Swordfish steak. Try to reach out with hands as they touch the ocean, I had a friend that always said pacific when he meant specific, if only he where here. I touch the pacific ocean with both hands, slowly bringing them across the surface of the water, dragging them back they naturally vibrate as the water filters between each of my fingers. One day I will walk into the ocean. I feel like I could be turned to sand. With one eye on my palm tree towel in red, blue, green and yellow with a orange frame, i think about how I know. i think about the information flowing, I think about it’s several strains and how they mix and mingle to produce the sensation of reason. How, if a rounded or heavy or dark black distant surface of granite was affixed with the correct signage it could mean. Are the points that mean just the bits we can see, like the bits of rock that stick out from the ocean, is our knowledge like the surface of the ocean and the reality like everything above and below the ocean? So its a calmer day, no rushing around, no turning into tight muscular packages, today, at the edge of land looking out, we visit the beach. We film at the beach, i sit and wonder, what is my awareness compared to that of the whale, probably less, but then, this Syrian Dolphin from 300AD and this Iranian fragment from 1200AD, sitting on a beach, causing laughs as they take a stroll, by the lifeguard hut, not sure of his duties on this matter. So tripod in sand, shutter release cable fully extended we take sculptures, artefacts, to the beach, then meet Winston for Tacos like flowers.
Something about seeing a place and knowing a place, a place being like a told story, then experienced. I try to say, for real, but become increasingly disturbed by my suspicion of its verity. The buildings we see, Ennis House, Lovell Health House, born out of comfortably placeable desire,rolled in finger and thumb like very small sphere. We end up at Burbank, restock film, talk to guy who knows it, shows us boxes piled high of 50D. Stop, think of images, think of that in frames, then we leave. I have a feeling, gun dog, attentive, rolled up rolling vocal pebble, near the Hollywood sign. The most famous sign in the world, a sign for the sign industry, for the production of representations of things, of everything in fact. So most famous sign in the world, but with a heavily guarded perimeter fence, dogs, dogs, fences, fences, armed guys in security outfits, guarding a sign. The ground beneath the sign is apparently untrodden for many years. imagine if every word which we spoke employed a patch of land and was guarded too. I scream inside as the hordes clamour to photograph the sign, the alien anthropologist would never figure it out. Pink suit, lady, ginger hair, possibly Russian, wrap round sunglasses, a tourist bot. Straight out of Inland Empire. My characters now visit the Griffith Observatory, story unfolding, becoming closer to a representation of what we are actually doing. A sightseeing holiday, its about the transport to the places, see the places, photograph the point on the earth, as if CGI. The point is a sculpture, all ragged and standing like about to crawl to its knees, too many looks, too many people coming by to look at me to take my image. The funny feeling comes back, cold neck, hot head, I am thinking about Rome for some reason. This city is like a giant mesh or gauze that somebody bigger than us pushed a load of wet clay through. The architecture says straight lines, narrow windows, white walls, layers, shear edges, stacking, rotating and its all beautifully charming, but the words penetrate the structure and the blob thinks, is it possible to have a perfect living space. Get To Bradbury Building, downtown, this is when you feel like rolling grain, kicked in the dust, like sculpture, all bulbous and quick, like Zappa said. This is J.F Sebastian’s apartment and the top is where Rutger Hauer makes that speech. Get all tingly, but its the way its just there, and its both things, people live there, in Bladerunner. We film there and somebody asks, is this reality TV? I say, no I am a sculpture, he goes, tutting. I turn back to stone, feel my shoulders go rough and then we end up at Walt Disney Concert Hall, blluuurrrgrummmmmbummumumblllgrrem.
Venice beach the night before and the vast pervading aroma of marijuana and incense. The leather faced outdoor people, the shining bulk men, the ageing boob jobs, the immigrants, the silver horse men, the surfers, the towelled basketball gatherings, the lizard guy, the beach parties, the families, the hipsters, the tourists and a police guy wearing knee high, gleaming black SS style boots and with skinhead watching on like a statue, more object and form, pleasing. The smell still of fruity tobacco and marijuana. All this and roller skates plus bay watch beach hut with roll down slide and long long beach, like that emotional moment when a travelling army finally reach the limits of land and look out at the burgeoning sea. Great whites in this one, just knowledge not actual.
So today with this experience cycled through we shoot title sequence by the pool. 300-400 AD and 1200 AD. Silky and new, in the pool. Then we try to swap bodies up on mulholland drive, squeeze and clench but cannot change features. We are. Singing that talking heads song, seen and not seen, where by keeping an ideal face structure in mind, one is able to very gradually achieve it over a large period of time. Do we do this to objects?
So Getty centre and the view and the grandeur and the scale and the unflinching show and the hordes and the art, super heroes lair, not even Hollywood could imagine, the power of it all. More of the vulpine people.
Crystals formed of sugar worn like gems sticking to bodies. We film in masks at Getty, an artwork made at a place where stone outshines the horizon and the paintings and sculptures craving real light?
The story unfolding bit by bit on the long shutter release cable draped over the rocks if the San Fernando Valley. I see holiday snaps of a medieval artefact, romancing with a 12th century fragment. They are balloons, overinflated and painted like cartoon bombs. Next, to a diner for a counter burger, how many movie scenes involving coffee served in bulbous pot at the counter, eggs sunny side up. Sculpture rounded edge down, rolling around next to the wall mount text, which in turn is the hash brown served with ketchup. What to think… Should grow increasingly breakfast.
So silky masks ride on escape questioning.
Back on San Diego freeway, home, taco van, pulled pork, marinated beef cheek, tripe and tongue.
Best guacamole, makes me think of nothing.
Planning and colour coding, affixing coloured pins to the grasped events and places. Making a logical journey, an order of experience changed by the look of a map.
Thinking of William blake’s Newton get into Mitsubishi Galant, park to drive and go down Venice blvd. entertained by the chaos of Culver and the dispersed city. Check for bites. Then enter MJT, already feeling like an ant, wondering about fungus, is it like magic mushrooms? The museum spirals, at once an overview and a detail, spin in and out until drawn out at the tail. See woman’s horn, puts me in my place, the middle of a river suddenly or a freeway I feel like I’m driving, the space opens up and swallows me, I think of all the possibilities, of the rounded objects and of the well cornered ones. The Museum of Jurassic Technology, pits sweaty but mind in that place, the year of growth place, the rainbow idea place, the sweatshop of thoughts.
So I think much more like an object, like one left on a rock, or one left in the little exhibition space between the handbrake and the gear lever in our American car. How does our psyche of things, how does our psyche have objects, how things exist in our psyche beyond the chasmic shifts of the shared and the external as opposed to the private and the internal.
But what of the externalised internal and the internalised external, regurgitated and re-consumed, this confusion this disproving of the binary.
Slide on freeway, slide off, silent engine, no excess, just the flap of the wheels over the join in the piecemeal cement work. The feeling and sensation of driving, built up from a collision of disparate attributes. Automatic engine, straight roads, stop go, cement slabs, blue sky and dead left foot.
We go to film in the underbelly of LACMA, see part of the unseen, the bit from which the crust is skimmed. The rounded crock of art drawn from which are presentations to the conveyor public. Exhibition slid like a distraction screen from the growing, breathing, pulsing ever rotating cannonball hid behind. The vulpine people own it and add to it and take away from it and donate it. Currency.
The film takes on a story forced like squeezing a spot into eruption, from a greasy shoulder, going before you have chance to think. Making real time with rubber think. All bent and rolling.
The difference between real and fake, like the peach and the stone. The stone discarded from a moving hummer as I walk the sidewalk thinking about the life of solid things, of touched, of handled and then encased things, and their meaning. It’s like clay pebble, then inter-interpretation. The non physical existence of objects, our minds like the portholes onto the ocean of object hood. So we pretend another day, on film.
Courting the aroma of animal boundary demarcation, queuing with the other red face clunks, there is the usual warm and indecent pitch of panic around going, leaving somewhere and arriving all rolled over shoulder, shrouded in mythology from the several out of body movie experiences one after the other. The best place for movies, 30,000 feet, no fatigue for other peoples images. Four in a row. Now feeling visionary and double clicking and wobbling like on boat, we board our next vessel after usual insurance gag panic.
Feels like home somehow, driving easy and predictable. Indicator sounds like Hollywood, view like terminator. Limbs all numb and sweating where they never did, come to terms with all this, colloidal happenings, sprayed like a reality mist, missed by your gaze glaze. Struggle to concede home is still happening, struggle more to concede here happens when at home. Just these twelve lanes, one way or the other. Eyes like projectors.
We go Peppi’s galley, 1970, about to close so some sappy egg building can replace the beaming breakfast bar. I have thoughts about the flesh of the film we are to make. First point here is that it’s an idea now and it is becoming. A story coming from a bulbous substance, moulded and shaped in real time, no presupposition apart from masks, masks of historical artefacts stored like nuts. Peppi’s galley is an accident, I had a great patty melt, it now forms part of the story. A story blurred between rocky rubble dust of actual and steamy, misty gas of narrative. It’s a location, we ask the waiter as he peels the sweaty t-shirt from his back, lifting scapula like wings, ok to film?