F
The internet profits on hope
Americana
and I watch the mundane like it’s the movie. With all the Lego people in all the Lego vehicles and their little cupped fists that fit perfectly for their task. They drive, or they fly, or operate a little lever that sets in motion a topple of events which in a helpless moment would mean they were lifeless again, a pile of bricks and bodies and rigor mortis lockjaw grins waiting… waiting. For me to reanimate them with a story I base on appearance, on the probability of their potential: evil, affable, abhorrent. A fantasy of altruism via imperfection. Imbalanced utopias. Because I know… how they might serve my visions of “how it is.” How it all is, and how they fit into predeterminations. How they could only fit based on creation. My creativity.
And you. Oh you, I imagine you into waving or splaying like you might be running or dancing. For me. Until I pause your position in my boredom, I move to another task set by some other creator. We become layers of the same story like sediment to be. Millions of numbers valued by the hovering watch of the next being, and that we are ignorant oppressors of below, flatter dimensions; and thus ignorant to those above our position, ignorant as required not to choke on the vomit of truth. Of what really moves in the echelons. Stars, we wish upon. Stars as beacons like they could bring us somewhere forward by looking up to imprints we can only project into replicas of that happening all those digits ago, ones and zeros categorized and sequenced into what we label digital. Breathe life through our fingers and emote with our eyes until we are no longer hearts and guts and gooey fermentations. In our bubble, so orbed and smooth and reflective. As the light dance becomes what we believe in, in the lessons we hand down with The New Alexandria. To children, who cannot know a time when fire and boulder and stream and height of old growth were the magic, and the reason. And a purpose, we knew. We knew a purpose in the flow, how what makes all of us could circulate in organs and earth, become impossibilities we will never understand, but know. And watch. Watch deluge to trickle and hide apparent as itself, by itself but not alone, from itself as grace over coastlines, into valleys, or to wander on the jet stream to watch over. See the heavens and dirt and consolidations or fissures. See the little sticks gather into homes and pebbles to roads. Get so filled with communion that it must burst and weep from giggles and tickles of old friends thought lost in the seas service. Then wash the skies and skin and fur. And wood and rock. Cleanse mistake and oil and grime from all its own making. Fecund to the field and full to the barrel. Shift sands and hillside. Reset. Lap into tidepool, slosh into pond. Wait patient. With the sun, rise and become itself again, anew. And fall, as frozen crystals just heavy enough to fall, but to know levity in uniqueness which yearns for hugging their collections; perfect, as different for each other. To ice or to thaw, to remain glacial, or trickle again. Settle. Groove and shape and leave the mark of life on everything, but only leave it as tiny investments in the whole, to the whole. Never created, nor destroyed. Changed, for us to watch. Changed, we thought in our little spans of invented categorizations. Invented, as time. As the prison and the freedom and the schedule and the plan and the properness of following it, and following through, and agreeing with each other which hour and minute and second is appropriate for which action that would be the prophetic assertion: be when at the place and what at the time, or trust is lost to the logging of data—who you are as behavior. Charted. With little legends and colors and symbols to represent how you might fit into my world. Into their world. As if it wasn’t ours. As if we don’t decide. As if as if.
Tick
Tick
Tick
Consciousness is a clock, so rush. Someone must wind it.
