The city dies. Its ashes are scattered. But a dream capital raises is ramparts under a gelatine sky.
The maze of streets pursues its course like a river.
Lyrical understandings of the street in graffiti records. An archive of faded frescoes. A mosaic: alive, continuously accumulated and lost. Footprints of memory in sprayed paint, glue and newsprint. Eroded by law, the weather and other bombers. The city’s canvas is in total flux, an additive, subtractive negotiation.
Invisible bacterial zones. Drawn into a mystery that isn’t a mystery at all.
New York, sifting through layers of visual archaeology. A hazy flutter of images. The gestational pull of home; the gravitational pull of elsewhere.
Noises and smell come up floating in clouds of heat, melodic blends of voice, radio scraps, fire trucks and alarms.
A cab running down the street like a desperate animal
Briny sunshine. Halos of unconscious associations.
The dance of the city. Material and spiritual forms converging. Filled with individuals carrying out their daily routines. Forming connections and bumping into each other like heated electrons. A choreography of spirit and sensory matter. A discordant union.
The city: freeing me from the silences of interior life.
Fragmented spills of neon and ghostly bodies of pedestrians and smoke stacks and traffic lights. I am gasping from a sense of loss and desire.
Restless walks filled with coasting images of sight and sound. Buildings opening and closing, figures passing, faraway sounds of voices and cries and horns roll up and funnel in, connecting me to the creaking movements of the living city.
Everyone looks the same as everything, as every sound is joint in one massive scream, one unlikely harmony.