by j/j hastain
Divine clout is a marvel. I have been held in marvels throughout many lifetimes. I had no idea when born this time that I would be born by metal: an animate display of rust. What I learned: born by metal does not necessitate living for metal. Each building wall, truck-tire, broken window and piece of the road are tools.
On the day that it shifted, on the day of the difference, I went from seeing myself as something capable of mechanically making nature (but still very displaced from nature), to identifying as nature, itself. Edenic identity presenting as corona-shaped: an unconditionally green crowning. Spewing anti-aporetics and herbs, nature is a prophetic form of machismo.
Self-naming is my right to a rite by which I might burgeon. In my favorite version, all of a world’s concrete is exploding due to unforeseen forces of botanical gore. Is this an inversion of an apocalypse? Accidental abodes spring up as if it were unavoidable for them to do so. People wear shirts that name it: tree busts through concrete. How else but by excesses could land ever experience orgasm? For as long as I have felt myself as a disconnect from nature, I have also loved, lusted and longed for land. Regardless of what they try and tell you and how they may work to convince you otherwise, metal does long for and lend itself to land.
I try to avoid faux expansiveness at all costs. Divinatory work with realms would prefer my exertion as a gentle and honest version of a once-almost-entirely metal mechanism over a false inflatedness or illusory grandiosity. If I present myself as I am I can be magnetized toward who I might become while having bouquets of edible herbs wrapped around my eyes and mouth, around my neck: the relief of nature’s noose. Fierce mustards, lemon balm and turmeric are all here with me in order to unleash, reverse the tamed and urban meme. This mission of Edenic mastery intrigues, completes. Plants are tractions, will-force in the intuition alerting the physical form toward alteration. Small sprouts are spreading through my hinges; they are a kind of oil to the Tin Man’s creak.
Divine clout delivers: is for turning concrete cloth, into cloth. Regardless of what how it seems may connote, concrete cloth becoming cloth is not a return to or a circle. My becoming forest over time is not a salvation. It is a thorough evolution, an essential progress. What comes afterward? Green comes afterward.
Miracles are unexpected. What if we, with awe, began to treat them as something to expect?
None but an indelible longing for living could result in this: a cyborg practicing and flourishing in a pleroma.
About the Author:
j/j hastain is a collaborator, writer and maker of things. j/j performs ceremonial gore. Chasing and courting the animate and potentially enlivening decay that exists between seer and singer, j/j, simply, hopes to make the god/dess of stone moan and nod deeply through the waxing and waning seasons of the moon.