Dr. Travis Armond Benson

the place they sent me to was not a clinic it was a structure that had been growing for a long time long enough to forget what it was meant to be the walls were soft and warm and carried a slow pulse like something dreaming beneath them the floor shifted under my feet not to trip me but to measure me to decide where I belonged in its unfolding pattern the air tasted like memory and the ceiling curved downward as if listening for a sound I had not made yet he arrived without entering he simply condensed from the space around me as though the room had exhaled him into shape his form was almost human but not committed to it his outline wavered like a thought changing its mind he asked me to show him where the change had begun I lifted my sleeve and the skin there was no longer mine it had become a map of something older a branching network of soft glowing lines that pulsed in time with a rhythm I could feel in my teeth he touched it and the pattern responded not to him but to… something behind him something vast and patient that was using him the way a hand uses a glove he nodded as if receiving instructions from a distance too large to imagine he told me the growth was not an infection it was an invitation a signal from a place that did not have a name in any language shaped by mouths he said it had noticed me long before I noticed it and that noticing was the first step toward belonging the room expanded around us stretching into a horizon that should not have fit inside a building the walls peeled back like petals revealing a sky that was not a sky but a living surface shifting with slow deliberate intention I felt something inside me answer a call I had never heard before a low resonant hum rising from the marrow outward my bones softened to make room for something arriving something that had been waiting for the right moment to unfold he told me I was adapting well that the process had chosen me because I was already halfway open already drifting toward the shape it needed he said I would not return to who I was because that version of me had been only a seed when I stepped outside the world was different or I was different the trees leaned toward me as if recognizing a familiar signal the sky rippled like a membrane adjusting to a new presence I think I am still changing I think the process is not finished I think I am becoming a direction rather than a person and whatever waits beyond this stage is already watching through the patterns under my skin

the office has a warm heavy smell and the waiting room chairs are covered in a faded shade that used to resemble skin I went in for a simple check and left with a feeling that something had followed me out his hands moved in a way that felt learned from memory rather than motion and the lamp above me behaved less like light and more like a presence he pressed a slide to my arm and the surface beneath it shifted as though it had its own small intentions interesting texture he said though his voice seemed to come from somewhere behind me he took a small sample with a tool that felt older than the room itself I didnt hear anything but I felt a quiet echo settle somewhere deep inside days later the spot was not closing it was arranging itself the threads that should have held it still had become soft pale lines that shifted when I looked away I found one on my bed warm and moving as though searching for a place to belong the area on my arm had begun forming shapes like a landscape… learning itself I called the office the receptionist said he does not schedule returns the report arrived no danger detected only the word growing printed in a strange soft script I went back the building felt rearranged the elevator moved to places not listed he waited wearing a coat that seemed more like an absence than clothing he showed me the sample resting in a container that looked alive around the edges beautiful he whispered and I understood he was speaking to it not to me the small pale knot had begun forming its own quiet preferences its own direction my skin feels different now it remembers him it waits sometimes at night I feel the shifting as though preparing for whatever comes next

the feral house book on extreme music also has some spray painted records this guy did. he changed his name and disowned the scene and the underground subculture and went legit. good for him . If your a fan of his dermatology work you should also check out his work with Dance Wounds. Jerry died . i still dont know Jerry died. nobody will tell me. send me an email .