“The girl? I am so attracted to her because she would be the daughter I imagine Alba would have had had we decided to have a child. I cannot, however, see anything in her that would suggest potential fatherhood on my part. That makes the whole thing all the more fascinating.”
Two autumn gold leaves dance with the wind, they find an eye in someone’s obsession, find a home in a corner of other unseen eyes. A hand dreamt of them. They live in a velvet corner of some other fingertip’s dream. A root dreamt of them. They live in a velvet green corner of some other bud’s dream. The seed dreamt of them, mother to the creation, but not father to the creature. Static, it’s the peephole, it’s the end of the film, the end of words.
“They are both so beautiful. She uses her eyes in much the same way as does Alba. I am mother to the creation but not father to the creature.”
The onset, when those old slow black and white television valves turn off, the picture fast finds distance as a white watch face moon shimmering infinite seconds in total darkness. On the other side of this face, sailing through this face, static, background radiation, then it’s the peephole, it’s the end of the film, the end of words.
“The girl is the seed. I use her to create an obsession because I can't work without an obsession.”
Golden sails on the sunset, autumn leaves fall silent on stilled air. Death dances gaily at the back door of autumn.
“I use her as muse, beauty, an obsession that takes me somewhere dangerous and thus allows my mind some new deviant invention to delve into.”
Beyond, at the other end of the peephole, autumn leaves fall silent on stilled air. Images fade in the factory of imaginings, shadows deepen in the cathedral of depiction and images burn with their need to reproduce, looking back at the end of depiction, the end of the film, the end of words.
“So, I was father to the image but not even stepfather to the creature. The girl was the seed. Images, words, thoughts, rake them up! Pile them on the bonfire! They don’t hurt anyone anymore, and, when I stare back through the peephole, I might speculate that I’m looking back at the picture of my life, but, in reality, I’m being observed by the past.”
The illustration by A-Soma, © A-Soma 2012.
