the projectionist
"it was night in some unknown place and i was making slow and painful headway against a strong wind, dense fog all around. i had my hands cupped around a tiny light, which threatened to go out at any moment. suddenly, i had the feeling that something was coming up behind me. i looked back and saw a gigantic black figure following me..."
~ psychoanalyst carl jung, recounting a dream from his early twenties
you see her in dreams, a lonely theatre -
the villain in the corner of your eye,
mantle of red velvet straight from your veins.
faceless, therefore anyone– skeleton
to flesh with projection, to cast as the
guileful pulcinella, whirring frame
by frame. but the cloth screen is a false flag
and each little trick ricochets. unwind
the film. pull the curtain. the mask is a
looking glass– the figure twirls as you
tug on her strings, her scene your own tableau.
she is an echo; the hand you place the blade
in after cutting your own to the quick.
but is it truth you fear, or merger?
