Minus felt now the weight of his years as he tried to remember his first visit to his grandfather’s workspace
He couldn’t clearly recall the excitement or the danger or the fear of being caught
There was only the vaguely familiar sensation that he had been here before
And the long hallway that stretched out before him leading to the door of the studio, somehow seemed as if it were a road he had glimpsed only once before, and in some fevered state
What little recollection of his grandfather Minus had, the brief and unsettling visits that hushed and angry voices, disembodied and shut away beyond door, blanket pillow, and lid, were colored by the memories of his long discarded gifts
Grandfather’s constructions
Simian simulations
Puzzling mechanical contraptions
Were meant in earnest to be his friend, companion and confidant. To a youth misplaced among others
Minus knew nothing of his grandfather as extropian
Nothing of uploading consciousness
Nothing of enhanced, augmented sentients
But the old man knew his grandson shared with him the same insatiable curiosity, and the typical interrogatives of those destined to seek the answers
It was with this knowledge that Minus’ grandfather had left this place
And with the same assurance that Minus would stumble across what had been set in motion
It would take years the old man knew. But time itself was now irrelevant
Indeed, the years it took were heavy on Minus. He sat now failing to remember exactly why he was here now. Alone in his grandfather dim and silent studio
Then as if on cue, something clicked. It all came back
Rushing at him in scattered and disconnected impressions
Cranial jags
Anthropomorphic representations of raw electronic data
And the unfiltered fears of a small child
From this silence then, in a voice from, but not of himself, Minus spoke out to the empty room
I am Apparatus. Let me show you what I have seen
Falling prey to the general inertia of the day, the first mark is always the hardest to make
The first crack in that safe silence I can’t bring myself to disturb
A silence that tends to overwhelm mostly
There are words, questions above me
Glowing in the detritus stirred up by the days events, they swirl like leaves, complaining against the fog, circling around me like debris in a whirlwind, each a willing perpetrator in abrasive mists, and I choke on the dust
Our of nowhere, out of boundless grace and blessings forgotten in some chemical shift, they settle around me in a halo, a slow motion melancholy that descends without apology, overwhelming and infinite
In a pool of hope, I am face down
Awake to every ripple. Every disturbance and distortion
Every intrusion
The dead leaves leave like memory and speech. Fallen from infinite branches of possibility
They’re simply roots and leaves, hold me under, looping in hypnotic array
“Things change”, she told me
Then to settle sideways and decelerate
With fleeting vapors of happiness
Perceived grace
Or accidental joy
“I am on the brink of everything”, or so my speck of thought goes
It bleeds over, in and between and dictates action
Within this singularity of conception is a vacuum of thought, or a sinkhole of naïveté?
Shame filled and broken down I cannot hide. But I’m carried from imagined whispers, or made up gasps, to a place of all forgetfulness
The wood cracks beneath my feet, though in timid steps devoid of caution. The boards speak to me in broken language
“Go on, no one else will see”
But I have seen, and to that which gives me strength unfold all my worry
Unfettered, random, run-on scrawl of consciousness contaminates the page, corrupting utterly my threadbare comprehension
Nothing but virus now, not even a chance to engage myself in anything more than imaginary conversations with my own kind
And the only thing that keeps me warm, is the hum and glow of my machines
Too many words in the space between my eyes
None lasting long enough to register, but long enough to decipher
Their brother and sister images corrupt my memory, leaking profusely and flashing blind
A momentary distraction
Virulent
Nervous
Showing me those who call themselves ‘friends’
Not as I assume them to be. But as they truly are
Showing me horrors of faded persons. Where 〈.?.〉 of infinite grace were not enough. And where we once stood smiling, unhindered, now beaten down, un-looked for
Showing me multiple infinite facets
Showing me the transmutations of supposed angels, or being that were once girls
Once single moment of clarity. Everything distilled into one unspeakable singularity
So to a fragile apparatus of
Affection
Desire
Lust
Protection
Perseverance
And forbearance
Under the weight of your indifference is strained but nor broken
Bent, but hold still
Bruised, but smiling
Silent, but know you
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