This was going to be a contribution from Rob Todd to our dossier on Jean Luc Godard. At the time, Rob forgot the deadline and the dossier was published without his piece. I’d like to remember him now, his kindness and his art.
An umbrella needs to open, but is jammed at the base, hands shake and pull at the stem and the handle, but the tree is dead, the petals remain dormant inside it, locked in the spell of unbecoming.
In a note written to a former European President, the strains of memory press outward from the text, and yet fail to burst. It’s import (or some would call it “meaning”) hurled in varied directions by the gales of a collective subconscious that refuses to acknowledge mythology or poetry, and thereby finds its limbs stretching awkwardly into the vacuum of the forgotten, a void filled with mercury. Its dissolution arrived at through assimilation with that heavy metal, or was it through the endless possibilities for reflection?
There is so little that needs to be acknowledged for life to happen, the ends of two things touching briefly, to transfer a miniature portion of the power that fuels a stars and brings its facsimile into the body of a glowing Citgo sign from one ___ to another ____ to make MORE ___; a thing that can happen without anyone looking, and isn’t sight what is at issue, trying its best to remain relevant in the deafening storm?
You check into a hotel, and find yourself defeated. The money will be fully exchanged at the end of tomorrow’s morning, and so little of it will go to the staff, you think, aware of the hotel shareholders’ needs being vague abstractions that have separated your from your own vague abstractions, with no human player really looking at the actual costs of all things related to this scenario as they murmur toward the drain at the end of the parking area, now clogged, awaiting some organic key to unleash these very real poisons: the effluent blood of the complex of creatures that protect us from the world we have sought to avoid for millennia.
The uttered word strikes its cord but is met by nothing but itself.
Most sincerely, and certainly YOURS (in all senses),
(24.52o N latitude to 49.38o N latitude, and from approximately 66.95o W longitude to 124.77o W longitude.)