November 18 & 19: In the Abyssal Zone: A Monologue
Casey, Casey is gender non-specific, dressed in nothing that we particularly notice. Casey is addressing no one in particular, not even self.
In the Abyssal Zone: A Monologue
CASEY: in the weather-less pool of floor against gravity we are still and not moving, in the weather-less moment a whorl is created in which there is nothing, nothing to push against nothing to accept our submission. this is being. existence in the peripheral except that there is no core around which to be peripheral and yet it is still periphery. we are either with the ragtag or we are in the abyssal zone and figuring out who we are in its depths surrounded by a sensory deprivation that belongs no where or is everywhere. i would say unhinged as though we are a door but there are no doors and thus no hinges to become un- from. i want to say we passed the tipping point and all became chaos but it wasn’t that. there was no local maximum or even a global maximum. the chaos became and then we reached stasis. like metal in a thermodynamics experiment will eventually reach equilibria, we were chaos and then we flatlined, that was the new normal. it didn’t coalesce in the way we thought but created grids with finer and finer mesh in which chaos begat chaos and the heat smoothed out at hot and wave interference became an infinite localization wherein there was no longer even a ripple and the wind blew back on itself in cancellation, and the core cooled just enough to stop the plates moving. Casey [gestures to self] is there at the bottom of the abyssal zone and flirting with a hydrothermal vent, its turbulence real. it is movement in a way that nothing moves on the surface. the disappointment, the collective pain from the empty commons has settled down around the heads of these abyssal trenches, has created discrete lids. are they protective? pain covering the only motion left, these small gasps of a much cooled core, a centre that no longer moves the plates but can push some ephemeral imagining. casey can stay here, stay. here. longer and longer until too long is the rake of movement around self. if casey. if casey feels toward that turbulence and comes too close, these localize and nudge toward up. upward and out of the abyssal zone away from the settled commons pain, that collective brine lake upon which pamela pamela pamela lounges and paddles listlessly on a ducky lilo, her hand dripping in the visceral collective as she stirs small eddies into the mix.