‘It’s Not Magic It’s Not Madness’
NOIT—5: bodies as in buildings, 2019
Published by the Royal College of Art, London

What if, looking onto a room with walls slapped in gloss paint (say, white), there were a blind covering the top of a window rolled and secured over a pole, horizontal and screwed in and lightly bowed from daily and nightly pulling. And there would be a table that stood to its left. And on that, one potted Myrtillocactus geometrizans would catch a glimmer of stale light through the window, and its green would deepen and harden and glow with hints of blue flesh. What if its spines were pinched by five crocodile clips attached to a polygraph, silver and geometric and clinical, and the cables would cling to the cactus clumsily extracting its thoughts mechanically. What if a buzz and another one filled the room, intensified with touch and lowered in tone and at times got louder, screeching, and the sequence would repeat? Extraneous noise would emit from bellows in the machine, air displaced in a tube that would move a pen, which would chart an incident on paper, probably lying beside the cactus—crisp, not creased, a bit blue; gridded, with punched edges. An electrical cable coated in black gummy rubber would run from the polygraph to multiple power sockets at the base of one of these walls. Below that would be the floor. And what if it were covered in a wiry carpet, dusty and grey blue, grooved and short and stained with dark blood getting matte and cold like dribble drips on a pillowcase, the way fluid exits a heated you?

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