Film...

Last night standing behind

an angry boy's head; a big shaggy explosion of hair...

I see you there...

yes...

I see you

when

I close my eyes

And there's no more light

No more pinks or blues or purples

Only voices

when

I look up again

Everything

seems so

strange.

As if every word mattered.

And I'm suddenly

transported

where

we are precious

Everything

every jerk pull twitch blink shuffle sigh grumble

is priceless

and

most of all

real.

--------------

Epilogue: Last night I went to some showing. A collection of short films by Malaysians. I was looking for what I couldn't see. And found it in snatches of young people with no idea how to write clever lines. Perhaps that was the smartest thing they could have done. I wonder if they'll go back to the editing rooms. To the rehearsal studios. To the backrooms of cigarette smoke and brain storms. Coffee cups and packets of cold coconut rice and day old chili chutney. And switch off influences. And go back to continuity. How each of us flow. Through talk. Through ritual. Through thoughts. That stream like rivers. That rush forward like cloud drift. And wonder if they'll learn to capture that with more ears open.

Through voices that reach us in places so deep,
we no longer need to turn up the volume to listen.