I pick up a fax at the lobby's front desk. From mother. Meet me at the bookstore, I'll be there all afternoon. Two and a half hours later, I pull into the parking lot. I drive around a bit, passing good parking spaced. I find one next to the grocery store on the other side of the lot. I'm in no hurry to give up a moment to myself.

I turn off the car, I listen to the radio for awhile. I fall asleep and awaken minutes later to the sound of radio static. I've lost the station again, communication broken. Looking towards the bookstore, I see someone in a red coat, gesturing wildly.
Its a guy holding a book, a street preacher with a microphone.
I roll down the window.
He's making dramatic hand movements and pacing along the frozen sidewalk.

Get up, get up, get out of your car. Tell the truth. Use
the satellites to guide you.
Find the freeway to God.
There's a message, a message there for you among all the static.
Put your hand in there, in the chaos, feel it flowing through
your fingers. Is it real or just liquid hieroglyphs? Make it
real. Shake the hand of the pharoahs in there and then let
him go...back to the unknowable
...back to sleep.

Our work can be seen as science fiction of the present. We think about technologies that already exist, but give their implications to non-technologists in an attempt to see their effects on the unconscious psyche, on the archetypal human struggle. To portray this stuggle, we manipulate the conventions of narrative. Storytelling becomes a strategy by which essential moods and feelings can transfer from character to viewer. This identification with character causes a feel first, think later reaction. The reaction, once felt , can not be retracted and must enter the playing field with other , so called real events.