we were too close to the cinematic screen, sitting at a bad angle. the film wasn’t continuous, too many broken parts, a non-linear anthology with long fade to blacks and back again.
it could’ve been Alice lost in india, if india was a storm, lost at sea; alice, first as animated, too young a girl, then in the flesh, in a golden saree, skin burnt dark and spirit worn out by heat and space.
the film took long months out of our patience, a seeded restlessness growing in acres. just as we thought it ended, another scene began, crawling out of the black screen, showing alice waiting, anxious, depleted.
the false war lasted 1930-1933, declaration paper wrongly signed by generals mislead by thieves of history, all of them, mourning women, dubious and exact in their manipulations. men they had lost to future wars haunted their every move. they launched the war covertly from submarines, deep within the arctic. “The true war started after ’33, with 80 troops, everything else before that was a lie.” Alice had been found out. This makes her anxious, waiting, depleted by the currency of sun and clocks. it is unclear who or what she is waiting for. it could be a zeitgeist, avenging, it could be a punisher without mercies.
after the film, we emerged in the solar desert town again. perhaps, years have passed and I am once more alone in a strange land. I searched street stalls for clove cigarettes, packed like cigars by chinese manufacturers. I asked for prices, either because I had little money or the consistency of costs had failed in the starving land. somewhere, the aboriginal bus was waiting to take me to an other