Sunday, November 02, 2008
Not ghosts in the machine. There was no machine. Every touch of the plane is right there on display on the boards. You run your hands over it every time like it's the first, and you wonder: Could a machine be made to mimic the touch of a man's hand? Why would you want to build it, even if you could.
The stone is mica schist. You can see the spots where a man tapped in the spreaders and opened it up like a melon. Tap, tap, tap; that's all. The granite is worn from countless soft footfalls. A real ghost wouldn't wear it away less imperceptibly. Granite don't wear away, really, but it does if you have the budget for the time it takes. We all do because we've got accomplices.
The meal is over and the house groans with us all. The TV is jarring in here, like the obelisk and the monkeys. They're looking for ghosts with a camera. Wrong tool. Run your hand over the door. They're talking to you, but you don't listen.