Sit down. Tune in, and grab a beer. See what you might otherwise miss. Give us 30 seconds – and with one blank frame every thirty – we’ll put you up into a deep hypno-idiotic state during which you’ll be up to 25 times more susceptible to The Creed. Photons building crude patterns, chiseling into your organism. Give us your minute cause we’ll take away your day. Believe what you will as long as it’s true. And that is what we offer. ‘Truth at 25 frames a second,’ the man said, and he didn’t even know how much he’d meant it. Information and misinformation collude and leave you confused, or – a worst-case scenario – leave you bright, blessed in lucidity, and full of insights. A new preacher in our midst. The Cretan Liar, twice bound and still unfulfilled. A dramatic re-inaction of a flop. Space: The Final Something, and in Ethiopia, the children are still dead and dying, but omnipotence has its rewards and telekinesis is as close as your remote control, and the kids aren’t there anymore because the drug lord is about to get shot by the good guy. All bad things come to a swift end. Tele-Vision: The Gaze from Afar, seeing at a distance, keeping a distance. In safety and in trust, forever pledged in holy media-money. A craft; artful even – sometimes – but always a taker. The mediator. That which comes between one thing and another, getting a cut on both sides.
Snow Blind Bliss.
