Collisions (on the death of a playwright...)
2020, ongoing



i. — The flow of movement is primary. That’s fundamental. Even the rocks get it. There is discreteness in measurement, otherwise it’s mostly flux. Aleatory. Stochastic. Lucretian. [laughs] That’s how all things emerge and become, always within the flow and flux of matter in motion; they don’t? A tumbler is a mover over and over. But, but smaller still: matter moves by itself; matter is the source of its own motion. Vultures are sources too. The Lammergeier or Cinereous ones, with expensive mall coats and three pronged daemon feet, that pluck, grapple, lift and hurtle. [spits]. First you’re amongst a ground plane, then coarse palms press to your back, and then it’s the whispering emptiness of digital air. This increase in speed is a more manic matter flux, a chaotic shake-up, and therefore a doubling of potential. Aren’t I now more possible than ever, throwing out orders of myself at speed? Pleasing, aren’t I?



A series of short animated films, texts, and collages narrated by a CGI tortoise, always between fall and collision, using the supposed demise of Greek tragedian Aeschylus as an initiating, narrative point. As the tortoise falls towards Aeschylus – to double death – released from a vulture’s grip above the planes of Gela, it reflects on the relationship between motion and possibilities. Such as the tension between micro-scale generative ways of moving – like vibrations, becoming as flux of matter in motion, the ability to move across responsively – and macro moments of stasis, of lockdown passivity, where potentials and elsewheres seem to diminish.




ii. — The safety net is always altering, as everything shifts with time and interaction. Nets move with netted movements - across, knotted. Flexible and bulging when the weight is inordinate. [spits] Those that are fortunate enough to have safety nets, that’s the crux of it, that’s the distinction. They take a tumble into cushioning, not rocks or crania. [laughs] They uproot, fuck-up, then crash head-first into their teenage bedrooms, their slacks slipping from their holsters. And we all know what happens next... Or there are the taut nets that bounce back, sending the tumbler upwards with ever increasing possibility, into the open holes of infinite doors, in hemispheric directions. So it is for some. [spits] For others, it’s more of a reckoning. A big whack. A dull, heavy sound. This is no less a continuing – there is potential in the absence of the net too, or in slipping through its gaping holes, a milling in the dirt below. Most likely you’ll become carrion. And then? You’ll carry on. Enough.




Mark

    Next︎