Dreams of Godard
A poetic exploration of the moments, quotes, and ideas from the 2001 Jean-Luc Godard film Éloge de l’amour.
On “Éloge de l’amour”
...Do you remember the names?”
“Maybe nothing was said...”
Two people seated across from one another
He keeps flipping through an empty notebook
from beginning to end...
She turns toward him,
with her wide-eyed gaze,
stops on a page in the middle
clasping his hand
and writes something
What if I said I remembered you in luscious monochrome,
of cinematic textures so tangible,
it's as if I could extend my hand,
reaching past the artifice of the silver screen
your back turned, your stare toward me
to the distance.
yet I hear the sound
of the nocturnal ocean waves
breaking against the seaside
syncing with the diminuendo
of the last dying breath
of an Adagio
She sits in a dimly lit room
rocking in her chair
forward and back,
eyes half closed,
smiling at the sound of his voice
through the phone.
While the two discuss everything
and nothing at all,
she finds her mind wandering.
What was the expression on his face
when she spoke?
Does he pace around the room,
or remain seated like she does,
She laughs before asking him to repeat again
slowly what he had just said
of a smile.”
My melancholic journey
recalls fractured moments
collecting in dust
around the dilapidated edifice
that houses them.
and petrified roses.
Pieces of fallen smiles and laughs
gradually fading away.
Maybe it was that of an infant
or a close friend now departed
laughing on the banks of the Back Bay,
the warmth of a lover,
the elderly in passing,
the girl whose smile eclipsed the blood moon,
someone yet to be encountered:
“a girl with big eyes”
Our lives sit at a crossroad between our memories,
imbedded in our own personal journeys
and the collective memory we sometimes refer to as history.
There is no story of you or me.
...thinking of something...
“...When I think about something,
I’m thinking of something else.
You can only think about something
if you think of something else.
I see a landscape that is new to me
but it’s new to me
because I mentally compare it
to another landscape,
an older one
one that I knew.”
With his head on the window
against his reflection
watching the landscape
of sloping fields
pass him by,
he flips through his empty notebook
thinking of writing.
Is holding on to memory an act of love?
The full meaning of things
only seems to become apparent
once their story has concluded.
Images pass us by so quickly,
we are only left with our recollections,
from which to construct our own narratives.
Memory has no obligations.
We can only hold dearly
to those we’ve have imbued deeper meaning,
or venture on forward
toward the Elysian Fields
in search of something more...