“The angel has chosen you.”
And so you are placed in this derelict warehouse. You’ve been here before but the memory is false. The signature of this space is familiar, its vast dimensions, the filth on the walls, the dim, the dusk lit world beneath the world, these things you have seen and it reaches out to you, to feel you.
The voice tells you, you are chosen, then there is nothing else.
Days, or is this hours after the girl takes you from the dream?
This is months, or is it years after the carnival? The cavern under the world, long after the war. (Where are the transvestites buried?)
You believe you know, they are outside in Siberian winter, where all the other Civilisations are. Body and spirit taken by the relentless whitewash of frozen wind and immense light, buried under a continent, an ocean, an atmosphere of snow storms. You are uncertain if they remain buried.
You are put into this derelict warehouse, sitting on decomposing crates full of empty bottles. You are wrapped in gypsy blankets and patchwork quilts unwashed for ages but it smells only of age.
There is a Romanian family of wanderers with you, packing analogue photography gear into damp cigar boxes. Bodies of dated daguerreotype, soot ruined plates, moulding lenses, trigger cables, exposure control, polaroid cartridges from bygone times, mismatched and wrongly fitted into makeshift compartments.
The boxes are latched, they slide into slots in the wall, chutes that angle down onto the unseen grounds outside.
You sense other presences beyond the shutters but you do not hear them. There’s no way of looking to be sure. The wooden panelling, aluminium barricades block out light (assuming there is any outside.)
There is only ice and below zero cemetery fields. You are not even sure if the presences are human. But you know they want human artefacts. So the family provides. Imaging equipment. Products for creating posterity. Whose , you don’t know. History is a vague dissolution trapped in glacial tombs.
It is after the war. Allies defeated by Axiiom. Very much long after. The carnival has dismantled. An exodus. Only the family, the original owners of the entourage, is left behind, forgetting their roles and names.
“See which one you like, after work, and take it.”
You know it’s not the family who speaks, it’s neither the voice of the warehouse nor the entire reality outside this quantum point. It’s something inside you that prophesies. A subject and object in shared broadcast space, a triangulation of common consciousness, inter mind communication. They beam unto you or you are that which beams. You send and receive, both signal and signalled, noise and the auralspatium that contains it.
What is this work?
The documentation of items, packages,boxes, handed over to the unknowable outside? Are you the final witness of slow starvation and disappearance of the family? They tell you nothing. They only pack their things and slot them away, building treasures in some after world. They do not make eye contact. They never will.
What are you to take?
Maybe they’ll let you keep memory. To be extracted by camerama at a later period. Maybe they will let you make the film. A post existence documentary, where the cameraman you see is the cameraman you are.
Maybe they’ll let you keep the youngest child of the family. To manipulate the d.n.a, the chemistry, to procreate the post—family, to advance and evolve the wanderers path, once the last generation fades away into the white.
After this work, you take the box you like.
The least destroyed of filmic machines. The unexposed reel most untouched by fungi and flora of the past.
To film the bodies, the unmarked boundaries, the long and everlasting horizon.
Maybe they’ll let you rename the wastelands, the creatures of Sky and sea.
Maybe you’ll be the last of this kind.
The scour of dream activity