IX. Slow moving black and white frames flickering on the silver screen of vast Western landscapes. Flatness like the mouth of God punctuated by the arrhythmic intrusion of massive stone monoliths painted in brilliant stripes of orange and earthy mauve. Like giants, watchers, lurching with age, observers of geologic time, embodiments of death. Clouds sparse or nonexistent. The sky a vast and infinite blue, daily transforming into warmth and violence.
These scenes slowly creep by in black and white. Canyons of static and representation. Scratches and dust on the film. Canyons of static and representation. The moment before the scream arrested.
Wearing paints of sand, nude, a small horde is loosely collected. They wander in the vast blue above and cracked clay below, a dry lake bed. Locked as they are into affective loops, arranged like leaves haphazardly blown about a sidewalk, they see this landscape as the remnants of their past concrete utopia. The ubiquitous mirage smeared on the horizon, painted heat surrounding them, reminds them of the reflected brilliance of the sun across walls of glass and chrome, blessing the skins of their international style palaces. The sand like so much waste and cigarette butts, and discarded paper.
These wanderers have reached the height of the new beauty. Living puppets, trapped in their own shit circuit affections, ordinates of something they can’t quite remember. But they remember the bloodlust of avarice, manifest as it is in endocrine-electric shocks from the head to the genitals, to the stomach, to the genitals, to the head, to the stomach and so on.
