Opening the front door this morning it turned out that the scanner’s data was still viable.
Air: breathable. Gravity: operable.
In spite of their apparent familiarity, street signs looked different; they looked like street signs that are being looked at. I could make nothing of the traffic on Greyhound Hill or the people sitting on the bench in front of the Citizens Advice Bureau. Did I recognise one of them? Did I recognise any of this?
No information was forthcoming when I reached the office. Then again, no information is usually forthcoming from this source. It looked a bit like a place I might leave and so I left it.
It dawned upon me that this state of uninhabitability of the place was nothing to do with the Event that had taken place; it had always been disputable on every layer of enquiry. The content of the Event is unimportant to specify here, as is whether it is certain that it occurred or not.
The sun came out. It illuminated the weed growth in the cracks between paving stones. Briefly.
Dude in cool sneakers skateboards into a deserted and tastefully derelict warehouse space, and puts a careful distressed metal case onto a tastefully derelict trestle table that is located in the centre of the space.
He opens the case to reveal the music tech device which he powers on with a dance of eye candy LEDs. He jacks the device into a PA system that has appeared out of nowhere, and then arranges his oversized headphones, which are deployed upon his head at a jaunty angle.
Close ups on his hands doing DJ scratching sort of moves over the device, power indicator LEDs pumping up and immaculately manicured knob tweaks as he works it through an attention deficit sequence of cutting-edge moves. Dust motes stirred from the floor by his trainers are captured in slo-mo, cut into shaky hand cam shots of the vibrating pulse of the caged woofers as he gives it some low end.
The work out hits a climax and he closes the case up with an echoing click and skateboards back out of the space. Camera holds a centred shot of the deserted warehouse space for a moment before the music tech device logo appears on the screen.
A final boom, like that one in Blade Runner, and the dust from the room flies up. Fade to black.
I remember an advertisement in a French magazine from the 80s. It was either in Rock et Folk or Fluide Glacial. It was an advert for some sort of holiday camp; like a future Butlins. There were definitely glass pyramids in the background and two women wearing primary coloured sunglasses and things that were yellow.
They weren’t particularly scantily clad and I might have been wrong about the yellow. That might have been because one issue of Rock et Folk had a full page picture of Zappa answering a telephone and wearing yellow trainers. I was impressed by those yellow trainers and when I finally found a pair that I liked a few years ago I felt that I had achieved something notable.
This picture of a Citroen concept car wasn’t in the advert but it clearly occupies the same universe. Where did that universe go? Can I go back and attend that holiday camp full of predatory French aunties with unfeasible tans? And most crucially: what do they keep inside their glass pyramid?