the ice cream. The ubiquitous noodles.
The transformation from mouse to woman.
The man with an eye always on the window.
The fight scene - pure Big Country, transported.
The oyster in the palm, the blood, the tongue, the sea-salt girl, the man in white.
These are things I know.
From Sade, from Quills, from porn, from books, from something.
From what, I don't know.
Things I've heard or talked about or read or saw in a painting.
Things I somehow know.
Which are beautiful to see again.
The woman rising from her deathbed. Yes.
She cooks her family one last meal. Yes, yes.
Crying and eating. Eating and raging. Crying and raging and eating.
Death and appetite. Grief and service. Rage, vocation, demand.
The things that suck you dry. That call you from the brink. One last time.
All familiar. Like a good ghost story.
All good ghost stories are familiar.
The trains.
The trains that take the dead away.
The trains that carry souls away.
This, I know.
This, I've even written.
But I could not have imagined the egg yolk.
Nor will I ever see an egg yolk without imagining that again.
No, an egg yolk will never be the same again.
To see that egg yolk, passing from his mouth to hers.
Hers to his. His to hers.
To his, to hers, to hers.
To see that egg yolk becomes a matter of survival.
***
I don't. I find documentaries difficult.
I like them, but choosing to watch them?
Difficult.
So a few months back she said there was this Werner Herzog documentary.
Or maybe a Werner Herzog interview. Maybe on Youtube.
And she said that he said that we need new images in cinema.
She said, "We need new images. Not just in cinema."
Both agreed it was a matter of survival.
Tampopo.
I had never seen a man die in the street in the rain before.
No, I've seen that. That's not new. That's in the movies.
Men die in the street all the time.
But die on his back, looking at the sky.
With rain in his eyes.
His eyes open in the rain. His eyes filling with rain - not tears.
Rain, not tears.
This is important.
Full, wet eyes. Spilling over. Not with tears.
Important.
The baby at the breast I've seen.
The child and the ice cream. The ubiquitous noodles.
The transformation from mouse to woman.
The man with an eye always on the window.
The fight scene - pure Big Country, transported.
The oyster in the palm, the blood, the tongue, the sea-salt girl, the man in white.
These are things I know.
From Sade, from Quills, from porn, from books, from something.
From what, I don't know.
Things I've heard or talked about or read or saw in a painting.
Things I somehow know.
Which are beautiful to see again.
The woman rising from her deathbed. Yes.
She cooks her family one last meal. Yes, yes.
Crying and eating. Eating and raging. Crying and raging and eating.
Death and appetite. Grief and service. Rage, vocation, demand.
The things that suck you dry. That call you from the brink. One last time.
All familiar. Like a good ghost story.
All good ghost stories are familiar.
The trains.
The trains that take the dead away.
The trains that carry souls away.
This, I know.
This, I've even written.
But I could not have imagined the egg yolk.
Nor will I ever see an egg yolk without imagining that again.
No, an egg yolk will never be the same again.
To see that egg yolk, passing from his mouth to hers.
Hers to his. His to hers.
To his, to hers, to hers.
To see that egg yolk becomes a matter of survival.
***