The sky above the portland was the color of a networked television with the channel box unplugged, an endless blue like a phosphene hallucination, prisoner's cinema. What are the other cinemas, really? That's a question that's coming forward as we start grappling with the work of Laura Mulvey and Peter Wollen, neither of whom are making movies any more in a conventional sense. Early abstractions and the late ones.
I like the constant recombinant nature of it, shuffling and dealing endless hands of weather until you find something else to do. A sky like the long now chimes, a regular drone of little hits like a gamelan tuning up (takes a village) and then every so often when you're paying attention a lot of the bells ring at once. "What are days for? To wake us up, to put between the endless nights."
There's a sky made of language. The surviving B-52s won't tell me why they were asked to play the Nova Convention or what they learned there, which makes me think it was a Ricky thing, computers and hot tamales. You can map every psychic detective and spiritualist campground across the terminal art deco era. ("Weird Tales Magazine: occult and mystic tales, tales of the supernatural, ghost stories, tales of spirit return, tales of psychic phenomena, etc. Editor Farnsworth Wright.") We've talked elsewhere about the dreams that died to fertilize the genres we have now, what spectres haunt first fandom, the songs they wrote to sing in the long afternoon before the dogs died out and they gave up on the plants, the terrifying carnivorous architecture too big for us now. Four legs in the morning.
But that's still just shuffling weather. Track the books they had available, purchase the libraries and deal them out again. Watch the concepts and the lore flicker and flare. Tumblers in the combination lock, chimes in the long now. Once you pull off the escape, where do you go? Remember here when you are there. It's just the sight of the back of your own head.