But now the landscapes process us. I had meant to make meaning from measure, to mark, in spatial erms, the time of that trembling. What shockwaves undergird our daily vantages, as we glide along the parallel gridlines of the commuter rails, bound for duty. Canvassing the contact zones for new mappings, scripted in pen and ink, oil spills and charcoal. To have yet harvested these habits, as land use and interpretation. Sprawl jetty ;– distance the intro retreating if as reading.

Scanning the brandscapes for fresh wet silicon, fields of congealed land rent, extracted through the sickness and the silt. What yields as spiraling jelly, earth-meat the new meds. This could be a staging area, then, flush with geographics as yet untainted, as sets unpainted. Into the actual territories, measured by foot, by brushstroke, by anxious metered cross-hatching. These are the stakes, the lived crises lathered into landscape, and we the injured forging new dance steps for horizoning other habitats.

Here the slag archives, the festering tomorrows, the overripe processing zones. The, and prospectors in panicked retreat from the ground-tremors, while the paranoia agents ache out new modes of counter-habitation. All else is fencing, enclosure-script, zoning code porn. There's information in every distant gaze, each false exit ramp. Horizon shimmer, horizon buzz; an ecology of anti-systemic march-life, bubbling into figuration. The ache farthest beacon a mode of measure, of the maybe-that-there. Come find us, over here, scavengers of the yet-unknown.

David Buuck lives in Oakland, where he organizes BARGE, the Bay Area Research Group in Enviro-aesthetics. He is a contributing editor for Artweek, and teaches at the San Francisco Art Institute.


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