Film (March)

A film thinner than skin covers the subject. It’s the train and rain streaming down windows, changing the real into shapes of super-saturated colour. Passengers watch moving images for hours, no two frames the same. It was Dublin, where objects are soaked in films of water more days than not. We went to the Temple Bar Festival. Fillums they say in rain-thick Ireland, some gaelic glottal property. Those tissues of lies reel through the 20^th century with scarcely a flicker of rest, the long march. But that was another country. Now everything’s discs whirling on an axis, dry as dust.