A conversation with Isaac Lythgoe

For the time being were just doing this or that. It is not yet what we really wanted, and there is always the fantasy that sometime in the future the real thing will come about....

One day to the next.

I wonder what a flight is like without a need for taking it. To not be going to do something but simply to be going. Brain, passenger, to body. The bleary bliss of denials and acceptance. Blustery drags on the cigarette.

The drives left us hypnotic, all swinging limbs in rhythmic seduction. Orchestrated, instinctual, and knowing all at once. Choices are there for those who want them, and we dont know if this was a choice or not now, we let it run, always thinking to consolidate sometime but, never making it over the line. There is always consequence.

The town was different today. We drove by sight into the hills, the newer roads beginning to disappear. Turbines high-rise above the dirt. A hot wind blowing for miles off the sea. These hills have seen bodies buried quietly, the turbines thud this message on loop. Near their base is a cycle of cropped wildlife, a swarm of ants absorb a lizard, a gull wing sits a little further along, decapitated daisies too. Our escape might always be our undoing. The power in these hills is sent straight back to town and we followed it, almost obligingly.

This trip is an amnesty, a gift to our anxious idents, over ownership, over outsourced opinions, over enigmas. To strategise that whichll allow any adaptability. That well militarise into bodies unbothered by our edges, extant unto concrete shells and African oil fields, floated through terminals and rolled free on screen. On the run, on the transcendence of marathons promise.

Another day to another next.

At the bottom of the hill the town is empty - domed vessels felt 70s-sci-fi chic on the skirts, but, Ive had to reassess - centre-ville is a white sphere roughly precarious and oddly rough. As if the plan mattered more than the execution, the action blunted by the thought. Pinky and the brain still have an undoubted eloquence. The AC hums all across town. Ive only been in a few buildings but have yet to see any sign of the living. Maybe soon though Ill stumble through a chilled basement, and find some treats. Stage left sits a heli-pad and as much as I cant imagine a person here to maintain it, the plot remains pristine.

Slowly back to the city and my sight is a little bleared, kind of smudged, like the caught out face of a Saturday dawn. Days are gone, the re-entry a submersion, and who knows where were kept at the end of this. Journeys cant be unforgotten, systems abandoned wont be patched up, its go for broke, one final furl into the wind.