The Ever-Processing Machine

I can’t find my incense. I don’t want to write. I desperately want nothing more than to write. For ever. So then, perhaps I’m just a stymied masochist at heart(less), doomed to miserable inaction for the rest of my days.

I do not dedicate myself as I should, as I need. . .

There’s a llama on my printer. A small one. A wedding gift, eight years and counting, staring me blackly in the eye. It knows. Trying to escape, my eye rests upon a small picture sat beneath my computer. It is my own babyface peering out with merrily blank baby eyes. The photo is overlaid with the thick shadow of a chain-link fence. This is me. Trapped by a shadow. Waiting for the world to do something. Trying to grasp the significance of the strange, cold eye that trains itself on me so often and aloofly clicks.


There’s so much crammed into this tiny office I could cry. I used to think I would write always and anywhere — give me a closet and a cardboard box, set me free with charcoal under a bridge and I would be unable to refrain from wordplay, perpetual swordplay with man and nature alike, taking the measure of everything by means of soul, squished then through a kind of linguistic strainer until all I had left was the juice, the essence, the concentrated taste of experience in this undeniably awkward universe.

Now that belief has shattered. It may have been true once, but I have lived into a future where I hide from myself — and everyone else — quite effectively. So here is a journal that is lacking all pretence, simply my words, simply me, all my flaws on my sleeve.


Can you see the chainlink fence?

I can. It’s all the mouldering critique in my soul. Surely if I put organic stuff in there it would become mulch instead of poison. Perhaps I am now more than part machine, and the organic materials cannot breathe. If I lived for aeons, my mouldering mulch would become the solid stuff of the planet, sandstone, limestone, volcanic rock jutting out of soft soil at awkward angles, baring its bones to escape unfathomable pressure. But I don’t want to be the solid stuff of earth, I want to grow. Become green in the sunlight, swing in gusts of wind, evaporate through expanding skin and rise to join the clouds, journeying towards a body of water and aching for the ocean deeps. Even the rocky shore submits to the tireless ministrations of moisture.


The cold, cyclopian eye is back. I think it wants to eat me. It’s everywhere, and I fear if I pay too much attention to it it might just absorb my essence. Like native people distrust photos, I distrust the all-seeing Eye with a maggoty, crawling kind of fear. I am sure it can erase my life, my futures, my Being in a moment’s time. How does one go about retrieving one’s essence from the maw of the beast? Can it ever regain its form? Its motivation? Its mind? I am not sure, but I will fight.



Musingly, Further

Further Always

)i’ve a notion tonight that there’s a further way to live than i
do, and that it is far from impossible to live.

i’ve always believed so, but this feeling tonight is like rubber on the road, like violets peeking out of soil, like music from strings of gut — organic and all contact — this can be, is, if i would only let it.

i’ve found something, the idea of fire is no longer abstract, but living flame that moves and breathes and grows — no mere idle dreaming of what ought to be but is not– it is, i am, we can be, so, easily, so. fragile, with a touch(!) pushed over the edge into all feeling knowing touching thinking connectivity and life, neurons like combustion engines beginning things with powerful push to go forth and create, to go forth and multiply out of one’s very self [with what material is to be found nearby] to replicate, ennumerate, and grow, (learnbeauty)evolve [with the tools at hand, with] the sharing of heart and mind and soul that is to be found in this great host of communal life — withallwhyistheresomuch death?

i, however, i. i am committed to further in and further up, to a further way to live, to flowers and fast-fury-movement and flame and oxygen and song and notions and soil and smells and rain -hope in its bows- and vitasunshine running through the veins of the earth where its light does not apparently reach i am committed, latched in, rooted like a great tree, in all i know of life and love and joy

and death has been is always forever defeated.

this i know, further than i did before, always further, always further towards finality that never ends(

c. Kate Gough


Today is Muse New Born,
and I will live further