Two hatted figures hid their faces and plugged their ears. The concussive return of the white frame was too much to bear. But me, I’m no more object now than when the lights first dimmed. The Flicker
had made me over in its own image, but that image was merely dormant before I queued up. It was revealing. A peeling back of skin and stage and screen, denuding the projection until it hardened under the brightness of its own flashing light. With this crystalline, glinting bit the theatre’s subsurface was violently drilled, coughing up an inky oil that lubricated the seat covers. I slid down a row or two. As my eyes readjusted, I noticed that the ground beneath me was full of holes, though nobody else seemed to care.
Is to be like The Flicker
to be like a porous planet? An arterial network of entries and exits carrying blobs of black from below to above. The Black Lagoon as if it were the Creature itself. Its force hidden under rocky cover, accruing capital as it flowed upward. Gaseous exhalations wafted up and down the aisles of the theatre. As above, so below. I thought, in its excess, that it might spill out into the lobby where the concession and posters are kept, carrying popped and un-popped kernels along with it. A slip-n-slide back out to the street, and daylight, and the city, but that too had been drilled. An over-handled planet with no place left to stand, but the seats remained full. Bodies pointed at backs of bodies. The floor had always been sticky but now was black. Total darkness, only its theory before my eyes, like right before the credits roll.