The Vanishing Point.
Fade to black.
The moment on the border between waking and dream.
The ending – where the story continues in the darkness.
When the story is no longer your own.

Awareness is a flashlight in an ever-shifting landscape.
Around the perimeter, the stories are unknowable, liquid.
Everything scurries, crawls, and rearranges
when you look the other way.

Someone asked me recently if the Dodo bird is really such a major loss.
I can not know.

We move forward, a tsunami,
forcing self and faceless futures towards extinction.
But Gaia giggles at death.
Gaia knows only transformation.

This is one story.
All stories are true and all stories fade and disperse in time,
eventually joining the indistinct grey pools
marked “past” or “myth” or “forgotten.”

The Lost ones,
empty silhouettes.
outlines of humanoid form passing through spaces black outline.
stark white interior.
block letter numbers.
change positions and all possible relations
without moving.
stop animation washes, devoid of detail. No smiles. No scars.
The lost ones end in fog. Grey dissappearance sheets of not-a-matter.

The eraserbobbles fly low in the sky tonight. Tis the season of the Forgetting. Archeotopological chronologosauri dig up from the depths. tear apart fascades revealing centuries of internalized history. the blood, the sweat, the sex.

A siren sings a lullaby.
We are all listening.
We all fall asleep.
Dreaming other people’s dreams.

We have lost our fingers.
Are scraping hardened clay.

Choose a form, a number, a palette
and step inside. Draw the details, erase the edges.
The lost ones are under every surface, contented or desperate as we paint them. They are our ghosts and only ours.

“We are memories inventing ourselves” -Ocatavio Paz.
“The world is a memory forgotten, and refabricated upon whimsy” – Me.



A point: a location. without height, width, or depth. Achieving meaning only in relationship to other points. At least four points are required to define three dimensional truth.

To point: To indicate direction.

Vanishing: exists in Magic. Never in Newtonian Physics. Matter transforms and never dissappears.

A point alone in space vanishes. Is pointless.
As humans exist more and more in a singularly human world, without relation to non-human existence, do we lose our humanness? miss the point? flatten our dimension?
Is it in relation to the multitude of other that we become ourselves?

Vanishing Point: The point at which two infinte lines appear to merge. When seemingly disparate elements unify. The distance at which perspective collapses difference into unification.

Is the point the vanishing? or is the point the vanishing of points?



The Vanishing Point, Perspective, Self in Monterrey...

a moment in a life. my life. represented as a point on a line? in a stream? in a field of possibilities? currently pinpointed on a map on a wall in Mexico, in a place off my map only moments ago.

This seat on this tram in this park disappears on any “reasonable” map.
This moment in my life disappears in any “reasonable” retelling.
Telescope far enough and all things eventually become miniscule and than “vanish.”
Vanishing is the inevitable conclusion of a finite instrument operating in an infinite universe.

This “Forum.”
people gather,
moments of soon-to-vanish gather
to make an indellible reshaping of geography
acting so as to construct and silmultaneously vanish a landscape.
Erasing and rewriting stories to create a history.

Where has Mexican culture gone? Where is the native landscape?
Where does the mountain become the sky?



All things vanish
become ghosts
Linger.
So long as their story’s told.

The lost ones are not at home. They are in a foreign land, in unfamiliar territory. They do not speak the language. Do not know the customs. But what is more, they have no memory.

I eat. My food disappears.
I sleep. The room vanishes.
i wake. My dreams are gone.

The lost ones walk down corridors of distraction, claustraphobic smells of manufacture and metronomic 4/4 repetition lining every every micrometer of every wall of every hall of psychic babble.

The lost ones wait patiently on mountaintops listening to the slow whispers of time turning circles eddies within eddies, tickling their skin mussing their hair, content to wait out the storm.

We are in a time of exponential change. All things we have known, all ways of being, all concepts and contexts, human and otherwise change faster than we can see.
They are on the point of vanishing.
The size of that point, the urgency of the moment, again, depends on the scale of your perspective.

Perhaps we are running out of clean water. Perhaps their is wine to spare. Perhaps we have lost human brotherhood and generosity. Perhaps it is everywhere. Perhaps it matters. Perhaps not.