Day 7

by lukemccreadie

Watts towers, as though physically drawn from the mind of its creator, exhumed from the brain, so accurately it even looks like brain, unravelled. Walk the perimeter wondering what its like for people to live opposite. As slide door, black window machines arrive and out hops, piss like stream of snap happy, loud glots. I know I am no different but I think of the lack of humility, the lack of revery in most glots lives, and the abundance of blind confidence. Can’t help but think this type of consciousness is the direct produce, or offal of the enlightenment. We go on, I have clicking shoulder and the heat reflects off the small porcelain doll trapped, suspended in the concrete of the construction. Steal bar, rammed into ground, twisted together like runner bean stand, 30 meters tall, then chicken wire, then cement render. It has the freedom of mind which jazz musicians would love to have, but with the purity and generosity of unknowing, it is itself and itself is it. Clumps of cement smother objects which had former lives all caught up in the 30 year storm that caused this place, something in me says only in the states but then I think I am not sure. Rounded spindle, spun like its woven but heavy and long winded, reminds me of a hollow mountain. This is a lucky one, a charmed life it has led, not demolished through shear luck, owned by a drunk who could not be located, so it remained until mindful conservationist with an eye for something important, stopped the gugs from moving in making it all neat so we don’t have to think any more. We filmed but cautiously, I felt a boundary somewhere.

Beverly Hills. Stone boulder sidewalk. We got a sandwich, good, made me think of making a sculpture with my mouth, the sandwich, the sandwich, in the US is done so well. I leave dreaming of a whole beach where there is no sand but pebbles and where there are no pebbles but just sandwiches tightly wrapped in cellophane. So Beverly Hills is hiding something, it felt fluid under the sidewalk, more stayed than the smallest English village you could imagine. Brown, matt, glowing skin; tight, lycra holding in legs, with purple beltline; stomach, reminds me of Krang; Silicone, fluidy mounds with what could be fake nipple; and sunglasses for the face and jagged Kneed, muscle sticks; up to white cotton half-pant; UCB t-shirt; car keys in hand; jaw from a magazine, beard from a catalogue. Both are just grabbing a sandwich. I wonder what the object equivalent is. The air smells like silk here and the trees. We arrive a Schindler house, a slim, low, matchbox, that yellow and that brown and the concrete slabs. We slap with our hands, marks of material used for pour. The building sets free a spirit of grand shoulders and nice knee feeling, coupled with an immense desire to stay. It only puts you in a place, does not push you. I sit back and have body dreams, pushing into wet cement, then feeling knobby smooth texture of large clay lump, rounded hips begin to form and then over legs join but hole in midriff, no it is bronze. Then awake to the sound of garden but am inside, I feel stones in my shoes. We read the evening air and think about film, stress about film. The story has unfolded here, when you have an idea and you let it loose, it gets away and you get it back, you are careful to allow it to grow, to keep the experimentation, to keep the chance, but the original idea was never fully formed, only in my mind, but it came out, is coming out, might not be perfect, like a sensation but will be a new sensation, a brand new thing to infiltrate. The objects have visited LA now, seen the sights, snapped with their blind eyes, looked with broken cameras, saw nothing but where recorded doing it. Now we leave.