Av: Felix Englund Örn
You saw the minerals glow in the Paris exhibit. You said it
reminded you of something you saw when you were young. It was
probably cat’s gold or a relative’s faded gemstone. Or have you
been deep down the shaft of a mine and seen the veins of ore
glint, signaling their value to you alone?
Do you think the soft hands of the soft power lords of Silicone
Valley have dirt beneath their nails? Leaving traces of rare earth
when pressing the composite plastics with their index fingers to
fulfill each click? Or is the only mineral they touch the salt
exuding from their fingers as they grip the surface of their hand-held
pointing device? Just like your palm rubbing against mine, as
we walk along this line of classified halides.
When I’m dead, I want a high maggot mass. Subsumed by
nematodes becoming mulch for the trees and the grass. Do you
think the odor of my organic funeral will offend the congregated
mass? I wonder what kind of minerals the pressure of my
anxieties will make. Will it lead to diamonds, or something easily
carved like serpentinite? Is this exhibit just a categorized display
of minerals pressurized by previous great minds? Did it read
“Nietzsche” below that dense osmium pellet we passed way
back behind?
Among these rocks I am like clay. Folding in each as I pass by,
creating a ridgeline upon my thighs. So, I will enter a kiln and fire
my flesh hard so that I can chip away at them. My efforts leaving my
surface craggy, exposing a new self-induced faultline. Will you
accept this new topography? Uncharted and unbeknownst, I offer
to lay still here. Like a mineral laid bare, on an emerald velvet
surface being lit from afar, in this Paris exhibit at dawn.