Oog 2
[Note: I changed the second half]
I am sitting in a black chair which perches on the unsteady ground like a faux Victorian iron spider which has been inexplicably painted black, hiding the beautiful not quite ready to rust yet form which I admire so much in those complicated, hulking, coal eating engines. I am perched on this perch-ed thing, rocking as I type both physically and mentally, fingers idly dancing like those of an android in a movie made several years ago and subsequently remade but never recaptured. The beasties' hands unfold like origami in reverse - extend and lightly dance over the keys - I imagine my hands doing the same thing, except they only dance, they cannot unfold and contemplating my hands doing anything related to origami makes me cringe slightly inside.
I hate that idea of something forced against its will and perhaps against its nature and believe that all true crimes have some element of this seed which is so repellent to my mind. But now I am forcing myself to write which may be a crime but fuck it this shit isn't going to write itself and sometimes you've got to take a few slaps, even if you're the one giving and receiving them.
I am like Santa Claus, except with "tough love".
But this love is stuck inside right now and this inside is surrounded by bones then flesh then freckles (not cancer!) and after these fleshy bits you find a sleek otter of a jacket, water resistant and light weight and prone to doing tricks the majority of which are somehow related to water resistance - but I like to think that this thing which has captured me and my heat has more tricks carefully hidden behind the façade which all inanimate objects share.
As I reach out to unsuccessfully remove a fly (which glories in the deep and unrequited love which it holds for my monitor), my hands emulate the hovering fly, almost imperceptibly stroking this monitor which holds so many memories while the humming faceless box below seems to hold nothing. I slide my hand along the monitor’s jaw, over each cryptic button, and sink back to my sunken keyboard, remembering typewriters which always intrigued me but were never as transparent as the array of molded plastic assembled before me.
This plastic is more intriguing then the rusted imperfect junk left over from those mythical Victorians who managed to destroy our hands and replace them with sleek iron lattice-worked puzzles, powered by artfully hidden pistons and locomotives fed by brownies pulled from picture books drawn by Edison. This plastic is human and ugly and easily molded and fallible (except the amazing and airborne black box). And because it breaks we can pick up the pieces and shake our heads and worry about obsolescence and fix it because we all need to be mothers and fathers and those machines of old left no place for fixing – no place for struggle only perfection and beauty and everything we hate.
I am sitting in a black chair which perches on the unsteady ground like a faux Victorian iron spider which has been inexplicably painted black, hiding the beautiful not quite ready to rust yet form which I admire so much in those complicated, hulking, coal eating engines. I am perched on this perch-ed thing, rocking as I type both physically and mentally, fingers idly dancing like those of an android in a movie made several years ago and subsequently remade but never recaptured. The beasties' hands unfold like origami in reverse - extend and lightly dance over the keys - I imagine my hands doing the same thing, except they only dance, they cannot unfold and contemplating my hands doing anything related to origami makes me cringe slightly inside.
I hate that idea of something forced against its will and perhaps against its nature and believe that all true crimes have some element of this seed which is so repellent to my mind. But now I am forcing myself to write which may be a crime but fuck it this shit isn't going to write itself and sometimes you've got to take a few slaps, even if you're the one giving and receiving them.
I am like Santa Claus, except with "tough love".
But this love is stuck inside right now and this inside is surrounded by bones then flesh then freckles (not cancer!) and after these fleshy bits you find a sleek otter of a jacket, water resistant and light weight and prone to doing tricks the majority of which are somehow related to water resistance - but I like to think that this thing which has captured me and my heat has more tricks carefully hidden behind the façade which all inanimate objects share.
As I reach out to unsuccessfully remove a fly (which glories in the deep and unrequited love which it holds for my monitor), my hands emulate the hovering fly, almost imperceptibly stroking this monitor which holds so many memories while the humming faceless box below seems to hold nothing. I slide my hand along the monitor’s jaw, over each cryptic button, and sink back to my sunken keyboard, remembering typewriters which always intrigued me but were never as transparent as the array of molded plastic assembled before me.
This plastic is more intriguing then the rusted imperfect junk left over from those mythical Victorians who managed to destroy our hands and replace them with sleek iron lattice-worked puzzles, powered by artfully hidden pistons and locomotives fed by brownies pulled from picture books drawn by Edison. This plastic is human and ugly and easily molded and fallible (except the amazing and airborne black box). And because it breaks we can pick up the pieces and shake our heads and worry about obsolescence and fix it because we all need to be mothers and fathers and those machines of old left no place for fixing – no place for struggle only perfection and beauty and everything we hate.
posted by Fifth at 12:59 PM
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