Los Angeles – Tijuana, Mexicali
2004 – 2006
“Nothing will be explained here“
“-About those ancient discussions between gatekeepers about dark and light, rough and smooth, wild and tamed. About those good old sayings about the eyes of certain folks speaking of a town full of unfortunate ghosts. About all of that and things like that, that have always been just doors and chairs. You gotta walk through those doors and find a seat and sit there until you get altered.”
All that repetition makes melodies live: (((((LALALA L LALA))))) interrupting a wonderful hell Jesus loves saving by disturbing the lowriding tits hanging out under a no vacancy face, shaking itself to life and living in a glow, evaporating into a wonderful mistake, improvised into existence by a drunk eyed alchemist seeing the world tremble, leap and fall in counter harmonies like that bag eyed girl running away but yelling “hello” while waving goodbye.
Polyrhythmic chatter of high heels stuck-cut-grinding concrete just above subharmonic chants of lips and hips and thighs smacking, while that drunk junkie pulls himself out of his mouth from inside his solitude to land and crawl through the vacancies nodding at the subtle symphony that holds his sway.
Knowing that the sky never complains, he meditates about Irene and her obsession with delicate juicy fruits and cocktail dresses that she collects and never lets a drop of juice touch. Only the eyes can touch those dresses and only the ears can listen to the crunch of the sequins as she walks up to her man holding the one rose with the newspaper to tell him that, “Your tilt-wig bitch only loves your bright white shoes and dark canes. She wont make it back now that La Gorda-” with the scorched eyes and her Olympian husband with the filthy tube-socks, “-finally let her lodge in their two gigantic pots rent-free for eternity.”
When the rose turns to particles, she’ll send him a symbol in a gallery in a picture or a painting that only he can decode. When he sees it he’ll turn into the sustained blink he’s always been.
“Her eyes are not windows.” The windows have bars and the doors too. Still she comes forth forever in front of the door which never opens. She’s got all the vessels and each one has a name and they’re all for sale.”-It’s not that she wants to sell them, it’s just that that’s what happens.”
“…As for him in the chair… If you’ve made it this far you know what he needs. Now either you go back upstairs and out into what you came from or you pull it together and let him take it all apart… When you see the lady with the jacket made of living dogs, know that none of them objected to their being sewn together. Mesmerized and eating their hands in awe thinking the spectacle is the sole proprietor of their, “sensation of being devoured”.
What he sees he’ll never tell and what she knows she’ll always confuse him with. Holding her face together with her little fist cuffed over her little mouth until her little face collapses, escaping into her little cupped hand. Having noticed that something’s finally been decoded.
He will not notice this due to his having taken up the ultimate vocation of staring at the insides of his eyelids until the whole world blurs away. Suddenly he’ll ask the SAVING JESUS “Let me be back at the door in mist past that chair-man in the chair through the barwoman in the door,… and those never-grins growling at laughing jacket dogs. Always gatekeeping with scorched eyes and black beak hands that let her torso tell it all, “Get in here.”
“No Such Records” is an exploration of the silent and haunting experience of walking after dark on the streets of Los Angeles and Tijuana. Collision of social and typical with personal and psychological, this series of images savors the strange solitude of the enigmatic region between California and Mexico; the streets, bars, night shelter hotels, and amorphous night figures.