“For those who submitted to disorientation, it was a success.”
“Submit,” says Tom: “that’s the perfect word.”
An old archaeologist friend, alongside whom I worked at my first and only dig, two decades ago, veering over the hole listening for voices.
Hearing the unconscious, seeing the strata of history in the strata of bricks above in Agency’s watery vault projections, while Eros hears voices emerging from a primordial soup, and Monica sensing the music of the chakras, the music of the uccellini becoming voices of visitors groping for spectacle becoming voices of aqueducts. And a representative of the Italian E.P.A. quite taken by the circuitous activism in the soundtrack: imperial purity and contamination of waters.
Another chapter in the history of our otherworldliness in this place.