02.03.2026

“But I will always exist, because I always exist. Damn good too.”

Peter Murphy, 1982

Great plains. These great stains on these great plains. Standing in the middle of every wave of grain in the centre of the state. My hand in the reeds, dreaming of providence.

Walking through my memories of traversing the jagged innards of the symmetrical amethyst. God, how traumatically oedipal it would be to find oneself back on the bus. Reeling back the years.

It goes like this. The horizontal replaces the vertical. Immanence replaces transcendence. Yet the motion remains the same.

Across the effective _____ there exists no delineation, no identity, no difference. The flat is not a field, for a field fosters perimeter. Sheer unfettered excess.

King’s Cross Station all cast in white.

For there to exist difference, there must exist identity. For there to exist identity, there must exist difference. It all turns in on itself folks, mu[l]ch like ourselves, so knead that dough, fold in that batter. One day the sun will explode and we can all jump in the oven. Until then, it’s a creaseless, ceaseless, substrate immanent unto itself.

“Well, we ain’t sure of where you stand, you ain’t machines and you ain’t land, and the plants and the animals they are linked, and the plants and the animals eat each other.”

Infinity [spiralling out of creation], 1998

That’s what we are – tendrils looking back on ourselves. TV’s ran into TV’s. Regurgitated feedback, looping us back into hallowed Earth. Light a candle everybody.

And we are headlights, shining on the road in front, meeting only other headlights in a constant and simultaneous head on collision. And headlights cannot shine back upon the wiring that sparks them, nor on the key that started their engine.

And we are projectors, casting frames against the wall, running the same old reel since time immemorial. Bisons and spears. Our scenes are farcical, and stripped bare leave only the crying white fabric from which we are weaved.

Yet when we look upon this work we despair, we howl into the void and the void’s silence howls back. We carve our scratches into our walls. We paint, maybe in yellow and green, maybe naked on the kitchen floor. We demarcate, and we use our words.

Words foster delineation, and words fail to grasp what lies beyond and between the definitions that cast their identities.

Over Michelangelo we throw a gridded blanket. There is his nose, there is his thumb. But our blanket is transparent and pathetic, unlike Michelangelo.

From which we are formed is indivisible, irreducible. A God incorrigible.

We traverse in sawing motions, cutting our way across the face. Roots and wounds set into the ground. We plough our own furrows and the witch flies across the horizon. We lock our iron sights onto positions and fire our bodies towards each other. Mass collision, fervent internal bleeding. Machinery and head injuries.

To and from. To this favour we must come.

From within and to without.

Where is home? Home is where the eyes burn.

And where is the underside? Where is the great wild beyond, from which no traveller returns? Is it possible to punch holes through the fabric, to shatter the glass chassis? Wheels upon chassis upon wheels upon chassis, forever.

And where is the horizon we race towards? Horizon in every direction, yet we are rendered directionless with the total abandon of landmarks. Without direction, who’s to say we aren’t moving in a circle? Who’s to say we’re even moving?

Perhaps, no traveller ever even arrived. It’s just this, eternally. Free to roam an endless anechoic chamber. Stand up crying, fall down laughing, every-body. Static, inert, somewhere beyond and between, forever. Now wouldn’t that be fun?

It’s coming down fast and heavy outside, dampening the hum of the Earth. But I suppose the show must go on.

We are God folks.

“It’s a great wide gulf between intention and what ground met me.”

Isaac Wood, 2021