120812: machine, word, water
(words from Meli Chung)
It swishes and swirls through cranks and cogs, meanders and creaks in dark rafters, a ghost. It’s spoken in hushed tones at dawn, after waking the entire night; exclaimed in empty rooms whilst sweeping the floor and the last dregs have drained ; cursed and spat with spiteful contempt, and red, swollen eyes. It starts strings of incidence, and follows a maze of negotiation, an elaborate dance. It boasts a lineage as long as production, and is the space between collages of anguish without context. It blossomed from a blossom, a flourishing stain, emanating from the periphery. There was motion, there was action, there was directed organisation. There was emotion, there was investment, tactility and warmth. Then came the weight, built upon a shaky frame, suffocating burden, piling one by one.
Your will was blackened by the gate, a shutter over intention, and desire. The gaps filled by projection, fiction. Smokescreen. Buffer.
There is a bridge. It does not meet up in the middle. From each side it extends, bends and triangulates underground. There is a cavern where the bridge does meet. And this is where you live.
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We took a journey two nights ago to the eastern side of the bridge, for kicks. We heard of your dwelling somewhere subterra, but without reference point, without a taste for the fictitious, and without concessions away from comfort – it was not possible for us to imagine your existence or subsistence, feeding on abundance nor gasping for breath. So we found ourselves on the eastern bank, where the bridge jutted out, a stark rogue branch emerging from loose, dry dirt of an angled mound. Made of blackness, either jet or onyx or obsydnian or residue, it was a smooth shiny plane without barriers or seams. Our feet soundless as we ventured across. We walked wordlessly too, as it seemed appropriate, but without exchange or utterance to mark the passing of time, it became immeasurable. We walked along the bridge, unknown quantities around us, and our paced steps never tired. We aged, the same amount as always: moment by moment, thought to thought. Our thoughts mirrored each other at a single moment, when the edge of the plane appeared before us. Our feet took us to the end, and we found it precisely cut, a rectangular cross-section, hanging over a large empty volume.
We did not see the edge of the western side of the bridge. It felt calculated, and we spoke of feeling tested by an unseen watchful presence. I peered closely, into and through the volume, focussing on emptiness. I had expected water, as is under all bridges, but the glistening I saw was not wet. An undulating, craggy amphibious skin covered the landscape below us. It was multi-creviced, and in some, there grew shards of hematite, or reflective metal flecks. I threw my arms up in a motion of synthesis, and a gale blew upwards from below.
[to be continued]