This bed is a ship

dream:

there is a team of us, we are in a compound in the woods, a scientific research station. a group of us had just arrived, traveling a long way from some city, to join the researchers who had been there for some time. perhaps too long. 

stretches of plexiglass, the light through the trees. rows of potted plans inside, with small hand-written labels. we were all introduced, a strange tension running through the room, but he and I were laughing about something, excited to learn some strange new thing from these people who’d been working on growing living tissue that was somewhere between plant and animal. the how of it was murky. 

some argument occurred between the two teams, and then resolved, at which point the leader of the older team, a tall man with a long beard, shoved open one of the plexiglass doors, only for a moment. members of his team instantly panicked. “Vapors will get in!” they were yelling. Our group was confused; the door opened to the outdoor path around the building, where we had walked up on our approach. We had undergone no sterilizing precautions, and had no reason to think the air we had been breathing outside was hazardous. 

somehow, everything became very dangerous and moved very fast. they had been using alien tissue to grow creatures far more ambitious than we had known, and as they were exposed to something from outside, long stretches of vine, hefty spikes of aloe, blooming flowers, they started writhing, moving violently toward us. vines like powerful snakes, and bulbs like blades, driving at our bodies. there was only one snarl, and it attacked us. the thing, or things, pierced through his body like an arrow, low on his chest. I killed it, or he did, we somehow subdued the thing, pulled it into pieces with our hands. My initial thought, and probably his, was that he would die, that one small blade gone straight through. The look on his face. All the things I wanted to say were flowery, were beautiful sentiments that would not help him, so instead I called out instructions to the others, medical equipment, the removal of the beast, calling for outside help, did we have surgical equipment. I had my hands pressed against him to hold the blood in his body, and in that moment of panic, he looked at me and grinned. We stood there, bodies pressed together motionless in a flurry of activity, and grinned at each other like fools. How strange and exciting the world is, how lucky we are to see it and for someone else to get the joke. Then we both knew, with utter certainty, that he would be fine. 

Trying to write a grant proposal while in the throes of stupid, debilitating depression. 

Discuss your artistic goals and plans for the next three to five years. What kind of work do you hope to do? Note any changes in your creative direction and the reasons for these changes. Maximum 2,000 characters.

This feels a little bit like a joke. 

Here, yes, now, when you are feeling your least competent, your least being-of-worth, when your head aches and your cunt bleeds and your thoughts cloud, when all you are becomes one maw of selfish lazy wanting, slick with the tempting sickly sweet of self-loathing, self-pity glinting green in the hot dark– push words through that diseased wall of meat into the world. State clearly your intent. Mark out each logical step of progress on the way to all the things you knew so certainly you wanted. 

This, of course, is where this bout of terror comes from. Being forced to face my muddled pits of desire, to take the scattered bones and read them clear. To say, yes, I know what I want, and why it matters, and to be sure I will not fail because I believe that I can overcome my fear, and my sloth, and my constant distraction, because I believe that I can win more times than I do not in the fight against this sinking, this sabotaging melt into the grime. 

I think a lot about a scene in a goddamn 1982 fantasy action movie, The Beastmaster, that I haven’t even seen in years, but where he’s in some quicksand or a tar pit or something, he’s going to sink in and die, but his tiny little ferret friends somehow save him, he makes it out. Sometimes it feels like that, except I’m the Beastmaster and the ferrets, and also the quicksand, and the whole strange primeval landscape, the trees moving quietly in the wind.

I reach my fingers into my eyes and pull out long, thick ropes of time. 

I tuck my nails under my collarbone and yank. The room fills up with steam.

I want to forget my laziness and fear. I want to crush my crumbling thoughts into a diamond. I want to be a perfect star. I want to burn the sky. 

My lungs balloon with laughter, harsh, the scent of stale air. 

The cruel truths of cruel men ring out in the stillness. 

What, then, girl, do you do? Give us the word of your inaction, bleed that ambition to the floor, your big talk and your little body crumpling in broken metal and wasted time. 

The fear of death, of the running out of time, could not engulf the fear of failure that fallowed all the crops.

But then, here, this little pricking change of day and day. 

I could grow a woman for this body, build her out of the wreckage of all my former selves. I could make you proud. I could make me. 

I will let these trivialities propel me, if only to keep swimming through the dark. I want to be the kind of girl you think I am. (I kind of think I am to be the girl you want.)

I will sharpen my machete. I will put on my mascara. I will cut down the field of terrors that spreads itself before me. You will see my face on billboards, fear oozing out my mouth, bent and desiccated. You will hear my voice in the boiling seas. A thousand little girls will weep, for we are holding hands. Rose petals will burst from the car stereos of small-town tyrants, and I swear to god even if just for one night we will sleep well. 

Oh, help, this heart has stretched to let the world in, and your hand is at the hilt. 

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ghostmodernism:

sometimes you do a shitty job of setting up your sequence and export settings, and instead of the video you made, you get this, which is probably just as pleasing as the video you made.

lololol look i “made” some glitch art

Sid BrancaglitchComment

The exact volume of every room I’ve ever shared with you, sifting over me in my quiets like warm sand.

Sid BrancaComment

for all my frequent calling on the body as the heart of me

I am so rarely even close enough to smell your skin

yet every second I spend near you gets you 

deeper in me than however long your dick is

which I wouldn’t know.

but I know the way you shift your weight

the way you laugh when something pleases you

the craning of your head to see something no one has noticed.

seeing my desire in another’s smiling arms

her eyes shining.

Sid BrancaComment

let us pour over the archives, and mark

yes, this many to him, and these to him

and all this petty stack of words to her

note down the tallying of hours, waking and dreaming

devoted to each one, and let my flesh be divided

a knuckle bone to everyone who ever lost me sleep

The neck that does not turn so fully yet, the hands that shake, the foot that shifts, all my breaking bones do go to all of you. I want to reach into your guts, make light of all that slick and dark interior, I want to braid the hair inside our bodies and make you value breath so I might learn. 

Strange American men leaning on the sides of pickup trucks in light rain, voices meant for radio buzzing against my neck, the kind of lives that lead to broken bottles and ever-forwarding mail, I just want to lasso myself in to something with a form, and it seems I can trick myself a thousand times with that old golden ploy, pretending that someone clever’s sticky thighs will pluck the fever from my head and give it shape. 

Learning the ways in which a heart is broken by design. My mouth is filled with matted bits of clementine, little bones, your name. Slide that palette knife across us both to get the color right. I am not a safe woman, but I am predictable at worst. Give me your dirty hands to wipe my skirt on. Give me all the pretty boys and girls to make the scapegoat gleam. oh well, oh well, oh well, the lilting set of hinging time abets all criminals and I am only a beast of desire. I raise my hand to my brow to think and find it sticky with the recollection of your face.