again to write and get it out there; thanks more to brian dillon for the push to release this voice, to fragmently record, but oh there is too much to say, hard to slow to a track of words: another brian, the cresting transmission lines zig-zagged to me atop the glorious greenery of elephant mountain and hard to form words so directedly as electricity, to let list each after how one imagines charges in a wire, course current in these wires i stare at is likely alternating, push-pull sawing through resistant wood as the refrigerator cycles behind me, its coils doing their best to induce take take take give give give from the give take give take of the wire. to write with alternating current is a dance i don't know at speed; alternation here feels more like the mountain's temple's cargo gondola, braided steel and rusting winch, who pulls and lets at slow tempo inside a faster call and response of voice and metal creak and fastest yet the anxious attention of the machine-minder, for when prosthetic we so extend our reach our mind still seeks to enclose, to grasp, to think with new distended body as we do our old compact, to think, that is, in limb, and where limb's ex- or un-life lacks, to compensate with imagination, anticipation, that is to say, anxiety. and where we've learned, as old hands, social creatures, comfort in our device, artifice brought cozily within, when we feel in our tools our hands, our vehicles our feet, a shod but direct contact with the world, here comes a new and other techne to rip off our substition and expose us to cold air of matter once more. we may die here, many have before, in a world whose artifice seems alien, technique and habits inhumane, bewildered while the jungle tears apart our concrete symbols, ruddily rusts playing-card scaffolds with whose topping crane we peaked our aspirations. but i am spiralling, as i often do, about my lost God in the machine—

sorry, connection drop, i distracted got my phone to identify an orchid bought yesterday, learn its care and begin to give it a name, and there reflexively entered the hivemind of micronews, the wintry escalation of ice, and so return to you changed. what is there to say? it is sickening; i feel useless guilt for the relief of distance, for happiness, orchids, and lush mountains, for the pacific wires that do not pacify, who use light to carry darkness, and i do not know but how to repress this feeling in silent hope for dawn.