In the warehouse of a local weed control agency in rural America, someone discovers several drums of a 15-year-old chemical once used to sterilize soil. The drums are taken to a remote area and left there. A rifle shot rings out. A drum explodes. Had the drums been jarred while at the warehouse, several people would have been killed, for the drums of obsolete chemicals had slowly, imperceptibly, turned into time bombs.
“I don’t feel like I belong, and that’s without real pain, without pride. Pride happens. No, I’m just disconnected, from practically everything. I have a few anchors, and sometimes I let them go or they let me go, and I drift. That’s most of the time. Sometimes I hang on for a few days, minutes, seconds, then I let go again. I can hardly look. I can hardly hear. Semi-blind, semi-deaf, I float. Sometimes I sink. But not quite. Something, sometimes a detail, brings me back to the surface, and I start floating again…”
Chantal Akerman