A Plastic Theatre: Act II

Plastic snaps its fingers. Plastic doesn't have time for your considered reservations, your platitudes. Plastic has business to do. Plastic believes in the ABC ethos, and plastic is always selling, always closing. Plastic is sinister and sexy, enamored of its own slick planes and glittering prisms. Believes in its own myths. Doesn't believe in yours. Don't blame plastic, blame its instrumentalizers. Plastic wants what it wants. Plastic wants what you want: utopia. Infinity. Plenitude for all. Ownership of a finely hewn bubblesphere, a delicately patterned cube, a deceptively minor key. What do we talk about when we talk about plastic? Climate of synthesizers and wax. Ecology of vinyl and bubble wrap. Dinosaur fossil fuels and robotics. Squeaky clean death. Flesh transmuted into silicone. Sophisticated preservative, bright and fresh. Its vision exceeds our attempts to restrain it. The material becomes its own promise, sliming into the horizon, blossoming onto the screen, ballooning into our hearts. Staticky it resonates. Stickily it moans. Sturdily it propogates. Silently it roams. Be still, oh dream plastic of our very own image, oh nightmare plastic of our very own dawn. Sampling a densely layered sequence, a pattern of deathly echoes.