Re-material (a)

In the end our head comes off. We were sent to this location from more places that we can count. We were one, but separated by a thin veil, which we could not penetrate. When we spoke to each other all we could hear was something muffled. The hard cold floor hurts our pieces as we scramble to finally be one. Our efforts fail, however, and the best we can do is come together as a single leg, an arm, or a finger here and there. We are together in pieces.

The parts lie in a jumbled pile, like little chunks of marble. They are all different sizes, sizing each other up: is there a hierarchy? Who is bleeding onto whom? Who can cry about it? One thing is clear: these separate bits are easy to clean. You can really get into all the cracks and the crevices. It’s more efficient this way, we tell ourself.

Framing it this way puts us in a good mood as we line up, single file, and chose the settings best suited for each individual piece of ourself. Some parts require three steps in the cleaning process, others up to six. The porosity of our parts varies. When a piece is soft and vulnerable, it needs protective layers. When the part is hard all it needs is a good buffing.

Some liquid contains the swimming contents of a chemical injector, forced through black, wide threaded nozzles. We continue to hold an image of our heroic singular unit as we scrub and lather and rinse with water that sprays 40 degrees from a QC nozzle. When we are dry, we arrange ourself into an organized, panting heap. We are still separate, and fear this might be the case for a while. But, experience can be unifying.

Re-material (b)

We are far larger than we anticipated. The assembly must have happened in our sleep. Will we ever find another creature like ourself?

Now, we hold a driving machine between our thumb and forefinger. We look inside the tiny windows, each pane smaller than our various nail beds. Everything is as it should be, but the car-hangers for our coats are broken. Should we say something? We consider it, but don’t want to end up where we started. What about the tires? Do they need some air? We put the driving machine on a tabletop and press down, testing the pressure. The tires maintain their shape. What else could be wrong? We try and get out of this mode: this itching, picking, puncturing, peeling, pounding, possessed interrogation.

We lumber to a giant building. It feels as if we could fit ourself in here. We find ourself naked outside a steamy room. We have to practically bend in half to fit in the door. Others are inside, and they have nothing with them. So we wedge the device under our armpit. Hopefully, no one will notice it. When everyone leaves, and we are alone again in the hot area, we take the machine out to run all over ourself, watching our part partially expand.

When someone walks back in, we say with our differently colored and differently shaped eyes: do you want to try? We’re envious. It must be easy to be so small and homogenous. When a person has less mass, even a little apparatus like this has an impact on their godforsaken hole.

Derek Brooks