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As the kaleidoscopic remnants of windshields slice the floor and the flesh of driplets tinker in the shadows; reality, brutal with contorted forms, rusts on winking labrets and murmurs in the gurning metal. The metal, that in the staccato headlamps now flows with the scent of fat and heady oil. Flimsy limbs passing through jagged mechanical roots and the Prussian curtains, twisting with the Lapsang smell of slaughter. The slowing turns of a free crankshaft as warm now as when, fresh from the mould, was first born into the bald Detroit sun. The intimate time and space of a single human being had been fossilised for ever in this web of chromium knives and frosted glass. (‘Crash’ J.G.Ballard)
Here there is no sense no comfort gained, no norms. Everything is anew. If now and in the midst of our Crash we are truly awake, in the banal we were somnambulists. We were the fat fingers melting into grey computer keys, waiting for our boring coronaries. We were the jus of batter lining a masturbating hand, cushioned by the warm aroma of Xerox machines, prostrate in their post-orgasmic chill. We were the belly of pleasant images that folded flaccidly into the picnic of the agreeable. We were we.
Now and in the hour of our Crash, where both the feared and evitable have come to pass, we’ve confronted not mortality but torture. In the wake of crash audiences are drawn like hospital mourners to the dreary bedside, led by antique notions of duty and survivors guilt. The grease from the fingers of penniless workers still taints these sores, splayed with the timbre of the rotting core exposed. As the fiscal cinders of our immolated past linger with the fading memories of prosperity, the myopia of money will forever haunt us.