To The Swinging Woman In Ballet Mécanique (first letter)

Each of your appearances is thrilling.
You’re a flickering arrest within the film reel, the dvd, on the screen, the monitor, amongst the binary bits of code shuttling in and out of my computer. You stare back at me as if I were alien. I wonder if you might be too. Who isn’t a foreign novelty within Modernity? I’m trying to lose a sense of dread. My heart glides in and out of my throat like a pendulum.
You’re the only inhabitant of the film not mutilated by the camera. It’s as if you’ve commandeered the project.
You’ve let the possibilities of the medium wander around you without a leash. You are swaying in the sunlight. You are a smiling immortal. You’re a ghost in complete control.
You’re an indexical trace of something still waiting to be addressed completely, openly, something that refuses to die, something undead. Perhaps you were a new kind of being when they first filmed you, a mutant consciousness formed by the cult of self and its corporate backers, a bored flapper looking for kicks, pursuing a visceral communion with material reality, indifferent to an evacuation of tradition, shared values and all moral autonomy, celebrating the reinvention of our desires in an era of equivalencies.
Perhaps this amazement in seeing you now comes from a recognition of what’s been lost. You move between worlds. You keep swinging back and forth between life and its commodification, across subjects and objects, actions and their dramatization.
Your presence has always anticipated a sublimation of existence — life replaced by representation — while refusing the erasure of other possibilities.
Each of your appearances is thrilling.