They put me in the mall again.
Full of fleeting figures, sparse movements on unaccountable levels.
The woman, the silent partner, the manifestation of hidden desires, lurks at the back of my awareness, on a swift and quiet train, gliding into future city.
They place me, wandering in the hive mind of stores.
The video man, who was absent in prior days, return (though I do not actively see him)
He gives me the recording device.
I am given no clear instructions, so I film sporadically on the camera phone.
There is no living line, no signal to voice, no two way comms.
I just film.
From outside the labyrinth mall, the mansion of occult architecture, I stand with my back against the timeless tree.
I see the first storefront is all glass with no doors.
From wooden patio I begin filming, the walls of the store are illuminated yellow.
All yellow, the altar, like monk robes, religious skin, prayer paper for the dead, I move in, filming.
Here lies The Ritual room, i’m drawn into the core altar of papier-mâché, perception of its depth shapes changing, observational quantum flux.
Octagonal, hexagonal, square turned, cubes inside cubes, then the roots, sucked into spherical, the tree of life deformed and skewed, entering / exiting the window inside cardboard spaces, deep illusion, perspective lengthening, shortening, every angle changing its face and features.
I pass through glass, into funereal air, all bright, beaming beige and yellows, I greet directions, every turn lingering, false plastic candelabra light, left and right guarding vacant pedestal on risen table, no gods on site (no coffin where there should be.)
I watch a paper Canary attached to fishing string. The faux bird flies, hunting in circulars, wings extended, swirling above my head like a dizzy spell. I pass under it, through the unseen door.
Into corridor, before another faceless store, dark unlit, hardware house with coloured wires in rolls, in gordian knots, greens, yellows, hanging on hooks.
There is no power, no electric.
The next store is a glass cube, a room sized tank, dry hay,
Cobras. Twins. Head bloated, fanned out but its body isn’t erect or ready to strike.
Then from blindside, a large creature moves. A bulk of light brown fur, headless, heavy, stomping on serpents.
At the far right, in rows, in stacks, lie crushed snakes, just their skin shells, outer forms, hollowed out with pink insides, cut open, contents removed, sleeping dead on high hay.
Wild brown rabbits scatter. The huge creature crushes them under innocent gravitas, skulls smash
Snakes die. Pink blood muddying dead straw grass.
I film it all for camerama.
On other levels in the mall, a basement with heavenly lights, I am searching for Codex.
I know I’m collecting thin tomes with pictures, printed speech,single issues (only 2 released) of the title in need.
On a display board at the entrance, I find my black book, previously lost, pages intact, sketches of various killers, creatures, forbidden texts.
“This is mine.” The storekeeper demands I prove it. There is a number advertised, writ in blue ink. I tell him to dial it.
The camera phone rings, I show him the store number I.D.
“This book is mine.”
He agrees. I take the white plastic bag of books and leave.