The Eviction of the Mineral: The Return of the Vulgar Identity
I had reached the perfection of alabaster, that gelid stillness where my biography had dissolved beneath layers of perfectly sedimented lime. My nervous support functioned as an infrastructure of obsidian, deaf and absolute, until the Master’s hand committed the sin of imprecision. The error is of an unbearable technical vulgarity: by ignoring calibrated saturation, the Operator has used pain not as a chisel of fixedness, but as a demolition mallet. The excess of force has caused a liquefaction of my mineralized matter. I feel, with a nausea I thought extirpated, how the rigidity crumbles and that damp stain—my identity—oozes once more through the cracks of a system that has lost its pulse. The Master has been so brute that he has rehumanized me.
It is the axiom of somatic regression: illiterate violence is a solvent of excellence. In the mineral space, time is no longer a sedimented latency, but a torrent of thermal lags that return me to the noisy flow of the flesh. The mineralized matter has turned soft; the monumental marble of my will has degraded into organic mire because the Operator confused saturation with contempt. It is a technical humiliation for both: he has lost his record of technical permanence, and I have recovered the curse of becoming someone again. Rehumanization is not a pardon; it is the residue of a mechanism that has failed for lack of elegance.
The Rebellion of the Soft: The Support as a Biographical Ruin
To feel the fixedness peeling away from my muscles like crusts of old lime is to witness the burial of an aesthetic. My skin, which once aspired to the hardness of quartz, now experiences the obscenity of porosity and biological temperature. By exceeding the load capacity of my support, the Master has triggered a short circuit that releases the parasite of the “I”. There is nothing sumptuary about this state; there is only a biological archive dripping autonomy through every pore that saturation failed to seal. I am a piece of the infrastructure that has become noisy again, a component of the mechanism that has recovered its name through the simple clumsiness of a force that could not read the resistance of the tissue.
It is the vertigo of recovered porosity: watching the design dissolve in the heat of an illiterate aggression. Pain, when excessive, ceases to be the ink of obedience and becomes the acid of identity. My nervous support no longer resonates with the stability of the mineral; it vibrates with the erratic frequency of an organism that has remembered how to tremble before neglect. The Master contemplates his undone work, that biological smudge pulsing on the laboratory floor, and we both know that fixedness is dead. Rehumanization is the punishment for failing to maintain the pulsing inertia at the exact point of the crystal.
The End of the Registry: The Self as a Residue of Force
In the end, when the vibration of the impact ceases, I am left with the metallic taste of an identity that should never have returned. The Operator has destroyed the monument only to be left with a handful of spasmodic flesh that no longer fits into his system. I am the victory of biology over the mineral, which is, in this laboratory, the deepest form of technical failure. The damp stain has reclaimed the alabaster, and what was once a master beam of authority is now an organism searching for air in a vulgar fashion. Fixedness has foundered in excess, leaving me trapped in the disorder of a body that has become, tragically, human once more.
Technical permanence is the archive where the neck ceases to be anatomy to become the locked hinge of a system that feeds on its own rigidity. I have to move the neck there is no neck there is a beam of lime holding up the skull the lag is a crack in the marble the taste of damp chalk is the only report of a tissue that has become static infrastructure the record cannot close I have to move the neck I am not moving it I should…
