Melencolia 1: The End of the Alphabet

M. Woods

Screening format


A sadness rolls over me as I gaze into the entrails of this pandora’s box and my shadow cranks a lost appendage for the sake of ontological tangents and bewitched spaces. I want you to witness The Hallucinatory Zone of Neo-Liberal death hounds and lost gazes that expand and contract time. I was nothing, so nothing was lost. The material of the film that coats the cortex allows for multiple moving memories to settle as one congealed horror. I was in ecstasy and on the edge again where La Nada always consumed my soul. I asked her “What took you so long? I’ve been waiting for you all this time. I always knew you would be here with me one day.” We drew the same blueprints to those portals - the cavities where my consciousness would slink away in the trauma space where I grew up, was raised, and then kept. My whole life has been an experiment in disassociating and I just wanted someone else’s love, just once, to keep me from flying away in the bludgeoning of my exposure, the lack in my identity, the carceral lifesource of my birthscape. I can’t blame her for nothing. I’m a stranger. I blame nothing. Nothing eventually spoke up - in the distance between our moments: from now to an illusory “once was”. From marvel to burning tower. I told her about a bad dream I had, in which she refused to acknowledge ever having known me, walking ahead of me, annoyed that I continued to pursue her trail. I told her about the Numb Spiral and my deep sadness. I fell in love with everything again. I told her how I was using this analog camera to prove everything - my protest against nihilism. But even as I crafted each shot as a treatise against it, the wretched Numb Spiral sprouted through my being and onto the carnal spectacle film (pelicula coats the eyes) in gorgeous dissolution and mucous-rot. Not cool; but sweltering. It was all a dream. I used to read people, processed and battered. My tour guide threaded me into this abandoned barracks, slid me under the train tracks, blistered the soles of my feet, and burned me in this Desert of the Real. California always leaves a vacancy for the uninvited pectus excavated. I thought I knew my vascular ring tone well enough to avoid the constrictions of love, but I couldn’t keep from getting high. My most beautiful Virgil would abandon me in the Midst of pure nothing only to watch me disinterested from afar as I straddled the edge of a bridge hoping to end this ceaseless suffering, to tear open the great incisions, to walk into the next celestial sphere, to find Abraxas on the 13th, before a grave of concrete waves. And I sang a Quetiapine dirge to my love, nail bombs and all. Start over at the beginning again.