I don't remember the names of my great-grandparents.
I'm sure I must've known them, but given a crowd of faces; I doubt I could pick them out. And yet, Jonas Mekas makes me think that I could.
The Lithuanian hunches over an editing table, plunging his paint-splattered hands behind him like some dazed ballerina, reaching for a film strip at random. The tapes hang on his walls, frames draping in suspension, swaying in the New York breeze. Memories lost and…