Godfrey Reggio says, “We no longer have the words to explain the world we live in.” They can never tell us what is — in fact, words tell us nothing. Deep layers of cloud, roiling in their own perfection, we say, and over the sea's great curls of time, mountains, always the sky's careful, most stunning lover. But the talk misleads, misdirects. Mistaken lives and purposes — that's our métier, and we're proud of it. Urban sprawl is our grand illusion. Our geographies of madness, swarms of faces, floods of red, of white streaming north & south, the growl and burn of the gross national product, east & west. We breathe, push buttons, drive on. Our unholy wires, we pray, keep us connected. Cut open the ground, stop all rivers so we can live in the unlivable. Lead us by ghosts of steel and concrete in such tight, merciless rows for blocks, for miles, and time zones. Surely stone will become a handful of dust. Amen. We grow fat in our silk beds. We propagate in our own juices. We die.
- originally appeared in Cinéma Vérité