FILM 2:
A stop-action animation film, silent, again Super 8, made with G.I. Joe dolls. And doctored Barbie dolls. Intercut with army films, recruiting films, corporate in-house films. Artifacts, found clips, stolen and recontextualized. I think I have heard of this film. A rather silly send-up of corporate militarism, but well made, and hey — the first, perhaps, of its kind?
FILM 3:
This film is noted as the last, 1972. It is 16 millimeter, I think. It is called “The Scientist.” It shows an old man being hounded obnoxiously by this dick one assumes must be Desoto. The film cuts to a speedy montage of some shots of corporate headquarters signs: Dow, Monsanto, General Dynamics, Westinghouse, Raytheon, Magnavox, Honeywell and Valence. Not the subtlest film I ever saw. Again, credited to the collective SAFE (but now it stood for Soft Art Film Efflux). And again, under the listed members of the collective: Mary Whittaker.
I don’t really know what to make of this. I have to find out more about the collective and Desoto. And Mary Whittaker.
Tracers
NASH HEARD someone approach from behind as he locked up Prairie Fire. He turned cautiously. Miranda stood there, somewhat winded, hair loose around her shoulders. It was cold, and her breath made little mists in front of her open mouth. He smiled at her and pocketed his keys. She put her hand on his arm and looked up at him.
“What does Miranda want from me?” Nash said. He liked saying her name. She just stood there looking at him. Both of them waited, and then Nash leaned over and kissed her. She pulled herself closer to him and the kiss — harder than he expected, actually — until their lips slid apart and the one kiss became small, slow, breathy kisses on neck and ears. Slow, but urgent still. Nash breathed for a moment into her long hair; he held himself against the skin just below her ear and paused there. Miranda clutched at him. He couldn’t feel much of anything through his wool peacoat, but he pressed against her anyway. She then tried to pull back for a second full kiss, but he wanted to stay where he was, where he was breathing through her hair, his hands now on both sides of her head. She smelled, variously, of stale, all-night cigarettes; something citrus and dried; flowers also, or perfume oil. Something else too, a vegetal brightness, not decayed but living, a woman-skin musk, barely there.
She took his hand and walked him back to his house, no longer smiling, and then she stopped suddenly on the stairs leading up to his doorway. She didn’t turn around but stood there in front of him. He stepped up and pressed against her back and legs. She leaned back into him.
This is the best moment I will ever have, he thought, but it was already over, they were on their way up the stairs. She undressed quickly. It was cold, and she got under the covers, leaving just her panties on. Then she reached under the sheets and took those off and tossed them on her pants and blouse on the floor.
This is the best moment I will ever have.
This is great good luck.
Nash felt the same thing again as he sat by the window early the next morning and watched the sun come up. He looked at Miranda asleep in his bed. Her hair was in her face, and he could just see her lips and nose. He watched her stir, push the hair out of her closed eyes and then sink back into sleep. He sipped some water. The worn oak floor reflected light, the sky brightened from deep blue to light blue and Miranda finally pulled herself up on the bed, smiling.
Miranda had been at a bar in Belltown with Sissy. At ten o’clock she decided to take a walk up Pike Street, over the freeway, and up to Fifteenth Avenue. She made it there just as Nash was locking up. She thought of a funny thing to say, but when he turned around she just smiled. He seemed so surprised. Then almost resigned when she put her hand on his arm. She didn’t expect that he would kiss her, but as he did she realized why she was there. She held his head and kissed him again. She was cold, and she felt the warmth of his body. She decided they should continue indoors. Partially she was cold, and partially she couldn’t help thinking of Josh, or Josh’s friends, seeing them on the street.
She practically dragged him up the steps, so quickly was she moving; then she stopped abruptly near the top so Nash almost crashed into her. She didn’t turn around when she felt him behind her but leaned back, gently, into him. She liked this long body pause, the tease of it. Something you can barely stand to do.
She began to pull off her clothes. She felt him looking at her, and she wasn’t embarrassed. She felt young and lovely, which was something she didn’t often feel, certainly not with Josh. But don’t, don’t think of Josh now. And she didn’t.
They moved awkwardly. His arm in her face, she banged her head at one point. “Sorry.” “Sorry.” The condom was a disaster, it was on, but oh, how it felt. After a while they gave it up — which is what people do, because it feels worth it — then pauses, whispers, adjustments. Calibrations.
Despite the confused and awkward coupling, it was still painfully exciting. Miranda felt that if it went too smoothly it would mean it didn’t matter as much. She thought this during, and she then decided to stop for a moment and just hold him close, kissing him slowly. She pushed against him and stopped “trying” to do anything except feel his breathing and his weight next to her. She let him move her to her side, facing him and leaning back on the bed. He placed a hand across her and rested it on her middle back; then he moved it slowly to the indent of her waist, then down the curve of her hip, and very, very softly along the edges of her thighs. She moved her legs slightly apart, and he barely touched her inner thighs. He traced his hand lightly up to her stomach, and he looked at her, unsmiling. She stopped smiling too, and let him touch her. That could have lasted hours, the gentle touching, the close faces, the kisses. Eventually, they did the beginning part again, not awkward at all, but easy, easy. And somehow without warning they both slipped into a deep, calm sleep. When she woke up he was watching her. It felt nice. She beamed at him.
“I’m too old for you,” he said.
She stopped smiling. “I know,” she said.
Miranda waited for Josh at the brand-new lo-fi coffee bar on Broadway. Espresso and cappuccino had become so ubiquitous in the city that nearly every block featured an espresso cart, or a coffee kiosk, or a cappuccino counter. The trend was so overly elaborated that the details of consumption became parsed and specific; there were conventions and argot. Cappuccinos could be “wet”—meaning made with not just foam but a little steamed milk. There were macchiatos and lattes, and a thousand variations on beans and brewing. Naturally it didn’t take long for the coolest, newest coffee bars to defiantly serve only drip coffee. In retro, normal-sized cups. Eventually, perhaps, it would be instant coffee. She drank the watery brew and read the paper. She felt excited and high from hardly sleeping. Her skin glowed from kissing a man with some stubble on his face. Her chest was a little red as well, as if she had hives or a rash. It’s weird how when you first sleep with someone it is almost like your bodies are allergic to each other. She felt absurdly pleased, and then she watched for Josh. As soon as she saw him, she would put thoughts of Nash aside, just deliberately unthink them.