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
if I was struck down, I did not feel any pain. I only know I’m on my back, head tilted backwards to see what was behind me. the only truth of those things would be in the camera. It was hard to focus the lens, but I captured his face, those bright pin points of pink light in the black cesspool of his eyes, his fangs, a hunger baring. my dealer, and some others, had turned.
only in hindsight do we think about sources.
-was it the contents of those packages, consumed? or
-the sudden exposure to lights?
-where did the glowing green pallor of skin come from?
-was the aura coloured by human energetic systems?
there was something sensed, an otherworld, whenever he touched my shoulder blades. It is not allowed, the touching, but I let him do it, largely because he is my dealer, also because contact could reveal one or the many sources.
If they had struck me down, I did not feel any wounds or bite marks or blood changing in my veins. maybe those ways of transmissions are the ways of old. maybe I’m already turning without knowing.
the lost cousin rides into the arcade where we live, either on an animal or a machine built to look like one. He is searching for a woman believed to be a sister. it is told- he has come to study the imagination music of dragons. I let him pass, to go deeper into the arcade.
I am sent away from wherever I was, either by train or aircraft. the carry on bag contains remains (possibly my own): ventricular, avenues of blood flow, possibly a lung no longer needed, torn plastic wrappers, utilities almost depleted. the third bag in cargo is full and heavy with unknown things. I say goodbye to thin agents of the art, those responsible for my travels. I leave them seated on plastic chairs in central neighbourhood.
a new, outboard component has been added to my body. this could be the makings extracted from pictures taken, studied and applied. a slim breathing tube, easily assembled in three parts; two airways for the nostrils, one for the brain. content of atmosphere and gasses unknown. I cannot fathom if the air I need makes the density of my bones lighter, or if my body had turned, thus needing such air. I only know I move with silence, in the heart of some deaf conflict. my enemies throw aspects of the room at me, deftly, I avoid collisions. the scenes where I end their lives are not shown, but I am talking to the last general, possibly struck down, paralysed or at the edge of death. on a tablet, I show him the bio of a Russian woman. “She is the specialist, here to dispose the bodies.” it is shown: she has exited her vehicle and is on the way. I see the aftermath, strewn stories below, corpses in suits in disarray. it is not known if i ended the generals’ life.
this uniform has a history of anger – a sick, pale green; the memory of schooling and military
hair, as an extension of old consciousness, is shaved off at 7.30.a.m. it takes too much time, too many stressors, chasing a clock that does not move.
the black, electric shaver goes missing while messy, missed clusters of hair remain.
through a mirror I see my skull newly extended from the back with possible implants, growth, swelling or otherwise. frustration escalates but I now kneel on the master bed of the old house. She is propped against pillows, a face mixed with alien DNA, a stellar glare, hypnotic static as aura, almond starry eyes, a cascade of pitch black hair. she whispers something electric, my body experiences it. A white modern mystical intimacy.
i’ve taken the journey to the land of all whites. i’ve gone past the safe zones, into uncharted.
white sand and gravel, white road side stalls, white mountain, paramount, white ghetto and sun burnt villagers in white clothes. a third world heaven, uncluttered, without heat despite all the light
there is animal meat, deep fried in black woks, there are cubes of oil fat swine lard charcoal burnt for sale
I wander through tents without walls where contraband figures of idols, important adventurers, war heroes, spacefarers hang high. I spend unknown time here, resolving, becoming home.
a part of me belongs to this pirated conclave, to this white, primal universe.
we wait near the high altar, in the tall but small house, in our grey and black suits. We sit in leather armchairs, legs crossed, contemplating the mysteries.
she will come back through the room (it could be the room that makes her what she is)
we wait for songs to manifest, for art to appear on the wall above the bed
we wait for blue lights to begin glowing, like those lights from the festival on that alien world.
then we’ll know she has returned
we will meet her for the second time in so many days
we would ask her about the food consumed, and how it made her frequency adaptable
we will study the sounds and shapes she brings back, with hopes they can teach the ways to follow, to enter, to fall into the worlds she comes from
we wait to learn her name in a house without clocks
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