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48 Interpreting the Films Here I am hunched over another impression of the brain with its wads of flat batting and weird yarn, thinking how can I read these films without a light board— me, foolishly holding each chronic image up against the screen door in the kitchen, my brain’s blank cauliflowers over and over, twenty tiny brain images per page, twenty-five films, brain, brain, brain—and there in the center, what everyone is talking about (itself looking like nothing to talk about), a shape like one of my daughter’s plastic blocks stuck in the thick of it all, wedged right in the fat bulb of breathing and bath time and bringing in the weekend groceries and so I wake at two a.m. with my films pressed to the side of a fish that turns in an instant and is gone. ...

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