Odorless selves bloom into polymer formations. Plastic sticks shoot sterile nodes. Anti-seasonal Season’s Greetings scream out of sweaty closets stuffed full of forgotten double-knit polyester suits. Sideburn caterpillars slink into the fireplace glow of display screens. The same artificiality as last year fills the air with the cheer of a wig bouncing on a slippery pate. A polyethylene coating for the tongue helps cough up holiday hair balls.
Randomness swells across the floating line. It is difficult to keep track of the difference between each rolling frequency without the aid of a mechanical eye. The position of the threshold shifts and the intensity of the emergence stretches and breaks the surface in its specific yet same way. The reflections of the sun sparkle in patterns that mirror the random immensity of these movements. Phantom bodies roll through this ever-shifting zone where even if the same exact wave were to pass through it would be received differently but the difference would perhaps be slight enough to go unnoticed or slightly noticed then quickly forgotten. Like when one goes home and tells others “I went to the beach and watched the waves.” The waves get consolidated into one phenomenon. A general wave stuck breaking. A frequency on repeat. A signal from a fixed threshold of a composite memory sounding off like a fog horn moving with the fog. The exactitude of the origin lost to the layering of more emergences breaking into the mind when it shifts between its thresholds and loses track of all the iterations and the specificity of those iterations rolling by.
Have you ever come across a moment where the situation seems to have always existed in this particular way? What I mean is that sometimes I stumble across a seemingly insignificant moment like this one – dockworkers prepping and loading a catch in the early morning – and for a moment what I witness seems as if it has always been that way. Maybe a byproduct of memory snags my sleeve. The sensation of some eternal stain trails behind the simulation of the senses. And for a brief moment, an ephemeral scene seems as if it lasts forever in a strange loop or a pocket of simulated memory. A mise en scène stuck on repeat in a strange theater suspended somewhere accessible to other minds in other ages or even other planets. Transferred across other mediums. A mass of images collected behind the frame of consciousness seeping in over time from a cosmic hive mind.
Locked up makeshift storage of once useful things long forgotten can be opened up many years later. Short-term memory waves broke decades ago but still wash up on the shore today where a row of new worshippers sit on their meditation boards, as the old did, and wrestle with their desires while they gaze upon their floating temple that guides them through the oncoming set of watery frequencies. And the reflection of my shadow, of who I used to be and all that I was unaware of when transfixed by that practice, oddly fits back into this ramshackle lean-to memory shed that seemed less permanent at the time it was built.
A conspiracy theory is like the scrawl found on a wall somewhere. The inked characters are desperate to get out the truth as the owner of the hand who wrote it wants you to believe it. When the only message it sends is one of a mind in need of greater self-reflection. A mind in need of more critical ability than finding a scapegoat or a cure-all. It reads as a call for help from someone who needs to find a pattern or put an order to the chaos in order to feel as if things could be under control or solved. That there is always somebody to blame (ironically negating the randomness of existence). The laziness of its accusations abounds online but I have to believe that most people see it as I do, like nonsense scribbled on a random wall whose truth is nothing but sad.
The space consumes the form and the form the space. The terrain absorbs itself. Color sops up difference. Separations pinch. Holes twist open. Pathways stretch from crevices. This strange material is caught in a stagnant churn. Reforming the form without any original form to begin with and no final form to reach. Tossing and tumbling into itself, it ingests what it discharges and discharges what it ingests. Its gestures are traces; its cracks experiences. A static vortex suspended by its own force hovers through the emptiness.