Chatsworth 

Photocollage

Stoney Point.

I navigate my way over piles of broken glass, bottle caps to reach the summit. I frown at the pizza box, the cigarette butts, and the volatile remnants of human devaluation of Stoney Point. The rock face is littered with scraping of words in reds, black and blue. A sketch of a woman with enormous breasts and a phallic image next to her mouth, next to the sketch the words dildo clarifies the symbol for the reader.

On another rock, the words “GIVE ME HEAD” in white block print. 


Another rock, etches of name, with deep intent scrapes scars into the rock face, a violent etching, with deep wounds and penetrative intent.

Another rock, the words “the drug den” and “Shroom” with a trip intensified psychedelic feel.

Another rock, his/her claims to the territory, a desire to be named-remembered.


I sit behind a boulder and take in the view. I hear voices. A beer can flies past me, crashes to the ground with an empty tinny sound, the splash of the last of the liquid soaks into the stone to my left.

Found Material Collage

Valley.
This valley is porn valley.
This valley is one big strip mall and suburban sprawl.
Buildings tick by in a pattern.

tick tick tick tick tick    tick tick tick tick tick           tick tick tick tick tick
One of these houses is rented to people in the adult entertainment business.
tick tick tick tick tick        tick tick tick tick tick               tick tick tick tick tick
One of these women is a porn star.
tick tick tick tick tick          tick tick tick tick tick      tick tick tick tick tick


One of these women  is holding the camera.

Driving through the straight, flat grid of one of the thirty-six suburban community plan areas, in the San Fernando Valley, I pass trash in dumpsters, strip mall after strip mall. Lights blink. Traffic stops. Seven cars wait at the light. Then we go again. Pulsating in the grid of unending condominiums in tan, light orange, and brown. The strip strikes a quick red of a liquor store sign. The hum of a grocery store, the silent park - all beat out a rhythm between thin rays of gray. Concrete box after concrete box after concrete box, then a flash of human, sitting with several bags at a bus stop. One, then two, they are gone again.

Jeanine Mingé / jeanine.minge@gmail.com / Author  Amber Lynn Zimmerman / alzimmer@waterloo.edu / Author     Phillip Vannini / phillip.vannini@royalroads.ca / Series Editor   © All Rights Reserved

chatsworth collage

J. Mingé