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?