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Orosz István - Az idő látképei / Time Sights

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Uploaded on Nov 28, 2008

Hungarian animated short film:
Orosz István - Az idő látképei (Pannónia Film Stúdió, 2004)
Istvan Orosz - Time Sights

The morning will be so real, so perfect,
like a dream, the taste of a dream
to be remembered by a dreamer woken in another dream.

Will she really be there, and will it still be her?
What kind of customs and performances will she follow?

There will be as many versions of the memory
as there are people to remember it.

Why will she turn away,
and why will she then look us straight in the eye?

Ivy will climb up the columns,
and atlases will be filled with numbered figures.
Nascent shadows will spill across the terraces,
and one’s eyes will grow accustomed to the symmetry.

Where will the images spring up from?
From which layer of consciousness will they emerge?

Will anybody remember the riddle of the maze,
and will anybody be able to finish the unfinished sentences?

Perhaps it will be a Sunday in an odd year in an even century,
and it will happen to be the day of the equinox.

She will begin her sentences with ‘I’.

We will list the names of colours:
cyan, umber, ochre, burnt sienna,
but we always begin with violet...

Everything will return to the way it was;
the rotation of time will carve an arc
along the marble of the sundial.

It will feel like we are leaving the objects behind;
we will pause to feel time lingering above our heads.
I will say ‘the smell of time’; you will say ‘the taste of time’,
then go quiet, or maybe you will not utter a word.

Above the hot terraces, where past and future meet,
in the lonely coordinate system of expectation and memory,
the air will start to vibrate;
we’ll stare, squinting, at the setting sun.

‘Wasted, wasted time’ is what you will say,
or you will fall silent, searching for a word, some precise expression,
a word the dead cannot know for as long as we say they are alive.

The dream with perpetually be in the present,
a series of pictures with no beginning and end,
no reference points, no hierarchy;
we will be like the protagonists in a strange film.

Time and space will cease to exist;
both will merely be part of a ceremony, of a contract,
some strange rule of a game,
the origin of which nobody can remember.

Creation will be suspended.
The person who will give it a name will not have arrived yet.


* * *


The morning was so real, so perfect,
like a dream, the taste of a dream
remembered by a dreamer woken in another dream.

Was he really there, and was it still him?
What kind of customs and performances did he follow?

There were as many versions of the memory
as there were people to remember it.

Why did he turn away,
and why did he then look us straight in the eye?

Ivy climbed up the columns, and atlases became full of numbered figures.
Unusual shadows had been spilt onto the terraces,
and one’s eyes become used to the symmetry.

From where did those images arise?
Which depths of the mind did they appear from?

Did anybody find the exit to the maze,
and was anyone capable of finishing the unfinished sentences?

Maybe it was a Sunday in an odd year in an even century,
and it so happened to be the day of the equinox.

He finished his sentences with ‘You’.

We went through the names of colours:
violet, ochre, cobalt, burnt sienna...
The last one was always umber.

Everything went back to how it had been.
Ever turning back on itself,
time carved an arc into the clocks’ marble faces.

It was as if we had left the books behind;
we stood still and felt silence passing above us.
You said ‘the smell of silence’; I told you that silence had taste;
then I stopped talking, or maybe I didn’t say a word at all.

Above the empty terraces, where past and future met,
at the lonely intersection of expectation and memory,
the air became trembling hot; squinting,
we stared into the blinding sunset.

‘Wasted time,’ you said; wasted,
and in vain did you search for a word,
a single word you couldn’t say out loud,
a word the dead couldn’t know for as long as we said they were alive.

The dream was forever locked in its own time,
a series of pictures with no beginning and end,
no reference points, no hierarchy;
it was as if we were the characters in an art movie.

Time and space both ceased to exist,
becoming mere elements of a ceremony,
of a secret contract, or a rule of a game,
the origin of which nobody could remember.

Creation was suspended.
The person who would give it a name had not arrived yet.

(Translated by David Evans)

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