Lovelitter

... a beautiful act to litter? From the start its the wrong thing to do, apparently. A mess for others to clean. A luxurious act, no? Relieving oneself of the responsibility of an object. It's somebody else's problem now. Buying, purchasing. The purchaser is cleaning the object away, putting it elsewhere. Safely so. And stealing? The promiscuous act, must occupy a corner within this zone? To clean to remove the object, the thief is queen. And the idea thief, slippery? In Skyrim the act of thievery is personified by the character crouching,  knees bent low, hiding face, delicate and agile. In Assassins Creed clinking coins, metal-on-metal, jutting in the pocket, a nudge in the small of a pedestrians back and they’re at a loss. But then who steals rubbish? The unwanted thus discarded. The magpie, the scavenger, the opportunist, the idiot. To rid oneself of an undesired object, a bowel movement, get rid of the slimy packaging in your hand and slide onto the next moment of consumption. I drift, thinking about what it would look like if I were presented with all the objects that were once mine: etc, etc, etc, etc. A vulgar image. A piggy life. Littering may just be an object passing through me, for my stomach to filter and profit the best minerals. Transfer. Something endearing about a crushed carton that looks new sitting on the floor waiting to be swept up? The pavement it's stage, the audience in flux. I've noticed a particular cigarette packet design. A glaucoma veils an eye, watching out, a miniature lighthouse warning of the dangers of smoking, it is removed from its body, separated, cut. Printed on a box that is then left on the street to surveil, watch. It is the active litter, that lives, that has a body, that acts back at you. A pedestrian mirador. Branding lives on after the product has expired, advertising still, without damaging the corporate reputations, I dare mention the brand of the notorious red can, it’s said to be dorment in darkest corners of the ocean. The carcass continues to work for the machine, zombified. Out the car window, packaging flies seventy-one-miles-per-hour then rests in a zone too dangerous for humans to collect, it absorbs the vibrations loyally, the cars putter along until they too become litter. Footwells act as nets for the unwanted, convenient to use whilst driving as items can be disposed of quickly without pulling over. A dashboard, landing site for workers discarded lunch packaging, catalogues, papers, receipts, empty bottles, tools, dirt, waste. A shelf for the unwanted that presents itself to the curious pedestrians walking past. There's litter in pockets, deconstructed litter in the cleaned pockets of freshly washed clothes. Litter doesn't answer back it is ambivalent. Content with staining surfaces, spilling, oozing.