Technology Envelope

The scent of early morning flare gun synapses, diseased jump start corpses, a thousand yard trench line running navel to nose. The spill from one organ to the next, fluids making money off of unlit palaces. What part of the frame doesn’t steal from the other every now and then, to keep up, retain composure, impress the neighbors? There are these colonies of bacteria in our body, holding meetings, planning rallies, putting a little away in the retirement fund. I feel the inside of my body every day, every minute. I’ve always wanted to be an old grandmother, tits hanging like a moose’s sack, a raspy voice over a brown stained tongue. I think the best part of old age is senility. It’s like having your short term memory valve severed, every five minutes would seem shiny and new. I remember my grandmother. Demented, talking to me and forgetting who I was every third question, asking them three times in a row. I would start answering them differently after a while.

“Where’s your husband?”
“I’m not married grandma”
“Oh well you should find a man, I was married for fifty seven years”
“I know Grandma, you told me.”
“Oh well, I’m old, so it’s okay if I forget things.”
“I’m sure is”
“Do you have a husband?
“No, grandma, I’ve never married, but I’ve been divorced twice.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, Oh indeed.”
“So do you have a husband yet?”
“Yes Grandma he’s lying at the bottom of lake Michigan with a carrot peeler sticking out the back of his neck.”

I like talking with her, she’s the only person I can be myself around.

I like moon men and I like cheese: little kids are scary to us because they are good at knowing what they want and bad at getting what they want. Adulthood is the opposite. I’ve been thinking for two hours and not thinking about the fact that I’m thinking, but now I am. Is that a necessary rhythm to thought or will I be able to live without it?

Dancing to Calculation

Number has a sign, sign has a spirit. But numbers are not equal to their variables and signs point only to each other. The spirit is left to fend for itself. To make a bend or a break, to announce your impertinence, your pretension to ignore name tags and toe tags, to lust after pockets of instant satisfaction which line up around the town square, hoist its embankments and give it form.

A window, a mirror
A sunrise, a hailstorm
A green leaf, a left turn
A stop light, a start over
A mistake, a film gate
A reshoot, an eye sore
A fat lip, a wet clit,
A number: nought
A color: sought
A woman: bought
A reflection: caught
I stared into the converging horizon of fifty acres, evergreens launching an attack, a fog that leaked through the smallest pinholes in the painting. My eyes see it, but my mind reads it and tells me what’s there, what’s solid and what smells, what to remember and what to fill in. I’ve wrapped myself in a pink bathrobe and have invited the air into my lungs. Behind me lies my home, my manor, I like to sit with my back to it every morning and stare through the bars of a porch rail the light release the landscape. You read how light converts carbon dioxide to sugar, you follow it’s path, carry the ones, but you never see the sub-atomic decision making, that atomic identity crisis. My home is where I waste away, free style incubation. The fear that maybe the world outside of its lacks the sense of hiStory I need, a sense that scar tissue is submerged in the sediment of the walls around me. I love black on black and off white.

Prologue

I met Rose at a writing colony in Illinois. She immediately seduced me, a young naïve wanderer, just kicked out of Oxford. I went there for a three week vacation from my body and core dump of my brain. She was electric blue, she used to go down to the patio outside with a cup of coffee with a shot of scotch, sit there all day scribbling in a journal. One night she went for a walk with Jacob, a sixty two year old ex-hippie who owned a Juice bar in Joliet. I perforated the confines of her room and found the journal, sat on the floor a just started reading. She seemed scared, hesitant in her prose, she was searching for a meaning behind her visions, her clarity when touched by the life course of another. She could see spirits, and they spoke to her, sometimes in anger, in protest, or perhaps just boredom. She was a conduit for most people, and had been used up often enough to make her suspicious of attachments. But she liked to take risks, bury everything six feet deep for a lost cause. I was half way into when she walked through the door, and ice filled the base of my spine.

Act 1, scene 1.

“Who are you darling?”
“uhh . . . my name is Harriet, I’ve see-
“I know who you are luv, I want to know what you are doing in my room, with what looks to be my journal.”
“I wanted to ask you something, you weren’t here, and the journal was sitting there, before you know it was reading. I’m sorry”
“Well dear, the irresistable is not a viable motive, not what are come from.” She leaned down and picked up the journal from my lap. “So what did you want to ask me?”
“What?”
“You said you wanted to ask me something, what was it?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You don’t converse well do you?”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No honey, stay a while, I could use the extra pair of lobes.”
Rose sat down oh velvet bed cover and took of a necklace, placed on a small statue on the night stand.
“Harriet, right?”
“Yes”
“Harriet has a name, Harriet has a smile, but Harriet doesn’t like the way her plans feel and her actions lift, why does Harriet think too far ahead but live even farther?”
Silence, Harriet doesn’t like being talked about in the third person.
“I don’t think about the future at all.”
“No, but you don’t live in the present, and you have past, I can tell that by looking at you. So where do you live Harriet.”
“Maybe I don’t”
“Then why are you here.”
“Maybe I’m not planning to stay, maybe this is just a visit.”
Timelines and tree trunks

If the space between two states of Chaos is also Chaos, than he space never remains constant, but the if the states are Chaos, they will not allow the space to call itself a space, they will ignore its needs, and bring together the points on any line, on any function, and stretch them out inside each other. The perfect space is a space of water line, of fluid motion and jovial wave. These spaces exist inside a person and make cotton out of wax, and becomes system.

Harriet had fallen into dream when she was wakened by Rose’s hand on her shoulder.

Act 7, scene 5

“Sleep well?”
“I slept too well.”
“Well don’t make a habit of it.”
“Your right, I have too many of those anyway.”

Rose pulled up a chair next to Harriet and shared the view.

“Where were you last night?”
Harriet resented the question but answered.
“I was in the city, stalking, hiding, the usual.”
“Why do go there so often?”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t used to go their, you liked it here, in your space, you said it was a part of you. Now you walk around like a caged animal.”
“I need to feel people around me now, feel their static electricity.”
“I miss you sometimes you know that?”
“I miss myself.”
“What are you thinking about?”

Harriet looked her in the eye, just one eye mind you and me and them.

“I’m thinking about what it would be like to be cryogenically frozen. If you slept for a thousand years, and didn’t dream, it would seem that you would blink and suddenly you’re in the future, and you got to hurdle a millennium. But I think you’re body would feel that time go by, you would wake up knowing that your now a thousand years old, no matter how little moment had occurred at the cellular level. I don’t think time is about movement.

I lived those weeks with Rose as my surrogate soul. I split in two, and gave to her and always waited for my return share, and it never came. I wanted to be her, to see through her, to live in side her womb or on her shoulder, too lose myself in her fluid, to be sought and spectacle to her whims. I wanted slavery, and gave everything that was mine. She walked me to the lake and back, never let me win an argument or proceed into tact and strategy. I wasn’t allowed to think straight, or think the same thought twice. I looped, and began mutating.

Act 29, scene 1

“I hate you, I hate the very sight of you, the smell, the walk, the flirt, the ask not-“

Rose had a child when she was nineteen. They took it away. Rose had a boyfriend, a jazz musician who liked Heroin and using vibrators creatively. He lost his leg in a car accident. She used to help him out of bed in the morning and strap on his prosthetic. Rose had a pet rabbit once, it got sick and she let it die in the middle kitchen, and rot for three days. Rose liked burning old photographs. Rose once drank paint thinner.
Act 189, scene 5067

“I want out of here.”
“That’s no way to ask me.”
“Please, I don’t have strength right now”
“Ask me in favorite tone of voice.”
“Fuck you.”
“No that’s my second favorite.”
“I don’t want this, I don’t want you.”
“Ask me like your life depended on it”
“I’m thirsty”
“Ask me like the first time you asked me.”
“I can smell my own shit everyday”
“Ask me like your my daughter.”
“I want out”
“Ask me again, with feeling this time”

They say an atom is solid matter at all. It is energy fields in conjunction, attracted to each indefinitely, or until a positron is definitely rammed into it by self-assured patrons of the larger world. The protons and electrons are not things, but the possibility of some thing being a thing at a possible place and time. Inside this field is empty space, but since the energy moves so fast, the possibly anywhere, any time, there and not there makes things solid.

When I’m old I feel like myself again, and I won’t grow any older, and you’ll be a dead battery inside me, rusting away on it’s own unused acid.

 

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