A coinciding of sensibly executed research here at 1430 has brought to the surface a recent array of diary entries written by explorers on the eve of their well documented mystic discoveries. Which is why the notes of 19th century mariner Royor Bison appear here, well before his fabled journey under the Bering Sea in a glass ball.
Much airy, atmospheric delight adrift in an oxygenless vacuum, much rocket ship travel and winged diddies strapped and engaged, and much left for the cavernous depths of the under, much to be spelunked, much faith in threads gripped by hands at the open end of space, tugging discreet rhythm from the body, a nest. In doing so, dozens of staircases assemble. Steps are planes with gilded edges and outside a rolling fog descends from a rolling cumulous which descends from a webbed hand with drawbridge patience, unfurling a thick curlicue of slate colored gas. Plants turning to dawn with attendent pleasure. We are on this plateau, a sooty misgiving which will divide and envelop as reflex so we best keep moving, I think, I think that hall leads to her office. She keeps a space in this building because she is accredited. We too are accredited - a rouge watchmaker rubberstamps our mission, hence the need to keep moving, I say, and the troupe agrees, turning right and coming upon her squarely, eyes already supplicating our intent. Cool, she was expecting us.
Now for the alignment. Now other times, for aligning. What surprises me is that when we do open the passage for entry, she and then I will be the only two I notice to go through. I've got the piece on my wrist for now though, and we are without affect in going through the many potential metal to metal combinations. Reflection is the lubricant of propriety and so it goes - green on gray, red, yellow, blue on gray, and -- of course -- gray on gray - until the firing is fired and the illuminated fabric splits with a silent crackle. A nod of understanding and she goes diving head first in while I keep my balance on my back leg like I'm waiting for a catfish to finish it's struggle. In succession, my handing of the rod - gray on gray - to my crew member, a final wonder of where the whole goes, my ground leaving leap, and now, a fatty encasement closes my options to moving forward or suffocation.
We're dropped now and I'm in a tuxedo and tails, ushered along in tour to our seats, moving through a cathedral, the moving I envision my guide and I crawled through for. Gold and brown, gold. Tiers of opera house boxes the shape of tears, boxes the shape of houses housing people in tears, the steady stream of which caresses the gold wings, gold plates, gold motionless sanctified images cut from the wall between occupied boxes. A bride appears. She has moved through the crowd touching each hand before another, greeting their greetings with humble thank yous opening silently across her lips. She is a good distance from us, on a platform across the hall with many tails wagging between. And then a groom appears, pops up through the floor near our seats, pops out of nowhere really, a magician groom appearing and before you know it he's up on somebody's shoulders. He is riding on shoulders up and down the aisle and before it all goes away, I get in some dancing in front of my seat, neck turning like an owl, clapping along to keep the noise from collapsing the ceiling in on us.
The same Dani, early writings published later in his life. It’s a common phenomenon in the future- Young jungle buck finally signs on to a moon tour and in days is shitting his silver pants at the shift of a seductor’s glance. As many will tell you, meaning remains elusive where plants seldom speak and the clouds never break to reveal the face you are talking to; but go under fluorescents and a whole globe can be represented by the light side of a head.
Who’s world is this? Its hers. My friend and I had slid into the juice bar booth only moments before. She spied us, and called me out. She was the friend of the friend whose invitation had brought us off of grey hallways and into this new moonscene which we soon found out they were owning.
In this low room every fruit of earth's jungle had been rendered elixir and suspended in vats clamped to beams above the counter. They were in reds and blues, greens and purples. Their names was listed on a screen all together. It was apparently supposed that we could: walk in; breathe the air of two-dozen voices without our own breath catching; find a seat as they faces watched us; then not only choose a juice but a suitable mix of them, them with names just nouns and adjectives all made-up.
That was too much. I sought my friend chest. In shame I lean against him and ask, “What the fuck.” Empathy. Our heads cock together, shame of defeat, roof of one’s own. The barboy don’t even glance at us.
The she starts out her dreadful yellin. She on a stool across the whole room arrayed around her, she rockin to the rock of the room, she the metronome, she the queen. Who but royalty can raise they voice above the room to call out a humble person? Who can conduct a shouting convo as if we was in private? Who could ask me to raise my voice to that royal level? My shame. She made me name my cocktail by mouthing 5 names. She laughed at my selection. She winked and told me she’d throw in an extra berry, that’s name started with a ‘g,’ that’s expensive, without charging me. It was ridicule; it was a prelude to a night where she and she friend so owned my friend and me that we’d have to hug close to remember who we used to be, back when it was just us and plants and nobody could use a roomful they already rule to rule you when you come in.
We at 1430 believe in duality. Discourse. The unification of experience. Lemonade in the summertime. Good things. When we published the writings of Wasi Shung Han-ja, we knew it was only a matter of time before its opposite, the yang (though we are loath to mix Asian metaphors) to its yin appeared in good time. That said, we bring you the notes of Robin 'Cheggers' Wise, infantryman, trader, sailor, and West Ham fanatic for life. 1430 supports no such institutional devotion -- silly, it is -- though we do believe Eric Cantona to be the finest footballer the Premiership has ever seen.
Shocking, it was. 'Ere's ol' 'Arry, jus standin' there, juggling the ball, like. An' up walks this chap. But wait, I'm gettin' ahead of me self. Me Wanda always warns me 'bout that. I never saw 'im walk, persay. Come to fink of it I never even seen 'iz footprints. Like he rose right up outta the sand, poncey ghoulish bastard.
So he's standing there, balanced on the balls of 'iz feet like some sort of crane. I mean a bird. But not that kind of bird. Aww, fuck all. He was there, this chap. Wearin' this real flowin' garment. Me Wanda wouldda been jealous. Silk sashes, brocades, a scabbard, the whole bit, yeah. 'Ad 'iz hair tied up in a fancy little tail, kinda like ol' Davey had when we trussed 'im up in a blouse an' bloomers after he got pissed and passed out on deck. We nearly killed ourselves laughin at the bloke. Cracking winger though, that Davey. Fast feet, even though the bastard holds onto the ball for ages. Goddamn primadonnas everywhere.
Anyway, imagine that, this chap givin' us his glassy orbs right on the beach, like we're the odd ones about. Givin' us the ol'Apple Pie. A right Japanese geez. (Like that one, lads? Eh?) So this spectre of the afternoon seems interested in our little six aside. He wrinkled 'iz lips, like he was about to say somefin', but he didn't say noffin'. He 'ad this wizened moustache, some sort of wispy animal crawling all over 'iz face an' collected near 'iz jowls. Looked a proper wanker, like those twat dons I've seen in paintings at hall at me old school. A crap philosophe type who probably goes out to 'iz local pub and monopolizes the conversation. I'd like to see 'im come to Barnet and try dat. Like he'd even been off his island. Not like us anyway.
But there we were, sharin' space. Geordie was down the beach wiv Spanner, that ginger prick, 'aving a fag when they were supposed to be playin' defence. I knew that cuz our visitor was pointing at 'em, ballsy bastard. So I took it upon myself to break the proverbial ice. I says, "Hey Guvnor, fancy a few kicks?" and whaled one at him wiv my right foot. Fucking prick catches it, no problem. "Bollocks!" you say, but no! He did it all easy-peezy like. So we show 'im where to stand and all, in front of goal-like, and we start playing.
Bastard was brilliant. Fucking clean sheet. Saving everything, all while wearing somefin' my wife would look silly in. Never even mussed 'iz hair, the ponce. But fair play to him, he was much better than the calamity we had in front of our goal. Fucking shite, he is.
Jim Frange is a really cool guy. He is so cool. When he says his name there is a blankness in his eyes that's sincerely humble. And all this even though he travels all around the world helping out on some of the best films being made. He has some tattoos on his arm that would surprise you with their originality, and their colors. And his girlfriend, Leiah, is hot, actually beautiful, like carved from soapstone. Anyway, this was photocopied from his journal and sent in to us at 1430, who never leave the building. The last shot was made, the last roll was snapped into its canister, and then came the time for the whole crew to rest. But for me personally, the end of the film, the questions it left unanswered, inspired me towards ideas for my own film, so much so that when G. (a producer) walked past me, I grabbed her by the shoulders and said, "G. its perfect! We need to make a postapoclyptic film, 'chaos vs those who make films!'” She was pretty tired though. Believe me I would not even have grabbed her like that if the camaraderie and the just-born nostalgia that surges out after the finishing of a film were not the mood-shaper of the moment. She had turned away from the last shot, its black column of smoke framing her pale face and white summer dress, and walked toward me, intending to pass by with a smile, but instead I put my arms on her clammy shoulders and kind of forced my gaze into hers. Such was my enthusiasm, I guess. “Forces of chaos vs. the guerilla filmmaker!” I said. “Chaos vs who?” she said, already shaking her head in tired protest. I let go her shoulders and she walked on.
That was pretty easy shrug off though. Minutes later I was lying with my girlfriend in a double cot under the big canvas tent, eating grapes. She asked “Do you think we made it into the last shot?” (We were in this scene as extras) “No, I don’t think so. We were in so many previous shots that it would have gotten repetitive. Besides, I turned and caught a glimpse of the camera, and it wasn't really pointed in our direction.” Soon scrapes of metal on concrete announced the arrival of R. a cameramen, the one, in fact, on whom my future hopes are pinned. He came towards us dragging his camera and the folding picnic table to which it was attached. Of course, the director of this project is of a generation to which application of the word 'guerilla' is redundant, and R. had been folding and unfolding the legs of the picnic table to change camera angles for the entire shoot. He had his trademark mustache and cap, he seemed to have a chill thing going on. To my suprise, he came and laid down under our cot. In a few moments his hand appeared beside my shoulder, open. I understood, and gave him some grapes. It was chill. I basked a couple of minutes longer. My girlfriends face shone. Then I mused outloud to R.- “wouldn’t it be great if you and I, with your mobile camera, made a kind of postapocalyptic film, where filmmakers are clotting together against the chaos that wants to break everything apart?” His hand appeared again. “I think it would be great if you gave me some more grapes.” My girlfriend and I laughed, we wouldn’t give up. Tonight, instead of grapes, they’rd be wine, or beer at least, and I would be clapping shoulders instead of placing hands on them, I would be grasping hands instead of placing grapes in them. And anyway, I thought, there’s always DV and the power of love.
Giovanni Srhume has been walking in light suits through sunny plazas for years now. He is not, however, afraid to do some digging in the dark places, or hole-up in a boat until the heat dies down. This arrived a few days ago on hotel stationary - the Ritz, as usual.
It became clear that the Movement had reached a truly heady state of fanaticism when they announced the abolition of their own secret police. This morning the busy street fell silent as the movement’s speaker emerged onto its second story veranda. Located just off the main plaza, the veranda often doubles as a stage for the movement’s theatrics, and such announcements have puzzled and thrilled. Indeed, rumors run contrary to each other as to whether one person or several serve as the face of the movement, as on some days a face bulges and fumes and throws looks to the sky as its round body paces back and forth across the veranda’s length like a caged tiger, puncturing sentences with out-and-out growlings, while on others, like today, the speaker is of a different sort. Indeed I looked up from my café table as the glass-paneled doors swung open and he emerged, arms raised in silent triumph. Looking out over the rooftops, head beaming that empty radiance of a bulb powered by some distant source, he spoke the good news of the Movement’s most recent accord. The street was silent; it spoke in its dozens of faces. We are of course at a moment where the Movement cannot be ignored. Its moving. Its headquarters, though not yet on the main plaza, seem to change location as evenly as a calendar moves from one square to the next. Thus faced, citizens can only take one line or the other because, even though it was ordained only a few months ago, the movement seems guaranteed victory in the fall. But how many heads have been seen walking presently in the morning and then spiked to the past by that morning’s passing? Many. This exactly is what astounded passerby. For had the Movement already achieved complete unification, if it had exiled all old enemies and begun systematically murdering new ones, then the putting aside of the police could have been understood. It would have been in line with the recognized fanaticism of the Movement as a peacetime gesture, one perhaps overdone, a rude leaving of the farm door open as if no wild critter would ever trespass again. It would have been an indication of an excess of belief in oneself, but one justified, at the very least, by one’s power to justify that same self’s wants. Therefore the preemptive nature of this declaration can only signify the ravings of fiends. To stand in the middle of the arena, 360 for the looking, and close the eyes that look towards the shadows shows a thinking that thinks of no need to leave the head. What plans are these, that might succeed, and what kind of world might they bring about? This is the worry of a world without secret police, which nearly every citizen, confiding, leaning into you, lowering chins, would admit to be necessary. Then again, perhaps the declaration would have seemed more salient had this time been the first. Sadly it’s almost every day that the man bursts out, eyes shining, declaring the structure more solid if its weaknesses are never investigated. What crumbles a foundation quicker than hands scrape-scraping away in search of a crack? What brings sleeplessness more inescapably than the searching for sleep? If only the shining face were made of more than light, if only residence could be taken up in that glass house, if only he and everyone else didn’t wake up grey mornings with the secret police at our bedsides, intoning dossiers as the day’s mood is struck.
This from the journals of a member of higher public profile than usual for a post. He's good for mornings where there's no tasting your food - and as a reminder to us that champagne and expatriotism don't always mix. To preserve anonymity we'll just call him D.H.
The queen-bee is showering. I am back in bed, alone for the first time since her yesterday's bathing. My head aches and when I look toward last night I see only black, blue, red in black, brown, white, gold. One’s hat pulled low, another’s chest puffed out. Last night’s dream is equally present. I look toward it and see black, red, gold, black, white. La même chose, as they say here. My dream continued the night like a bark continues its progress after the cutting of the engine. Symbols changed form but not color, and so the ugly restlessness of the evening found no respite when I lay my head upon her chest to sleep. Now, in memory, the dream preceeds its parent. She was driving my automobile back in a dream-England- an impossibility- so naturally we were waived to the side of the road by some enforcer of the law. Quickly, in the gold-lit, black-framed cabin, we switched seats so that I would take the blame and she keep her foreign papers unblemished. Thus all blame was placed on me, and fragile love fell away as it could not keep me from the jailer. The rest of the dream, its body, was my 25th hour, my rebuke of the world in the moment of bidding it goodbye, a hot-faced pulling-shut of a door before it could be slammed in my face. And of course the sensation of a slamming is the left-over of the evening spent prior to the dream. “We’re on vacation!” So she wanted to go to a cafe. “We’re in a café” so we ought to drink champagne. In time we were joined by others- filthy French, gaudy Italians- and I had endure the ordeal of her transformation, via champagne and mania, into a public being. After several glasses she was a marionette on strings tied to every point in the room. She tittered this way and that, a grotesque narration. Worst of all, whenever I caught her eye with my parched, longing, dead-weight gaze she looked away instantaneously, registering only the desperate need to turn from me. What depths this sent my mind into, I have learned to spare even myself the recounting. And if this were not sufficient to fold my brain inward, I witnessed, as a sort of cabaret accompaniment to this act, the gypsy trumpet player send her into an hysterics that built and redoubled in time with his rising musical onslaught in a manner so sexual that I almost dumped her off my lap, feeling her convulsing there so similarly to sex-times. Making love to music. Touched by nothing but the air. My god. This morning we drank red orange juice in wine glasses on the veranda. Dawn was more gold than apple green. I asked her to explain her darting eyes. She said, "Darling, I wasn’t looking at anything. I simply couldn’t." And that laugh? "Why, it was my own hysterics that drove me further, I wasn’t listening to a note that man was playing." I folded my napkin. I looked away, at whatever found itself beyond the railing. I knew she was looking at me to see if I believed her. I did. And so I felt better, or rather, perfectly wretched.