Pulse the spluttering of a car’s engine cut through the neighbourhood. The engine pops and crackles like a machine gun, coughing out erratic gouts of exhaust. Its echoes bounce from house to house, until it pulls up outside the building and the engine cuts.
Imagine to be alone here now, undercover. It's a short close up shot. Outside is raining, outside the drivers walk, with their head down, shielding their eyes with one hand, while you stare ahead, a few yards ahead, at a few yards of wet asphalt; outside it is cold, the wind blows between the bare black branches; the wind blows through the leaves, rocking whole boughs, rocking them, rocking, their shadows swaying across roughcast walls. Outside the sun is shining, there is no tree, no bush to cast a shadow, and they walk under the sun shielding their eyes with one hand while you stare ahead, only a few yards in front of you, at a few yards of dusty asphalt.
There is silence streets are empty the engine cuts. Driver's on the street the third floor of the building is customer's room customer's staring at the window while translucent liquid pouring on car's seat while drivers staring the street.
Car's carrying goods scraps rubble a refused plaster compound puma's head baskets of clay
dunlop baloonsgrey seats and orange belts long nose puppets, short handed puppets carved foam plastic shoes low reliefs shards of an unfinished ones chinese cups stickers, for tuning, stickers for home.
The close-up zoom in through the car's window it frames the the liquid You are in the spilling of the liquid pressed inside too close to see anything if not tiny light reflections in folds. Light hitting car's windows “if this is not magic” customer's whisperingcar's answering with black smoke black smoke's rising in the clean sky. Black smoke and customer's words liking each other in the sunset boulevard, customer smile to black smoke, liquid smile to driver, driver smile to car when driver open the car's doors, liquid becoming a thin airy patina reflecting sun-rays lifting car's scraps and good, suspended in thin air, intersecting black smoke, from the street through the window to the customer's room, sweeftly scattered on the grey floor. On the floor, the refused panther head, not a panther head baskets of clay, not basket of clay michelin banner, not michelin banner grey seats, orange belts, not grey seats, not orange belts long nose puppets, short handed puppets , not long nose, not short handed puppets carved foam, not carved foam plastic shoes, not plastic shoes the low relief, not low relief the shards of an unfinished one, not shards stickers, for tuning, stickers for home, not stickers for tuning, not for home chinese cups, not chinese cups pillows, not pillows but a collective assemblage of enunciations, sensed through bodies, encompassing vast distances, in an aimless sparsness magically appeared on clean customer's floor. With black smoke smiles and clouds. Each magical event its own celebration.
The camera zooms out up to the window the driver are still on the street they smile to the customer the customer smiles to the drivers the sun is shining “an happy ending” the customer's whispering in thick word to the black cloud In a world that is a complex mixture of geological, biological, social and linguistic constructions that are nothing but accumulations of materials shaped and hardened by history smiling means magic or just the flipside of a large scale depression. (...)
Were this a fairytale, the drivers would be the genies, the customer the lucky man who’dstumbled on the lamp and the goods his wish, granted in an eye-blink. For the goods areno longer carried or fetched, but fly straight to the customer’s door. He has but to whisper their name and they are immediately dispatched from where they sit and carried swiftly through the city streets by the driver who arrives with them safe and sound in his hands and rings the bell. And because there are no real genies, wishes or lucky fellows in this kingdom, and no magic lamps that let their owner turn things into other things, the customer opens his front door, and takes the goods. During the course of the short transaction between customer and driver a pulse runs through the kingdom. A shiver, rapid and faint, but encompassing vast distances nonetheless.
All these distances are encompassed in a fleeting, magical pulse... and everything istransformed, just as in our fairytale. The kingdom exchanges its products with itself viathose who move and travel. So it is that each time the echoes of a car’s splutteringengine bounce from house to house, the kingdom thrills to a new pulse running through its veins*.