What remains is shard, squelch, after-crunch. What’s already been eaten has disappeared. They are making images of what we failed to consider. They are guiding our waste along an interior trajectory. Glasses of water ripple beside expectant microphones and piles of leavings. Coloured cables snake into assigned portals.
The equipment in this room could be the correct equipment. Our arrogance: parcelling out our worst, and expecting cash. Our old glass contaminated by the wrong equipment. We’ve tried and failed to sell our leftovers and runoff to other countries. A highly litigious recycling contractor who can’t be gotten rid of. We nodded knowingly-all too aware of our fraudulent city, the landfill offloaded to other jurisdictions. When someone said discard and waste, we imagined the crash and roar of machinery, the clanking of mechanical teeth. Here we are with the hum and buzz, the bright light passing over and over the soft layered notes. Here we are, hands full of scraps, in the digestive space, scanning. We begin once the dinner has already been consumed. Or, it began with dinner, but dinner isn’t in this landscape.
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