| February 11th; alive in the machine | |
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Sounds:
Tori Amos, Boys for Pele Words: Glen Cook, The Black Company
slag pit shag shit
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[i'm really not doing as badly as this entry might suggest. This is the last of the mulling that I needed to do; buried in this piece is a sense of hope and the knowledge that I'm going to survive this, and that some day, I'll probably even have the chance to have someone of my own.]
I am, to borrow a phrase, alive in the machine. I spend the nights all alone trying to convince myself that i'm okay. Trying to remember to trust him, trust myself, trust what he has told me and what I know to be true. But I'm alive in the machine, and that complicates things. The air around me is never silent. There is always the rustle of currents across walls and through doors, the rumble of the furnace, the running of water. and the noise in my head, the constant whine of tinnitus, the squeaks and gurgles and moans that my body produces. And, over that, above that, i hear the machine. the tick-tick-tick of gears and levers, the growl of engines. Alive in the machine, and nobody knows. I call out, but there's nobody there to hear me. and then I remember that I climbed into the machine in the first place. I can hear the distant ting of something mechanical snapping. The well-oiled machine of life moves on around me, carrying me along, leaving me behind at the same time that it brings me with it. I am frightened, I am alone, I am trapped in the belly of the machine. The machine has swallowed me. i have been eaten alive. i am still alive. I am alive in the machine, and nobody cares. Nobody hears me screaming. I know that soon, I will be out of the machine most nights. five weeks. A little over a month. Five weeks of hearing the machine for over half the week. I can wait. I can beat the machine. But now is not my turn and I am alive in the machine. And it's so lonely. Before I ever felt loneliness, I scoffed at the idea that one might die of a feeling; now I know that loneliness is a vulture ripping my liver out again and again. The machine extends through all of the reality I know, it permeates everything; my bed at night is the center of the machine, the crunching uterus where i am born into yet another day. And I know it is petty of me to ask the question, but I do: how can i be sure he will come to rescue me again? How do I know he will never abandon me to the machine? And the answer comes, shining: because he loves you. It is simultaneously all the answer I need and the beginning of all the other questions. He's chasing the things that will make him happy, and I hope he finds them. I know now that I can't do it on my own, me and my machine, and i know that, someday, it will be my turn to have what he has. Some day, it will be my turn to have what he has had, to feel what he feels. Some day, but it's not today. Not tonight. I must be patient. The machine is patient, inexorable; it knows it has me trapped, it knows it has me right where it wants me. I have to wait it out. I have to wait for someone else to come. I have to wait for someone else to find me attractive. It hasn't happened in a long, long time. But it will. some day, it will be my turn to be out of the machine. It's going to be years. I'll wait it out. I'll wait for what he has. i'll wait for my turn.
What happened to the girl who was happy to be by herself? What happened to the vitally independent girl who used to be me? She fell in love. She allowed herself to need. And she was swallowed whole by the machine. So now I give myself over to the machine, to the experience. I am alive in the machine and I am alone. I am alive in the machine and I think thoughts of love. I am alive in the machine and I cling to the knowledge that I will see him soon. I am alive in the machine and I know he misses me even if he's with someone else. I am alive in the machine. I am alive.
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